Pellelian's Final Refuge

The Le Petit paper was cheap. But the handwriting scrawled across it had a surprisingly elegant flourish. "This letter originated for the first time in Solion Impel..."

The moment Pellelian spotted that phrase while reading, he set the paper ablaze. He'd heard rumors of this malicious chain letter spreading, but he never imagined it would reach him.

"Damn it all, those idle bastards."

Irritated, Pellelian swept back his hair. Places he could truly call a "sanctuary" were few and far between. It was ironic, considering he'd built hundreds of dungeons across the continent for himself. Those dungeons served as labs to achieve grand purposes or critical facilities. They could act as his "outposts," but never a true sanctuary.

The Tomb ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Dungeon, constructed within the demon realm of the Gray Mountains. This secret spot buried underground was, well, profoundly precious. It was the one place he'd built ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for his actual end.

He visited often, and the main thing he did in this sanctuary was sift through his backlog of letters. Ask if the Reverse Heaven Mage had friends to share letters with? Obviously not. But from certain perspectives, he had plenty.

"Whose name is this under... Jenkins?"

The back of the letter read, "To Mr. Jenkins." That was a name from Solion Impel. Somewhere in Solion Impel, there was a modest mage's house under the name Jenkins. Letters to its mailbox inevitably found their way to Pellelian.

Beyond that, he had fake identities scattered across major cities on the continent. "Genie" in the deserts, "Hegemony" in the East, and others like "Arthur," "Riddle," "Pendragon"... To be frank, the fairy mage Pellelian wasn't popular. That was a hard fact.

But under some of those aliases he'd used to hide his activities, he'd made friends. Very occasionally, letters arrived from them. They piled up decently. Not so much today, though. With dozens of identities, these were connections from decades or centuries ago. Any short-lived races among his few friends were surely long dead.

"Have I lived too long?"

Pellelian muttered, then startled at his own words. Lived too long? Fairies didn't say things like that. There were fairies far older than him still thriving... Perhaps he'd been out in the world too long. Maybe that's why he no longer ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠felt like a proper fairy.

"...Fairy. Right, what good is being a fairy."

He closed his eyes briefly.

Whoosh.

Letters scattered everywhere ignited and vanished in unison. Elemental magic at a divine level.

He'd thought reading his piled-up letters before death would make for a romantic end. Reality proved otherwise.

His left arm was blackened from fingertips to wrist. The price of a mage's failed brush with "chaos."

Reverse Heaven? In the end, even his final struggle ended like this. Chaos poison spread from his left arm, dooming him to die... But it was just dying a bit sooner. Death held no fear. The real issue was this horrific emptiness.

"Spirit."

-Yes, Lord Pellelian.

"If I die soon, burn and destroy everything. Leave nothing behind."

-Shall I halt the experiments?

"Yes. Stop them all."

Body-swapping plans. He'd really considered it. But seeing the completed chimera mimicking a fairy shocked him deeply. It was neither fairy nor beast—just a grotesque chimera.

Why had he even thought that? Probably the shock of his believed world crumbling.

'Make fairies great again...'

Stagnant fairies dying out, like a pond slowly drying up. He'd wanted to save the race. By finding a way to evolve into High Elves.

But the moment he realized it was all meaningless, the drive that had propelled him vanished. Pellelian collapsed.

Before him lay his journal.

A black shadow loomed over the entire continent.

If he hadn't infiltrated the Empire's palace himself. If he hadn't seen the doomsday beast growing underground, he wouldn't have believed it.

All continental civilizations doomed? He'd have dismissed it as conspiracy nonsense.

Anyway. All those headaches were ending now. Pellelian sensed approaching death. His body temperature plummeted rapidly.

Clink.

He dropped the wine glass from his right hand. Strong liquor he rarely drank spilled across the floor.

A tragic ending he liked came to mind. 'Raise your glass. Death sharpens its blade at your door.' Some play he'd seen.

Light faded slowly. Darkness encroached. In Eastern monks' terms, Pellelian transitioned from this shore to the other.

About to plunge into the eternal sea of fog—

Beep-beep-beep. The receiver on his desk flashed and chimed. Only a select few could contact it. Pellelian's eyes widened.

This message came from his arch-rival. Kaspians. That human grand mage had sent word to Pellelian.

The cipher on the receiver blinked too fast for ordinary eyes. Pellelian's expression shifted wildly as he read it.

"...Heh, so you're coming for me."

His reaction to Kaspians' message?

"Invading my domain to save my life? That lowly...!"

Sneer and rage. Either way, reactions opposing resigned death. That changed Pellelian's mind.

He couldn't just sit here awaiting salvation from an enemy. Even if he died first, he refused to let his rival witness a pathetic solo end. His pride forbade it.

He rose from his chair. Staggered, vision swimming. Chaos poison creeping from his left hand.

Pellelian placed his right hand on his left forearm. It froze white, then severed cleanly like a blade cut. Sacrificing his left arm for a brief extension.

The severed arm thudded onto the chair, still clutching the receiver. Precise magic combo—no blood spilled.

