Respite. (2)

After Sylvia fell asleep, I stepped out of the lodging. A single bolt of lightning that had struck outside the window guided me. It was the intuition of "Tycoon Magnate".

I had deliberately broken the rules, so some supernatural phenomena occurred, but they weren't much of a threat. They felt even more pathetic than the ghosts in the ghost room.

"Whereabouts was that lightning..."

The mountain path leading from the Fourth Ward to the Elder Hall.

This place, close to Verhert's summit, was actually an advanced area that players could only reach in the mid-to-late game. Without the Verkert Conference, entry was forbidden to anyone but elders or their sworn disciples, so the odds of acquiring rare items here were quite high.

Thus, I gazed out over the mountain range from Verhert's shadowed peak.

A horde of ghosts and specters clung to me, but when their antics failed to startle me no matter how hard they tried, their threats turned into something amusing.

—Shii-shi-na-shin-rai Ro-den-nai.

—Bu-ru-ra-kan Tur-ni-ma.

Probably something like, Why isn't this guy scared? What a weirdo—what's his deal?

I explored Verhert's mountains with the ghosts in tow. Wandering for a good while with "Tycoon Magnate" active in both eyes.

In that time, I spotted a house-sized tiger, snowflakes moving of their own accord—the so-called 'snow spirits'—and even a civet cat with twenty eyeballs.

I wanted to kill them and harvest their parts if possible, but lacking the prowess to pick a fight first, I regretfully held back.

And so, slowly parting the Darkness Mountain...

"...!"

A fleeting glimpse of golden mana flow caught my eye.

Amid the pure white conifer forest, there was a scorched patch of earth.

—Bu-ru-tan Kai-li-shi-ni-ma.

—Ra-ta-ra-ta Kra-si-nyu-ma.

The ghosts muttered something.

I ignored them and approached. An entire area was charred pitch-black, as if struck by lightning. At its center, the source of the golden flow: a lone, half-burned tree fragment.

Magical wood. Trees that grow by feeding on mana as nourishment.

Most trees can't absorb moisture or ambient mana, but rare mutants suck in mana and convert it into magical power.

Thus, magical wood either becomes man-eating monsters that threaten humans or the finest staff material reserved for mages. And this one grew at Verhert's peak—and got struck by lightning?

In other words, grown in Verhert, its quality was flawless; struck by lightning, it was naturally purified and tempered to perfection.

"...Excellent."

Not just good—a smile tugged at my lips.

Whether made into a staff or a wand, it was a treasure that would elevate a mage's prowess by half a rank.

I tucked the magical wood fragment into my bosom.

Buoyed by this success, I quickened my pace once more. Just in case, I even spoke to the ghosts.

"Guide me to any other good finds."

—Kru-pu-shi-ri-shi-ki!

—Ku-pu-ru-ru-ru!

They spat mana at me. Then cackled in laughter.

"...Useless lot."

I ignored them and pressed on.

After that, I kept my eyes peeled for more, but anything beyond this seemed like greed.

I stood silently, gazing east. The jagged morning sun was slowly rising. As dawn's light bathed the ridges, the ghosts and specters lost their forms.

Time to resume the conference.

Sylvia awoke with the morning sun. Clutching her bird's-nest hair, she looked around—Deculein was already gone.

"..."

Rubbing her eyes, she tidied herself and returned to her room. The swift stone by her bed was still asleep.

—Knock knock. Breakfast.

She waited until 10 a.m., took her meal, and ate. An hour later, she headed to the Elder Hall with twenty assistants.

Along the way, she felt a twinge of pity for Allen, who was being treated like an outcast because his skills fell short.

Anyway.

The conference started at noon, apparently to wrap up yesterday's unfinished business.

Naturally, it began with Altiegue.

Betan spoke first again.

"As Yukline says, there's no proof Altiegue are demons. But demonic energy flows in their blood, doesn't it? Do any humans bear demonic blood from birth?"

The fact that demonic energy coursed through human veins. The murky link it implied between demons and Altiegue.

From that gap, suspicion bloomed among the mages.

"Innate demonic energy could erupt anywhere, anytime. The risk of turning demonic in an instant is overwhelming!"

"That's mere speculation."

"Speculation?! What about this is—?!"

Over half the mages harbored ill will toward Altiegue and united to sway Deculein.

"You're already deeming Altiegue 'evil.' If they truly erupt, blame the demon in them and oppress the whole tribe; if not, ignore it? Fixating on one possibility out of humanity's thousands, using it as an excuse to condemn an entire race..."

But Deculein was intransigent.

