Chapter 199
Chapter 199
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 199
Chapter Title: Chapter 11. The Mage of Mages (19)
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“Ugh, it’s cold.”
“Damn shifts starting at the crack of dawn. Harvest festival’s when all the local girls are plump in body and soul.”
“Tell me about it. My balls are frozen solid enough to swing like a weapon. And they’ve got us gate guards—who barely stand at attention on a normal day—heading out first thing this morning.”
“Hmm? What’s that? You haven’t heard the rumors yet?”
“What rumors?”
“The guest who just arrived in the territory. A noble lady like a doll with hair red as ripe cherries and eyes sparkling like stars. She crossed the Blue Line with just a few merchants, no escort!”
Thomas spat toward his friend Jimmy, who was speaking with fervor as if to forget the biting morning chill.
Ptooey!
“Fuck the nobles and their business. What’s that got to do with us? What, you’re so used to seeing soot-covered local girls that your eyes are going googly over a real noble lady?”
“No, it’s different when that lady’s the pampered jewel of the Gold Guider Company, rulers of wheat and gold coins from Teldrat’s prestigious house! The ones with flipped eyes aren’t me—they’re the lord and the second young master!”
A daughter of Teldrat’s nobility. It was a tale tempting enough to catch even Thomas’s ears, who’d been shivering to keep warm.
The frail baron who’d only plowed fields, raised into a swordmaster and the head of a great marquisate called the Sword House. The great ladies who’d lifted and cherished their spouse through countless trials.
The long lineage from the great hero Levit Princess. The fantasy of becoming the protagonist of a “woman from Teldrat” story was one every boy in the Empire had dreamed of at least once.
Truth be told, even at nineteen, he still indulged in such fantasies sometimes. Sure, no one around now recognized his talent, leaving him as a mere guard, but someday a mysterious foreign beauty would take his hand like in the plays—“You are the one”—unleashing his true power and making him a hero.
He knew it was idle delusion, yet when bards at the tavern sang of the Sword House legends, he’d harbor stupid hopes like “Someday me too...” And now, that legend was restarting right before his eyes.
Thomas hurriedly checked his armor. The chain mail issued to decurion-level soldiers half a year ago gleamed nicely in the morning sun, but the surcoat beneath was filthy with dust, and the lion-head emblem was so worn it could pass for a rat.
In contrast, Jimmy beside him sported a feathered helmet, a surcoat scrubbed clean in lye without a grease stain, shining chain mail, and a spear with a razor-sharp edge.
“Shit. Jimmy, got anything to polish my armor?”
“Heh heh heh. Should’ve kept your ears open. I saw eight soldiers at the well at dawn. Even the squires skipped breakfast polishing the knights’ gear.”
“Damn...”
In a pinch, Thomas spat on his surcoat and scrubbed his breastplate. Internally chanting self-consolation like “Even Sword Saint Arthur Schwartz was mud-caked, yet he caught Niselia’s eye.”
Clop clop clop clop—
“...They’re here!”
The lord’s castle sat atop a slight hill at Sigphirund’s center, so standing at the inner gate entrance let him spot distant carriages at a glance.
A luxurious four-horse carriage for women, not the sort the Bizilen family favored.
Even from afar, seeing the familiar Bizilen coachman drive with utmost care—lest it hit a stone or sink—showed how important the passenger was.
Clop clop clop—
Snort, whinny!
Lost in wild fantasies, Thomas and Jimmy stood ramrod straight—the most disciplined posture of their lives—as the horses halted and snorted.
Shing!
“Halt!!! This is the castle of His Excellency Bizilen Alessio, guardian of the Empire and ruler of the East! Identify yourselves!!! You shall not pass a single step until then!!!!!”
Thomas saw it. The coachman beside Jimmy—usually slovenly, now in an ironed vest and shirt, silver hair slicked back neatly. And the bobbing Adam’s apple before releasing the reins to open the door.
