Chapter 25
Chapter 25
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 025
Chapter Title: Eternal Spirit
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Karl Bailyner shrugged his shoulders and sobbed.
“Kuh-huk.”
The stronger the light, the more vividly the darkness reveals itself.
In the beginning, there was God, who created the sun, the earth, fire, water, and countless races. And to the dragons, He entrusted the role of balancers.
But time changed everything.
The prosperity of creation came hand in hand with strife and corruption. They cursed one another, wishing for their enemies' annihilation, and killed without mercy. In that malice, God's will diluted, and His presence faded into obscurity.
The earth became a battleground for countless races. The final clash between humans and orcs for dominance coincided with the time when the dragons, who upheld the world, began to flicker out one by one.
And here, the last dragon made its presence known on the eve of its own extinction.
“Kuh-huh-huh.”
The sobs turned to wails, then swelled into a massive roar.
“Kwaaaaaah!”
“Kruk.”
“Kuiik.”
If sound had color, this would be pure white. That pristine terror blanketed the battlefield.
An elite orc, trying to grant mercy to a moaning soldier in agony, staggered in torment. Some exhausted orcs flipped their eyes back, foaming at the mouth, before going still.
This overwhelming dread surged even to the orc homeland.
Orc Lord Georgrg gritted his teeth. Wiping the blood trickling between them, he raised his trembling hand and waved it dismissively.
“Retreat.”
“Kruk, got it. The assault force, re-retreat.”
Georgrg snapped irritably.
“Abandon the assault force and pull back the main body first. Before they all die.”
“Kruk, uh, got it.”
The elite orcs raced through the homeland, shouting.
“Guluk, everyone run. Drop everything. Travel light.”
“Kuiik, kuik. Wounded ones. Too many.”
“Kruk. Don't wanna end up like that? Then run.”
“Kuik, kuiiik.”
The orcs, driven by instinct, were swift whether attacking or fleeing. In the void they left like an ebbing tide remained the corpses of orcs who couldn't withstand the fear, along with weapons, tents, and armor.
Life signs were faint where the battle had halted.
Only one figure, cradling a corpse in his lap, asserted his presence.
“Huuuk, huuuk.”
The being who closed the corpse's remaining eye rose to his feet.
Having concluded his diversion, Dragon Kerveiner scanned his surroundings. The living had fled the mountains; only death lingered, with faint vital signs here and there.
“So the final game ends like this. Time to return to mana, I suppose.”
He still wore Karl Bailyner's form. The only change was his eyes—pure white.
“It was enjoyable.”
No further emotions showed on the dragon facing extinction. The game had been like a play; with its end, so too vanished love, hate, and regret.
Yet his feelings toward that indomitable man were a touch different.
“As reward for your service, I'll grant you a gift.”
No being conquers death. But he was one granted authority. With God gone and himself soon to scatter into mana, he cared not for the karma of the world left behind.
A sound no human throat could produce emanated from his mouth. Then it cut off abruptly.
“Tch. Even if I revive him, he's got little time left anyway.”
A glint appeared in his milky eyes.
“Fortunately, something suitable is at hand.”
Dragon Kerveiner's draconic tongue flowed once more.
No hexagram etched in the air, no brilliant radiance. Just a subtle glow enveloped Brad's corpse and Arun's body.
The dragon's voice rode that light.
“I salute your unyielding will, steadfast conviction, and selfless devotion. Now, enjoy a new life free from barriers of status and the constraints of time.”
That was the extent of his benevolence.
Having scraped every last drop of mana, his form grew hazy. An emotionless, flat voice continued.
“In a world without gods or dragons, I wonder which race will seize control. How far will they prosper in a realm of broken balance? But ultimate extinction remains inevitable.”
With those words, Karl Bailyner turned away.
Time passed slowly. The figure on the horizon blinked like a fading signal, then vanished behind the sunset.
And the sun set.
Silence flooded the battlefield. Human and orc remains scattered about only heightened the desolation, while the groans of those soon to join them gradually faded.
As night deepened, rain fell upon the field.
Plip. Plop.
What began as scattered drops thickened into a downpour, cleansing the battlefield.
Rain flowed over severed hands clutching swords embedded in the earth, knights kneeling lifelessly, soldiers who met their end embracing orcs. Red and blue blood, mingled with battle filth, washed into streams. Rolling helmets and their gruesome contents regained their original forms.
Shoooo...
Impartial time flowed with the patter of rain.
He opened his eyes to darkness.
He recalled the blow to the back of his head, then losing half his vision. His memories up to losing consciousness were surprisingly clear.
Finally sensing his death, he chuckled softly.
“Well, that was a shock. Karl was a dragon, of all things.”
He remembered the man holding him, screaming in anguish; Karl Bailyner's pupils turning milky white; the light from his hand enveloping his own body.
“The dragon. That dragon.”
Brad Cahill giggled, forgetting his own plight.
He'd long heard legends of a white dragon in the Kervenon Mountains. Like everyone else, he'd dismissed dragon games as bardic fancy.
Spending over thirty years with that being—and sharing its final moments—was simply unbelievable.