"Faint demonic traces make one a demon, not human? It's no different from calling a cup of water 'salt' because a single grain is mixed in."

The entire round table—and Sylvia too—hadn't anticipated this before last night's talk with Deculein, nor could they comprehend it.

Just sixty years ago, the war he'd dismissed as 'politics' had involved Yukline ancestors. Yukline's had earned the greatest merits, slaying countless Altiegue and securing rights to mana stone mines as reward.

"Their religion is alien to ours!"

"Are we here to debate religion? Is Verhert the round table of faiths? Save it for the cathedral."

Betan ground his teeth.

But with Yukline so ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠unyielding, even he was powerless.

Verhert's round table seemed egalitarian, but certain families held sway on specific issues.

Among the twenty gathered houses, none surpassed Yukline in magical history, tradition, and roots—especially in 'demon slaying,' where Yukline's authority was untouchable.

Ancient tomes from four centuries ago even mentioned a demon hunter presumed to be a Yukline ancestor.

If such a direct descendant claimed 'Altiegue are far from demons'...

—Since no conclusion is forthcoming, we'll table Altiegue until the next conference.

Bam—!

Betan slammed the table, glaring at Deculein with bloodshot eyes, but Deculein didn't blink.

—Short recess, then the next item.

The mages returned to their lounges. Betan kicked back his chair; Sylvia followed Gilteon.

"...Hahaha!"

"?"

Gilteon burst into mad laughter the moment he sat.

"Father."

"Amusing. So amusing. I must've underestimated him all this time..."

This was utterly unlike the fatherly demeanor Gilteon had shown. He chuckled darkly, lost in thought.

Probably deducing what Deculein aimed to achieve.

"..."

But Sylvia doubted he'd ever unravel it. The truth was too simple—and simplicity blinded him.

"...What is he after?"

Gilteon agonized fiercely, temples throbbing.

The real reason Deculein had changed, the reason he'd forsaken his ancestors' will...

—Magic isn't made to kill people, is it?

Just those words from Deculein last night.

Post-Altiegue items proceeded smoothly. To ease the families I'd clashed with over Altiegue, I offered kind words on every matter.

Some softened at my warmth(?), but more had earned enmity today.

I wanted to escape "Villain's Fate," yet defending Altiegue branded me the villain to them.

Of course.

In the game story, the 'mage faction's Altiegue purge' at the first Verhert Conference was all but certain.

Thus ended the nine-hour marathon.

"What do you want? Hiding an Altiegue pet?"

Betan cornered me leaving the Elder Hall. I shook my head at his hate-filled eyes.

"You should temper your rage."

"Rage... Right. One who rejects his roots can't even feel it. Your ancestor despised Altiegue most as demons. Our house followed him into that slaughter—and got massacred."

Betan glared. I met it squarely. Short but sturdy, his frame brimmed with mana and vitality.

I said, "Even so, don't demonize the whole tribe. A mage's reason must stand independent of rage."

"..."

Betan gnashed his teeth. A sneer escaped his twisted lips.

"Don't think this conference is the last."

"Misunderstanding. I harbor no hatred for Beorad."

"From now on, Beorad despises you."

Betan shoved past.

"...Tch."

Truth be told, I understood Betan's fury.

Beorad had thrown itself hardest into that war sixty years ago, only to suffer a humiliating defeat, losing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠nearly everyone including the head. Yet, deemed low in merit, they gained nothing.

Beorad had risen solely through Betan and his father's blood, sweat, and tears.

Then Essensil approached.

"Your sudden shift on Altiegue is puzzling, but I agree with Lord Yukline. Maintaining a cooler stance suits us better."

Essensil said that, but most mages ignored me. Few looks were friendly. My words irked them, but Deculein's past villainy weighed heavier.

"..."

No regrets. If this was sacrifice, it was worthwhile. From the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠next Verhert summons, intervals would shrink to 1-2 years—but I'd bought that precious time.

A player would skyrocket in growth during it... but in a world without one—or so I assumed.

I could only hope.

That in this remaining time, kinder named characters than I would grow swiftly.

The next morning, before leaving Verhert, I descended to the 'First Ward.'

"No matter how many times I see it, this village is amazing..."

As its high-altitude impossibility suggested, Verhert drew from Machu Picchu. The scenery was wondrous, eliciting awe—but I wasn't here to sightsee.

I'd acquired "magical wood," core for staff-making.

Verhert boasted famed artisans, so after buying auxiliary materials from a magic shop, I'd commission a staff.

As I walked...

"...This expensive?!"

Near a street stall, I spotted a familiar silhouette.

