Chapter 222
Chapter 222
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: Letters to Windmage (15)
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I still remember that first encounter. A pristine white monster lounging atop a pile of mangled knights and soldiers alike, its gaze languid. A predator so overwhelming it urged my instincts toward suicide.
‘This is the first time you’ve faced a Named in this state.’
....Gulp.
A thick, intoxicating blood scent that set every cell in my body ablaze.
It was terror and temptation all at once.
The primal survival instinct triggered by facing an enemy too mighty to confront.
The desperate plea from that instinct surging to my scalp for a way out.
And my body, empowered by mutant blood, screaming that the ‘rich blood’ before me was the solution.
One half recoiling in fear, the other drawn inexorably forward by the very aura spawning that fear—a bizarre state of being.
‘My head’s gonna explode....’
Professor’s rationality wandered lost amid the storm of boiling emotions.
[‘It’s a trap.’ ‘I want to eat.’ ‘Target the spear.’ ‘I’ll die.’ ‘The mages are watching.’ ‘Flee.’ ‘I want to eat.’ ‘What if I die here?’ ‘Signal.’ ‘What’s the goal?’ ‘I want to eat.’ ‘Named.’ ‘I’ll die.’ ‘Monster.’ ‘Decoy.’ ‘I want to eat.’ ‘Unfit for battle.’]
My breath came ragged. Before I could even transform, the surging blood turned to mist, spilling from my breaths. Where am I? What was I thinking? What should I do?
In my confused mind, the monster’s icy gaze and the heat crawling up my spine shattered words and melted thoughts.
‘Think.’
[‘I’ll die.’ ‘Flee.’ ‘I want to eat.’ ‘What if I die here?’ ‘What’s the goal?’ ‘I’ll die.’ ‘Monster.’ ‘Decoy.’ ‘I want to eat.’]
‘Think.’
Priorities. What I mustn’t forget. What must be done.
[‘I’ll die.’ ‘What’s the goal?’ ‘I’ll die.’ ‘I want to eat.’ ‘Monster.’]
[‘I’ll die.’ ‘What’s the goal?’ ‘I want to eat.’]
.
.
.
.
.
.
[‘What’s the goal?’]
Amid the raging torrent of fear and greed, the unyielding rationality of a human finally surfaced.
‘It’s not looking at me....’
Eyes. The moment he realized the blue eyes within the mutant’s helm, now eerily human-like, weren’t fixed on him, letters poured like a waterfall into Professor’s bleached mind.
‘[Tus was right,] it said. Those two were sent by Palkatus.’
‘The reason it didn’t appear for three days. The info leaked. It knew we were waiting.’
‘It thinks like me. The plan’s complex, but the goal is simple.’
‘Obsessed with mutant prosperity. Nests being destroyed one by one.’
‘Obstacle.... The one it most wants gone, the one exception to its ability to escape safely in any situation—the on-site disruptor!’
When the whirlwind of thoughts settled, only one word remained in Professor’s mind.
The direction Professor stood in. Blue eyes staring beyond him. White fingers shaking off lightly, and white branches vanishing in an instant.
‘Aldrich!!!!’
The moment he saw a faint afterimage shoot from those fingertips, Professor erased all other thoughts from his head.
Mages? Hot-air balloon?
Even imagining the future before these foes was a luxury.
Kwaaak!
A slender spear flew soundlessly, caught in the grasp of the dark-red monster. Edeorna’s eyes flickered as her ambush failed.
“....You’d have met me in due time if you’d waited. Didn’t I say I had prior engagements?”
“Grrrk. You wear such fine perfume, I couldn’t hold back.”
Edeorna stared at the man who blocked her strike and bantered even as he faced her.
A human whose flesh, voice, and aura had utterly diverged from humanity.
Yet in those beastly yellow eyes slit upward, the vicious glint of the man who once crawled battlefields with a crushed body lingered.
“....Vicious, yet merely a tiny soul that writhed ceaselessly. A bug not worth hunting. Have you cast off fear now?”
“Your eyesight must be failing. I’m still trembling in terror. Can’t you see?”
Eujik!
Edeorna half-turned toward Professor as the white branch crumpled in his grip.
She’d put little force into it, but it was her spear. It should have pierced flesh and taken root—instead, it shattered so feebly.
[Do not underestimate him. Father is.... unpredictable, sister.]
