Lokralen. (1)
Altiegue fugitive Brorlan—real name Kariksel—had been captured alongside his fellow wanted man Drohal.
The eunuchs, led by Jolang, had exploded in fury the moment they heard of Deculein's accomplishment, but the trial proceeded steadily regardless.
The punishment for Kariksel, Drohal, and the thousand-odd Altiegue prisoners was confinement in Rohalak Detention Camp.
Security Vice Director Lilia Premien raised no objections.
—Move it, you cockroach bastards!
—I said move! Hey! You up front, old man! Wanna die?!
······Rohalak, enveloped in scorching 113°F heat.
From the cool interior of a car circulating chilled air via temperature regulators, Yeriel watched the thousand Altiegue captives being bound and herded into custody.
"Still no contact with the Red Garnet adventurer team."
But none of it held her interest. Her mind was consumed by a single torment.
"However······the items are prepared, miss."
Her butler and retainers had moved more decisively than she had. Yeriel's loyalists had proposed the most extreme and efficient way to break the impasse.
If war was inevitable,
if they had no choice but to kill or be killed,
then a surprise preemptive strike would be the most efficient option.
"I told him clearly. If he breaks that promise, I won't forgive him."
Yeriel murmured coldly. The butler at the wheel bowed his head.
"Yes. Quite right."
"But······not yet. Keep searching, relentlessly. Scour the underworld too. We need solid intel. Contact with Ganesha is non-negotiable."
"Understood. I'll mobilize the underground guild."
The underground guild Yeriel had personally assembled to counter the nobles scheming against Yukline—ironically now turning its blades toward Yukline's head, Deculein.
"······Do it. Just make sure those damn eunuchs don't catch wind."
"Of course."
"Good. Thanks."
Yeriel replied listlessly and gazed out the window.
—Quit whining, you psycho demon scum!
—Move it!
—Fucking cockroach bastards······.
A thousand souls, their dantians crippled and heads shaved bald, reduced to wretched invalids. The Altiegue captives endured the wasteland's blistering winds bare-skinned as they were herded into the stark, sweltering iron cages.
"······."
If everything Deculein said was true, if he truly intended to discard her like trash, then she wouldn't go down as powerlessly as they had······.
Yeriel clenched her fist, steeling her resolve.
A full moon bled hazily through the fog over the capital's night.
For some reason, it felt desolate and cold, like frozen ice.
I sat in the manor study, reading.
Curse and Pharmacology, On Immunity, Compendium of Herbs, Jullen's Medical Dictionary, Advanced Reagent Synthesis······.
Pharmacology studies had become one of my routines.
I had pondered every possible way to heal Julie. I'd gathered nearly every book and paper on the subject and devoured them all.
The result:
Grade:Advanced (37%)
The grade of my knowledge, confirmed via Naked Eye.
······Truly remarkable.
My desperate efforts on Telekinesis had hovered at intermediate for over half a year, yet pharmacology had reached advanced after just two months of study.
"Knowledge reveals more, I suppose······."
I muttered with a sigh.
The more I accumulated, the more I learned—the more I had no choice but to admit it.
The more rage I felt at my own powerlessness.
Because Julie's wound, the scar Deculein inflicted, could not be detoxified by ordinary means.
"······."
Yet I knew one method.
A thoroughly unconventional one, leveraging the game's triggers.
"Julie. If you come to hate me."
I would push her away.
More precisely, I would become the villain to her.
Julie was a flower that bloomed by overcoming the trial named Deculein. With Deculein as her foe, she would transcend any scar and soar brilliantly.
"······If that's what it takes."
I gazed at the distant sky.
The trait Villain's Fate was perhaps the perfect name for Deculein.
Deculein could not help but love Julie, yet to be with the one he loved, he must first earn her hatred.
"If it saves you."
I placed a hand over my heart.
An odd sensation.
My heart raced and ached—a pain I'd never felt since becoming Deculein.
Was this mere programming, a character setting?
Or had I, unbeknownst to myself, come to truly love this person named Julie?
"······."
I set the books aside and opened the annex's hidden door.
A sharp herbal scent and cool air brushed my skin—this was the herbarium I'd remodeled with Alchemy magic.