Pale-faced, Pellelian glared at the desk. Kaspians would surely find and enter this hideout. That monster always exceeded his imagination.

Then he'd discover the severed arm and receiver. Pellelian had something to leave for Kaspians anyway.

He pulled a gold-carved key from his bosom and placed it on the desk.

He turned to leave without hesitation, then paused. Grabbed a pen and scribbled in the journal. Kaspians would read it someday.

With that, Pellelian left the dungeon without regret. He had no idea what lay ahead. How long he could prolong his dying life was uncertain. But if he survived, he'd return.

His resolve was firm. Yet Pellelian never came back.

The journal, in fairy script:

Bold, sweeping strokes. How did one sentence cram in such a crotchety personality?

Kaspians, the human mage, was Pellelian's rival (actually a greater mage). They were never colleagues—just adversaries. Yet somehow, he'd come to save dying Pellelian.

Why?

-No time for that. Absolutely not!

Pellelian's fragmented memories called it absurd.

'That's your take, old man. Maybe Kaspians was a good guy? An enemy with honor who saves foes.'

-Pfft! Nonsense. That psycho has no blood, no tears—just flaws.

He'd rage if true, but that mocking laugh suggested otherwise.

Anyway, seeing this stuff...

'Kaspians never came. Or couldn't.'

-I see...

Pellelian's journal, golden key. Items untouched. No signs of intrusion.

What happened? Did that mean Pellelian was still alive? The journal said death was inevitable, but who knows.

'Shocking stuff.'

-Yeah. Secrets of the world in that journal. Most shocking was...

'Continent's doom soon...'

-Me abandoning fairy evolution...

Our shock points differed slightly. But Pellelian quit because he foresaw continental doom—same track.

'Imperial Palace underground garden? What's there?'

Journal said "doom lives and breathes."

Doom—some beast's epithet?

-Doom means a monster that could destroy the continent.

'Like the calamities?'

-Calamities exist among named beasts. Great ones called First Calamity, etc. Some solo-wiped small kingdoms. If you believe it. With that many, continent would've fallen already. Power creep like late Dragon Ball Z, where even Cell destroys Earth.

-But doom's different. Prophecies say a doomsday beast will end the continent. All sects received such oracles long ago.

'One beast can't conquer a continent. Crossing end-to-end takes ages.'

Pure curiosity, no sarcasm.

-Unknown form, but doomsday beasts have no growth limit. Devours endlessly, grows accordingly. Other beasts eventually subjugated ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as limbs. If true, possible.

No limits? Totally me.

'They're raising that in the palace garden? Why?'

-No clue. Hard to believe even for Pellelian...

But main Pellelian seemed dead serious. So when's doom?

Pellelian staked his life on fairy evolution. Quitting meant little time left.

I scoured the journal. Found the timeline!

20 years. Not short. Fairy standards—20 years is nothing. Good, plenty left.

'Wait.'

I realized.

'20 years... that's already passed, right?'

-Uh... yeah.

Next page continued:

Sigh. Fairies.

Doom midway already? Who knows. If I ever visit the palace, I'd like to meet that "doom" pal in the garden. Maybe a good guy with no world-ending plans. Probably never happen.

-Take that key.

The gold-carved key. Up close, barely key-like—wobbly, like abstract art.

-Royal Bank key. For an uncounterfeitable premium vault.

'Meant for that human mage. What's inside?'

-No memory. Open to find out.

Pellelian said boldly. Me waltzing into the bank, key out, demanding the vault? Tellers: "A snake!" or "Take a number."

Later. Honestly, world-ending mattered less right now.

'Evolve first, think later.'

-Fine, go ahead.

Rare. Evolution time.

※Evolution Precautions.

-Evolve in a safe place.

-Evolve with gratitude.

-Choose wisely.

Follow these three, no issues. Pellelian's underground dungeon was safe—sturdily built, buried under collapsed stone tower.

Settled in for exciting evolution. Sleep summons options. Pick good one, evolve.

Told Pellelian, dozed off. But...

"...Sassak!"

I startled awake.

-What?

'Uh, evolution process different this time?'

Options same. But not just sleep-through.

'Takes about 30 days.'

-Oho, metamorphosis.

'Not that.'

-Like larva to butterfly, grub to mosquito.

'Aha!'

Cocoon-style, full month evolution.

-Perfect timing.

'Yeah.'

30 days outside? Risky. Trapped underground turned blessing.

-I'll sort thoughts. Evolve.

'Okay?'

Pellelian ducked into the ring. Isil in pot rustled.

'Wanna join in the ring?'

30 days, she'd starve. Safe sub-space.

Stashed Isil and sundries in sub-space, tried evolution again. Drowsiness hit.

Oh gods. Chance to change species.

Little Python Head Wyvern—tiny snake-headed wyvern? Maybe from wyvern queens mistaking me for hatchling.

Eh! Serpent! Finally serpent evolution. But Big Head? Giant head? Hate that... Does Big Head Serpent lose crown? Big problem.

Long time seeing "Little" prefix. Shrinks again? Familiar ring. Little Prince, hmm... Sounds familiar.