‘Your words are always right, Palkatus.’
A faint smile curved beneath Edeorna’s helm as she recalled the voice of Palkatus, who had sent her here.
‘I came with such light intentions.’
Sararak.
Having recalled her small branch, Edeorna’s hand reached for the spear on her back.
A gloomy voice, like oil seeping from a womb, leaked from the hole beside her.
『....Have you forgotten the words of our wisest brother?』
“It’s just light game.”
『You must not confuse the objective.』
“Are you trying to teach me?”
『All matters for Him are grave affairs....』
“Bazur.”
Kuuuuk-
At her call, the brother hiding in the hole revealed himself.
A massive black robe emerging from the small hole, improbable as it seemed. Between the robe’s shadows peeked a face dotted with dark spots and wrinkled hands, yet the old man’s face and slender arms protruding from the robe that could smother an ogre or troll looked awkwardly mismatched.
“If you lack the strength to face the mage, you needn’t mince words. I won’t overlook even my brother’s shortcomings.”
『....Such insolence in insulting Her High Priestess is blasphemy, sister....』
Udok! Kkuluk-kkuluk! Cheolpeok! Wadjik!
“Sister.”
The neck protruding solely from the massive robe twisted grotesquely and vanished inside. Amid sounds of bone and flesh kneading, a smooth handsome man’s face emerged. Not just appearance—voice, speech, even the nature of his mana utterly changed within the black-robed behemoth.
“A slight detour aside, remember what Brother said: the soul mage and saint are here somewhere. Kill the soul mage, capture the saint. Isn’t every gesture, every breath for Mother?”
Singit-
Edeorna turned her back on the pale handsome man’s smile, behind which hundreds of eyes gleamed. She disliked it, but this brother’s ability, divergent from hers, was reliable.
“Grrrar.... A monster.”
“I agree. You and I both. Great beasts can only survive by becoming someone’s monster.”
Huwung-!
Finally facing Professor squarely, Edeorna’s spear tip turned toward him.
The overwhelming aura that birthed heat hazes just by existing now lunged like a stab.
“You’ve grown impressively, so instead of praise, I’ll grant the small attention you craved.”
Chwaang!
From her light swing, a blade white as snow extended from the spear tip.
“Die and become nourishment for Mother. An honor.”
“Grrrk. I’m deeply grateful.... though!”
Kwaaaaang!
The two monsters vanished like afterimages, clashing across the valley.
Over the valley cracking like a spiderweb from the impact.
The black monster’s roar pierced by the spear blade echoed.
****
“Ugh, ahhhh....”
Piiiing-
Tinnitus. Not pain in the ears, but a horrific ringing drilling from within.
To Astrad, his master Gauman was an inscrutable man.
He’d taken in a scrawny boy who’d tried to club him and rob him on sight as a disciple.
A man who could fly across the Empire end-to-end in a week had taken six long months to travel from remote Pelen village to Storm Hill.
Though less attuned to wind mana than expected, he’d stubbornly infused him with it, drawing him into the fold.
Sane, he was taciturn; once his mind frayed, he became a grinning fool wandering about.
They’d never bared their deepest thoughts, but it didn’t matter. No words were needed— the winds blowing from him were always warm.
Like a west wind rippling wheat fields. A gentle breeze sweeping past afternoons.
Piiiing-
It had been precious time reunited with Gauman, somewhat restored to his senses.
He’d showcased his mana structuring, advanced leaps through grueling work, and earned praise: ‘Now you can proudly claim first circle.’ A rare happy day lately.
Until spotting the desperate-faced man beyond the hill, and before he could speak, being shoved roughly by his master’s hand.
Pukeok!
What in the world had happened?
Shoved off-balance, Astrad saw his master’s staff glowing white-hot. Gauman’s eyebrows crooked viciously in fury.
A rage he’d never shown in life, his roar and incantation clashing against the crumbling sky.
Snapped to by the dull impact on his back, what entered his eyes was his master falling limply.
“Master.... Master?”
Astrad prayed the liquid soaking the robe he barely caught wasn’t blood. It drenched not just the thick robe but his own arms holding it—no way it was blood. It couldn’t be.
“M-Master. Please, come to your senses. Master....!”
“As....trad.....”
“Yes! I’m here! Master! Master!”
“You’re.... back. We’re.... back....”
“Master, open your eyes. Master!”