It incorporated every magitech marvel, including temperature barriers, stocked with nearly every herb in the world.
Yet none could heal Julie.
Knock knock—
A knock echoed.
—Professor. Training time.
Dawn had arrived before I knew it.
I stepped out of the annex. Julie greeted me with a smile.
"Here, a wooden sword."
"Very well."
I gripped it. Dawn training meant sword sparring.
"Extend straight, and a gap forms inevitably. Maintain curves with the blade, always."
I swung as Julie directed. Thwack—! Thwack—! Wooden blades clacked dully.
"Excellent. As expected, Professor—you're like a sponge!"
"I seem to surpass you already."
"Tsk! Modesty!"
My movements felt invigorating. Steps light, sweat refreshing.
Clap clap clap—
Applause from somewhere. We halted and turned.
Dawn had broken, revealing two guests watching us.
"Hahaha. Impressive! Deculein, your form rivals any knight!"
It was Zeit. He approached laughing heartily, Yuseffin peering over his shoulder.
"Seeing you two so close warms my heart! Oh, right—I scouted some venues. One was staggeringly grand. Shall we view it together······?"
Yuseffin.
The woman who might prove useful to me—I regarded her steadily. She met my gaze and smiled brightly, but Julie interposed.
"Where are you looking?"
Her lips pouted.
Ten days before the semester started.
Ifrin, Allen, and Drent checked travel bags in the assistant lab.
"Towels. Toothbrush. Clothes. Emergency rations. All packed?"
"Yes."
"Yep."
The trio had been invited to the Lokralen conference as Professor Deculein's escorts.
"Yaaawn—"
Ifrin, who'd pulled all-nighters past and present, yawned and asked,
"Hey, Assistant Professor Allen. What's so special about Lokralen?"
She didn't know the details, but rumors swirled that mere attendance was a massive boon to a mage's career.
Allen beamed.
"Ah~ 'Lokralen' is where timelines tangle."
"Timelines?"
"Yeeep~"
Allen rummaged in his robe pocket and pulled out a travel guide.
"About ten years ago, a meteor strike and massive mana explosion birthed a natural magical space. Oh, you know the concept, right?"
"Duh, I'm Soda rank. The imperial palace garden's a magical space too."
The most famous: the palace garden where seasons coexisted.
"Yeeep~ Anyway, Lokralen's a magical space where past and future mix. Confirmed past: three years. Future: maybe ten? No one knows exactly."
"Whoa, wild?"
"Yes. But beware!"
Allen raised a stern finger in warning.
"Such immense magical spaces teem with monsters—and monster-ized people. It's crimson-grade danger."
Crimson grade. Ifrin flinched. Danger ratings went black—red—crimson.
"······Why hold a conference there?"
"It's recent—three years? Mages found ways to exploit it."
Lokralen was a fresh magical space, its mysteries vivid.
"They limit it to one annual conference. That way, you brush future knowledge."
"······Ah!"
Ifrin and Drent's eyes widened in realization.
"Right~ Dangerous and monster-filled, but worth braving. Can't take materials out, though—you'd turn monster."
"Turn into one?"
"Uh······."
Allen paused, then flipped through the guide hastily.
Flip flip— He found it and smiled.
"Exporting Lokralen items infects you with twisted timeline mana itself. The world's restraint kicks in. What monster? Unpredictable!"
"Got it~ All clear."
"Great. Let's go!"
Allen led Ifrin and Drent out—just as Deculein emerged from his office.
Allen dashed to him.
"You look amazing today too, Professor~!"
Deculein's attire was impeccably perfect—gear fully enhanced via Midas' Hand.
"Depart."
His armament betrayed tension.
And rightly so—this main quest, [Lokralen Conference], featured······
the advent of an archmage, a being from beyond the heavens.
Clack clack—
Clack clack—
In the gently rocking VIP train car.
Lokralen is a magical space born from a meteor impact. Located in the southeastern continent corner, at the edge of Leok Kingdom.
Originally Leok royal property, the Floating Island bought rights for a lump sum of 1 billion elne, established a branch for surveys, and in Continental Year 955 founded the 'Lokralen Conference.'
"······Hmm."