"Of course it's pricey. Look at the quality."

"Show me something cheaper, then."

"Hm? No, can't. You said camping."

"And?"

"Camping in Verhert? Cheap stuff won't cut it. Selling it would be irresponsible—people die. Why sell it?"

"It's fine."

The Imperial Security Bureau's vice-director I'd met en route to Verhert. A core named character: Lilia Premien.

Allen's eyes widened; he pointed.

"Ah!"

"What?"

"Thanks to her, I made it here! She's my benefactor!"

"I see."

I approached. Their words sharpened as I neared.

"...Hey. Just show me the cheap one."

"Whoa now. For Verhert camping, you need this quality."

"I asked if there's cheaper. Why insist on this? Just say yes or no."

"There is cheaper, but ghosts'll snatch you camping with that."

"Forget it. If there's cheap, hand it over—"

Bargaining or bickering?

I wedged in. Premien and the vendor, veins bulging, turned to me.

"That sleeping bag—how much?"

"Ah, 10,000 elne. See, when sleeping, you're most vulnerable to illusion magic—"

"I'll take it."

I wrote a check on the spot. The owner shook his head with a smile.

"No checks here. Cash only—"

"Behold the crest."

"...?"

The owner peered at the check.

Yukline emblem and Deculein's signature.

He alternated between it and my face, then grinned.

"Hahaha. If Yukline's head, that's different. Here~ take it."

I bought the bag and offered it to the stone-faced Premien beside me.

"Take it."

"...Pardon? Why give it to me?"

She sounded suspicious but hugged it close.

"Allen says you got him here safely. Consider it thanks."

"..."

She glanced at Allen beside me. He grinned goofily, scratching his neck.

"...Hmph."

Premien tsked in mild annoyance but kept the bag. I continued browsing the market.

True to its fame, Verhert was a magical materials paradise; I quickly gathered staff components.

"Sabertooth Tiger Fang," "Frost Swan Feather," "Mana Stone Kendle," and more... Eight items cost 4 million elne.

My personal account was empty, but as a house check, Yeriel would cover it later.

Worst case, vase sale proceeds.

"Whoa, whoa..."

Allen shivered at my spending.

"Hm?"

A restaurant caught my eye. Not hungry, but its exterior and interior screamed luxury.

As if drawn, I entered.

"Ah, welcome, Count Yukline."

The staff knew me. Clearly catered to such clientele.

Then, a sleazy voice drifted over.

"Oh? What's this~? Our noble Count Yukline~?"

Cheap blond hair first.

Rewind's head: Ihelm. Wine at breakfast.

About to retort, he gawked past me.

"Hm? Vice-Director Premien too. Camping hobby brought you to Verhert?"

Only then did I notice Premien still trailed me.

"Yes. On vacation."

Premien spoke as if we'd been together from the start—sleeping bag under arm.

Had she cleared a hidden 'recruit ally' quest? Cheap at a sleeping bag's price.

I sat where ushered, but Ihelm kept talking. His face flushed from wine.

"Hey, Deculein. I'm dying to know. Why the sudden flip?"

I ordered without reply. Allen aside, Premien lingered oddly, so three servings.

"Didn't you once want to exterminate Altiegue? Beyond that, you ranted they were vile scum unworthy of this continent... Your Altiegue-bashing paper's still in the university archives?"

Ihelm chuckled reminiscently. Then, alcohol-glazed eyes fixed on me.

"Saved an Altiegue slave? Found a genius for your research?"

"No!"

Allen shot up abruptly.

"Our Head Professor Deculein would never! Don't insult him!"

Ihelm scoffed, ignoring Allen's pluck.

"If not, this makes no sense. Why kowtow to those inferior mages to defend Altiegue?"

"..."

"What? Rotten cheese can't speak this much?"

I shook my head.

"Rotten, so I understand. Brain-rotted cheese can't think beyond that."

"...Right."

Ihelm glared with his eyes, smiled with his mouth. Eerie.

"Heard research reveal in six months. Or three? Let's see how long your dirty secrets hold~ I'll watch closely~"

Ihelm shrugged up and left. His flippant tone and glare grated.

As Ihelm departed...

"...If that's true."

Premien muttered, eyeing me.

"It'd be quite the scandal."

"It's not!"

Allen squeaked. Premien glanced, continued.

"Slavery was abolished ages ago. Even for Altiegue, it's a major crime."

"..."

"If true, of course."

"Quit yapping ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and return the bag."

"..."

"And foot the bill."

Premien smirked faintly, stone-faced. Then fell silent.

She said nothing more through the meal.