“We’ve... arrived.”
The tense coachman flung the door wide, and the carriage rocked heavily.
‘Ooh, oooh!’
First to emerge: snow-white robes straining against massive curves that threatened to burst the soft fabric.
‘They said she was petite! What’s petite about that! Biggest I’ve ever seen in my life!’
Legends were leagues apart, he thought, focusing intently.
Groooan—
“Huh...?”
Weird. Chest first, so next should be the delicate face and jade hands. Why was that white mass still pouring out?
The legendary lady he’d awaited was gone; amid the carriage frame’s screams, something huge and white squeezed through the narrow door.
“Ah.”
Finally, something face-like appeared.
Brown hair oiled and combed back neatly.
Eyes solemnly closed, but a scarred face plainly weathered by countless battlefields.
Clad in pristine priestly robes embroidered with three gold threads denoting bishop rank...
A massive man.
Crack!
The door shattered under the final white bulge, and the giant—who beggared belief for fitting in that small carriage—emerged, placing hand over heart and bowing toward the sunrise.
“Lathura, Ro-Haram. Lord who graces us with new light today. We bow to Your mercy.”
Bathing in the just-risen sunlight over the horizon, the hulking man blocked it entirely, casting a shadow.
“Forgive my belated greeting. One I must greet before all others demanded it.”
Step. Step. Step. Step.
Thomas felt like a siege engine had grown legs. The deep bass rumbled through him. Angular, expressionless face with half-lidded eyes.
A hand scarred like his face—rents and breaks galore—slipped into the priestly robes, exuding such menace Thomas nearly thrust his spear...
“The warrior of the Radiant Church, Professor. Following light’s guidance to Sigphirund, I come as hand to greet its lord at the auspicious dawn hour.”
Priest.
Behind the giant emerged a red-dressed woman taking the coachman’s hand to descend, but Thomas’s mind had shattered upon realizing that first white curve was this monster’s pectorals and traps beneath the robes.
“Cleared!!!”
A colossal man radiating beastly menace and piety alike.
‘This... is the Church’s warrior!’
Thomas realized: The coachman hadn’t babied the carriage for a precious guest. He’d feared it sinking for real.
****
Following the butler into the inner castle, a message spell brought Lucilla’s admiration.
[Wow. Why not dress like that all the time?]
[Hm? What?]
[Clothes and hair. You usually wear baggy cheap leather pants, shirtless up top, hair tied sloppily—like a total barbarian.]
[You think I like it? My fighting style’s... consumptive and unique, so normal clothes rip and burst quick. Full plate restricts movement. So I wear just enough to avoid trouble.]
[And now?]
[Now, one outfit speaks louder than a hundred words. My friend said dressing for the occasion shows how prepared you are.]
[So you went to the temple at dawn...]
[Yep. Coachman and guards’ faces? Worth the effort.]
Still vivid.
Dawn: Sneak out inn’s back door, sprint to temple. Flash archbishop’s handwritten letter like a badge; bishop turns yes-man instantly. Fetches two largest priestly robes, tailors to fit in 30 minutes.
Custom yet still skin-tight, outlining his rugged contours through soft fabric—more intimidating.
Escorted Lucilla yesterday, crashed nearby inn. Coachman waited at dawn.
Inn door opens: Expectant eyes go dead-fish blank. Hilarious.
His body, grown a tad smaller than Notum’s, could confuse monster for man at first sight.
Especially a robed, praying monster instead of the awaited lady. No wonder the coachman blanked.
“Please forgive our poor welcome. Had we known a Radiant Church high official was coming, the lord would’ve prepared a more open dining hall...”
“...No matter. No place lacks light, even behind thick walls.”
His current look: Puncture it, and holy oil spills instead of blood.
Ask his name? “Ro-Haram.”
Age? “Ro-Haram.”
“Fuck, why’re you here—?” “Ro-Haram.”
[Why hide your identity? You’re still the Church’s warrior.]