Drent nodded intriguingly over the guidebook, Ifrin napped on the sofa, Allen knitted busily—a peaceful interlude.
I pondered the quest's progress.
Julie aside, many complications loomed, but focusing on the imminent main quest was wisest.
Screeech—
The train slowed—arrival neared.
I packed. Allen stowed his needles, Drent roused Ifrin.
"Ifrin. We're here."
"Ah, yeah, yeah. Coming."
Clunk—!
The train halted.
We four disembarked. Lokralen staff greeted us on the platform.
"Welcome, Professor Deculein. Horses to Lokralen will be most comfortable."
They offered four steeds.
I nodded, but Ifrin and Allen looked flustered. Probably couldn't ride.
"Two per horse for four. Drent."
"Yes."
Drent mounted deftly—noble upbringing showed.
Allen timidly climbed behind. Ifrin blanched.
"Th-then me too?"
I mounted next.
"Ah, Assistant Professor Allen, switch with—"
I Telekinesis-yanked the hesitating Ifrin aboard.
"Eek!"
"We depart."
"Yes. Hya!"
Clop clop—
Clop clop—
Horses galloped the dirt road; Ifrin wailed and clung to my back.
"Ugh, ugh, ughhh."
"Silence."
"Waaah······."
······An hour later, we reached Lokralen's entrance.
"Ugh, motion sick······. You okay, Assistant Professor Allen······?"
"N-nooo······. Horses are new to me too······."
Leaving the groaning pair, I looked up at Lokralen.
Less a space, more a place—like a colossal dome stadium.
"Your invitations."
Two robed mages blocked the gate.
I presented them.
"Verified. Leave the horses."
"So be it."
We entered the opened passage.
"······Hm?"
The interior was oddly normal. The dome's transparent glass ceiling let in sunlight and sky.
"Surprisingly normal?"
Drent marveled, swinging his gaze. True—central conference hall, hotel, shops, magic item stores, homes: a lived-in town.
"Whoa······."
Drent bowed absently to a passerby.
"Ah, hello sirreee—?!"
He collapsed instantly.
I halted, eyeing Drent. Ifrin and Allen shook him frantically.
"Senior! Wh-what happened?!"
"Drent! Why so sudden? Professor, what's wrong?!"
They turned to me. I smirked faintly—the system matched perfectly.
"He spoke to someone from the past or future."
"······Pardon?"
"Communing across timelines demands immense mana. Shortfall does that."
In-game, too, chatting with Lokralen folk drained mana chunks.
"Come. Piggyback him, Ifrin."
"Me?"
"I'll carry."
"······."
Ifrin hoisted Drent awkwardly; thus burdened, we headed to the conference hotel Lokrun.
"Oof······. So heavyyy······. Ughhh······."
At the info desk, name tags lay out—not names, numbers.
[958]
Allen tilted his head.
"Professor, what's this?"
"Continental Year 958. Pin it on."
"Aha~ So chat with 958 tags?"
I shook my head at Allen's question.
"Possibly not. Past or future folk might wear 958."
"Ah······ True, tricky folks exist!"
I pinned mine; the clerk impassively slid a key over. Not a 958er, then.
I Telekinesis-grabbed it: Room 801.
"Move."
"Yeeep."
"T-too heavy······."
"Endure."
With Drent still piggybacked, we elevatored up.
801 spanned half the floor—spacious. Ifrin dumped Drent pronto.
"Haa. Thought my shoulders'd snap······."
—Announcement: Year 958 conference at 6 PM. 958 attendees, proceed to conference building. Repeat······.
I checked my watch. Ifrin peeked too.
5 PM.
"Less than an hour?"
"Prepare."
Minus the unconscious Drent, we reached the conference center.
"Professor Deculein."
A [958]-badged mage approached.
"Special pre-conference briefing for you— this way. The other two, wait."
He led Deculein first. Ifrin and Allen stared blankly after.
"Assistant Professor Allen. What now?"
"Dunno······ I'll wait here!"
Allen seemed docile, but not Ifrin. Scanning, she spotted a "Underground Archives" sign.
"Mind if I check the archives?"
"Sure~ Oh! Don't talk to anyone! No exporting items!"
"Obviously~"
Beaming, Ifrin descended.