At the young mage’s frantic cries, faint life returned to the hazy mage’s eyes. A rock valley scorched by lightning. A frail body shattered from within. And.
Wuuuuu-
The black robe cloaked in ominous mana that had done this to him.
“The staff.... my staff.... *cough*!”
Gauman’s hand pointed to his staff fallen amid the blackened valley. Too feeble even for a breeze to lift it.
Instead of fetching the staff, Astrad pulled back the robe and tore the shirt. A chest sunken like a stuffing-poor doll, jagged and uneven. Arms and legs limp, twisted unnaturally. What could inflict such horrors?
His trembling fingers touched Astrad’s arm as he desperately chanted a fourth-circle heal and failed.
“Astrad.... the staff..... my staff....”
Ulkeok!
“Stay still, please! What more can you do in that state! Damn it.... Why won’t it work? It’s so desperate! Please, please!”
“Astrad.... hurry....!”
“Damn it! Here! Take it—stay still before those broken bones pierce more organs! Just once, once is enough for the heal....!”
Astrad had no choice but to fetch the staff for his master, who seemed ready to crawl for it despite his ruined body.
....Dalak. Deulgruk.
Gauman grasped the staff with hands whose joints had burst. Faint winds trickled from the six half-shattered holes.
The old mage’s memories were foggy as mist. His name. Why he lay here. His age, his life—all hazy.
But the face of the young mage weeping endlessly for him was etched in memory.
Astrad. My disciple. My....
“....*cough*!”
The mage’s eyes turned to his disciple striving to save him. Then to the fiend that had wrought this.
A massive creature draped in black robe, head and arms protruding like some bizarre lifeform.
Ominous energy gathered anew, and the pale fingertip pointed at his disciple shedding tears like chicken droppings.
A single gust stirred in the dying mage’s chest.
“Astrad.”
“*Sob*, ugh, like a spring breeze revive him.... winds of regeneration.... please.... please....!”
“Astrad.”
Hwiii-
A small breeze from the staff tip lifted the broken arm, placing the mage’s hand on his weeping disciple’s cheek.
“We.... are mages. The freest in the world, wind mages.”
“Ugh, *hic*! Master.... Master....!”
“You once said.... our lives drifting without home or temple on the winds seem so unhappy....”
“No.... that’s not true. Never, *sob*, not once unhappy....”
“I know.... We don’t drift on the wind—we are the wind itself. Where the blowing wind heads.... that’s my wind alone. You’ll know someday. When the wind granted you takes your hand and leads.... Ahh. I wanted to see that moment together....”
“We can.... Just open your eyes! Don’t go like this....”
“It was bound to come someday.... Not far off for us. Such a day. Weren’t we prepared?”
“*Gasp*, *sob*! No, no! I’m not ready. I....!”
Hwiing- Huung!
Winds propped up the shattered body. If this was life’s end, no more facing that child.
Instead of extending the broken arm, the master gently ruffled his disciple’s hair with a breeze.
Kwaak!
Staff gripped in both hands slammed into the ground. Winds surged before the mage preparing his final spell.
Every mage is a dreamer twisting reality to ideals, and death the coldest reality shattering that eternal dream.
Yet if a mage faces death unbowed by reality’s abyss, proving they can dream forever. In that sole chance of a lifetime, transcending death with overwhelming ideals at life’s edge, proving they remain dreamers eternally.
Then the mage can manifest a great spell unparalleled in their life.
“....Thank you. For everything.”
His master stood resolute amid fierce winds, unyielding to any storm—like the day he’d blocked for the boy dying in an alley.
Jjeojik, Jjeojeojik-
Paaang!
The blue-glowing staff shattered, its lights from six holes merging into one pulsing at the splintered tip.
“Last.... Spell.”
The wind-formed staff turned toward the foe wrapped in black-burning mana.
“Gauman.... Delhurst’s, [Westerlies of Solar Year 121, April 7th]”
With the small voice fading like final embers, the mage’s body crumbled.
Salrang-
A gentle breeze blew through the valley swirling with ominous mana.
Less a spell than a phenomenon. Like the grand mage who birthed the wind mages’ homeland from lifelong solitude, the final magic embodying Gauman Delhurst’s life as a wind mage.
Into the rock valley where monster clashed with monster, magic with magic, seeped the old wind mage’s wish.
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