[Worlds apart. Religious authority works different from political.]
Simply: Religion exploits the notion of faithless “unreasonables” beyond logic.
Show up mercenary-style? They’re eyeing daughter-in-law prospects; outsider’s inconvenient. “Uninvited wait for lord’s permission.” Door cut.
But this attire, aura? Try that line?
“...Bizilen territory hides something from the Church. By the warrior’s authority, I’ll investigate heresy collusion!”
He could go that far. At least, they’d see him as capable.
Thus, high-pass face-time with the lord, uninvited foreigner.
Creeeak—
“Announcing the Radiant’s warrior Professor and Lady Lucilla Aedran!”
Butler’s shout at reception door; massive doors—like from a palace—swing open, revealing vast hall.
Stomp!
Thud!
A banquet-worthy long table, knights lined neatly on both sides.
At the head: Middle-aged noble, battle-hardened at a glance.
“Radiant’s warrior... Odd. I don’t recall inviting you.”
“As dawn comes unbidden even to those who shun it, some bonds are inevitable. Margrave.”
“...Bold. You know where you are to hold that attitude?”
“Of course. Not before Ro-Haram’s eyes. All the world lies beneath His feet.”
First greeting: Unyielding standoff. As “wall-banging warrior” clashed with “margrave rage meter,” margrave yielded first.
“...Fine. A cleric at breakfast won’t bankrupt us. Lady, acquainted with the Church’s warrior?”
“Yes. He greatly aided my small caravan crossing the mountains.”
Modest Lucilla’s words turned margrave’s eyes to his sons beside him. Scolding glare: “Explain this.”
“N-No way! I clearly saw him in the mountains, ragged, pulling carts like an ox...!”
“Lathura-Ro-Haram. Ascetics shun no hardship. A believer in peril sought aid; I gave my all.”
“...Radiant Church’s warrior amid war. Fronts faring poorly, I hear. Desperate for any hand, yet they send one—‘like you’—across the Empire... Intriguing.”
Margrave eyed Demicas coldly, then lifted his glass to lighten the mood.
“No reason to refuse a Radiant official. In Bizilen’s name, welcome. Professor, Radiant’s warrior.”
Patriarch’s nod thawed the icy air sharp!
‘...No ordinary charisma. No mere noble.’
Professor swiftly took the seat Demicas vacated beside him, raising his glass.
“Lathura. May light grace your house.”
“...Religious folk.”
Clink!
Amid the dull bronze clash, Demicas—frowning, separated from Lucilla—muttered audibly enough for neighbors.
“...Dissatisfied?”
“Rejoice Father’s presence. I know the Church allows clerical marriage—and pierce your filthy thoughts.”
Professor smirked at Demicas’s preemptive glare before soup’s first sip.
[Oh ho.]
[Um... Knight Demicas misunderstands you?]
[Academy sword-user, thought decent. Just a naive noble son. Thinks all men like me.]
Good call coming. Exploitation fodder everywhere.
Clink.
“Fine. Lady Lucilla invited me anytime, so breakfast over dinner’s no issue... But why the rush to my castle, Church warrior—unwashed boots and all?”
Question timed to irk, mid-chicken leg bite.
Professor leisurely filleted the fowl with fork and knife under patriarch’s stare, drained his wine, then spoke.
“As always. Cleansing the world’s darkness.”
“The world’s darkness. Do you grasp its meaning, priest?”
“More than you imagine.”
Professor crushed his bronze goblet.
Cruncccch!
Crunch!
“Heresy sighted in Bizilen territory. By Church authority, I request investigation cooperation from house and lands.”
Bang!
“Insolent... fool!”
Demicas bolted up at the declaration of war; Professor smiled faintly.
Intense pull felt entering. Familiar acrid scent. Soul-singing allure.
Undeniable: The sensation of his body craving mutant blood.
‘Somewhere here... a mutant!’
Aside from Lucilla business, perfect visit.
****
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