No guards at the underground archives; she rummaged eagerly.
"Whoa, real deal. Even next year's?"
More papers than books—truly 959, 960, futures. Ifrin skimmed in awe.
"······Ughhh."
A few lines, and mana whoosh—drained from her body.
Overwhelming fatigue, nearly toppling.
She clutched a shelf, steadying.
"Whoa, what······."
"Ordinary mana can't grasp future knowledge. Even archmages struggle."
A voice spoke. Ifrin whipped around, startled.
A robed woman.
No badge.
Ifrin feigned ignorance, shelving the paper.
"Pretending not to notice~?"
The woman glided over—mana-propelled toe-flicks, masterful.
Ifrin admired silently, muttering,
"How many attendees~?"
"33 yearly. Each brings three: 132. Limits timeline chaos. Excludes 500 'Lokralen addicts' residents."
"······One of 132 near me~?"
"Who knows?"
Wait.
She spoke to me—no issue? So a 958er?
Ifrin gaped at her.
"······!!"
Heart near-stop.
This woman.
Those eyes under the robe······.
Identical to mine.
"Hi, Ifrin?"
Her clear eyes curved alluringly.
"I'm Ifrin too. Nice to meet you."
She extended a hand······ Ifrin was dumbfounded.
"Y-you—"
"It's fine. I cover the mana for you talking to me. Chat freely."
Ifrin blankly scanned future-Ifrin top to bottom.
So mature, stunningly beautiful. Even 5cm taller.
"How many years from now?"
"Hmm······ Poor value question. Telling costs mana for a thousand more words. Okay?"
"Ah······ Mana hog."
"Yup~"
Adult Ifrin beamed, doffing her robe. Glossy long hair cascaded.
Ifrin's jaw dropped.
Beauty she'd never known she possessed.
"Year 958······ with Professor Deculein?"
Adult Ifrin asked.
"Y-yeah. Why? Wanna beat him up?!"
Adult Ifrin chuckled maturely.
But her next words shattered expectations.
"Don't hate him too much."
"······Huh? Why?"
"Haha. Can't say more. And don't fully trust me. I'm not entirely your future. It'll differ greatly. Lokralen's timelines tangle insanely."
"Uh······."
Ifrin nodded dazedly—then,
"Ifrin."
A baritone from behind pinned her. Both Ifrins turned.
Deculein.
Approaching.
He eyed them alternately.
To adult Ifrin first:
"······You are Ifrin as well."
She nodded.
"Yes. As expected, unflappable. Professor knows everything?"
He replied curtly.
"Fascinating."
Ifrin glanced between adult Ifrin and Deculein.
Adult Ifrin smiled, but her eyes glistened damply.
"······What."
Her gaze upward at Deculein······ dreamy, like lovesick.
Ifrin blurted,
"Hey! What's with that look at him!"
"······Huh? Ahaha."
Adult Ifrin snapped back. Child Ifrin shook her head—then,
"Shh."
Adult Ifrin pressed a finger to lips. Deculein watched silently.
Ifrin asked,
"Why?"
"Today's conference cancellation day. Something might happen."
"Cancellation? Why?"
"Issues arose. Later on that. Little Ipi, close your eyes a bit?"
Adult Ifrin's voice was gentle.
"Uh, o-okay."
Ifrin shut her eyes unwittingly. Smiling adult Ifrin turned to Deculein.
"Professor Deculein."
"······."
Deculein met her mature gaze steadily. A wry smile tugged his lips.
"You truly are Ifrin."
"Of course."
Adult Ifrin beamed.
Utterly mature, unlike now. At least ten years older.
"Long time no see. I've been waiting."
"Waiting?"
"Yes."
Confessing, she stepped close······.
And hugged him without hesitation.
"······."
Deculein faltered, unusually.
Adult Ifrin, unfazed, buried her face in his chest—even nuzzled twice.
"Hehe······."
For a considerable time.
Finally, she stepped back, smiling bitterly.
"······Wanted a hug at least once."
"Wh-what?!"
Eyes-closed Ifrin gasped them open.
But it was over.
"Shh."
No—new situation's start.
Adult Ifrin pointed library depths, whispering,
—Talk more, we all might die.