“Maybe it's a deathbed hallucination.”
But it felt too vivid, too perfectly coherent.
“Kervenon Mountains, Kerveiner, Karl Bailyner...”
Flashbacks hit late: the fire in the Kervenon Mountains thirty years ago, the orcs' southward migration, the battles to stop them, the countless sacrifices.
Around then, he'd encountered a lone fighter battling orc remnants. A silver-haired youth who called himself Karl Bailyner.
Why hadn't he suspected?
“His skin was too refined for a native. His skills, too.”
Puzzles he'd overlooked amid busyness—or grateful utility—fell into place: miraculous healing with common herbs and spirits, all-encompassing prowess in combat and administration.
“To think my life was spent alongside the world's strongest being.”
Had he aimed higher, could he have become king? It seemed plausible. But as Brad Cahill the knight, he harbored no regrets for his human life.
Only upon rising did he realize he'd been lying down.
“Can't see a damn thing. Death confirmed, then.”
All around remained pitch black.
“Am I supposed to find my own way?”
Light is heaven, darkness hell—direction hardly mattered.
Talk of honorable knights felt pointless now. Whether by choice or circumstance, his life had claimed endless lives, some unjustly. He'd never expected paradise.
“Still, it's too dark. A lantern would be nice.”
As he muttered, light appeared.
“Hm?”
His hand now gripped the handle of a lantern the size of a teapot. But he didn't panic. Just the journey of the dead to hell, he figured.
Stepping forward, he felt ground beneath his feet. No footsteps sounded—odd—until they did.
Thud. Thud.
How long had he walked? A hazy figure appeared to the side.
He could guess direction but not distance. He didn't deliberate long.
“Hell's hell, whichever way. Doesn't matter.”
On this final road, he'd take it all without omission.
He turned and chuckled.
Post-death lingering attachment? Or stubbornness even in death? Laughable.
Up close, the light took the form of a huddled boy.
“Who are you?”
“Who are you, mister?”
A curious adult and a frightened boy posed the same question differently.
“I... well...”
He pondered briefly, but truth was always concise.
“I'm a knight. Brad Cahill, until recently.”
“...”
The boy turned away without reply.
“I've given my name. Will you share yours?”
“Why should I?”
A sulky tone.
“Huhu. Fair enough. Up to you.”
He sat beside the boy.
“What are you doing here alone?”
“And you?”
“Passing through. Saw you, thought I'd rest a bit.”
“Do you know where you're going, mister?”
“More or less. I know where this path leads. Lost, are you?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Just... don't wanna go.”
The boy buried his face in his knees.
“And that means you don't wanna talk more?”
The boy turned only his head, face still buried.
“Changed your mind?”
“Bored, that's all. Tell me stories.”
“Huhu, fun kid.”
“You seem relaxed, mister. Other grown-ups are stiff and boring.”
“I get it.”
He shrugged.
“Grown-ups give kids useful advice over fun tales. Like it's some grand duty.”
“Boring, uncomfortable, complicated. When life's already tough.”
“That's life, kid.”
“I know. That's why I hate it. Nothing more tedious than hearing what you already know repeated. Or rehashing mistakes.”
“Enduring that's what makes it life.”
“...I know.”
Curiosity would spark if unknown, but repetition bored. He scratched his head at the looping talk.
“I see. Knowing doesn't guarantee success, though.”
Anyone knew how to become a knight. Not everyone could. Blindly demanding effort was torture.
Following adult advice didn't ensure no failure either. Same rules rarely fit different lives.
'I was doing the same—imposing without imposing.'
He stood and extended a hand.
“Fun chat. Time to go.”
“Together?”
Omitted words held pure intent.
Was it illusion, the boy's eyes wavering? He added,
“Not forcing, of course...”
“Okay.”
The hesitating boy grasped his hand decisively. Blinding light filled his vision.
He squeezed his eyes shut and staggered.
Someone's memories churned his mind into a vortex.
“Urk.”
He focused desperately. Inexpressible pain surged with a young man's life, wave after wave.
Clutching his head, the agony persisted.
“The third young lord's memories?”
Mother's warmth, cheers at first steps, joyful sibling times, her death, studies in the capital, graduation as academy head and imperial commissioning.
Not just memories. Vivid anguish of ideals clashing with reality at twenty.
Some absorbed intact, others reinterpreted through Brad's lens. As they sorted, pain eased; Arun van Brennenton's memories integrated.
Soon after, regaining wits, he sighed.
“Who am I?”
Raising the lantern, still only darkness.
The vanished boy came to mind; realizing it was Arun's soul, he groaned.
“Hell that scary? Fine, I'll go with you.”
This confirmed he was still Brad Cahill.
Deciding not to overthink, he walked. Thoughts flowed unbidden; he let them, reflecting on life.
Thud. Thud.
Memories settled, knowledge assimilated.
Time is great. Even solid rock yields to persistent drops.
Pitch-black time flowed indifferently.
Thud. Thud.
Days or years of walking unearthed and discarded lingering regrets, confessed to a god lifelong doubted.
Thus, he reached a door leaking light.
Instinct said the journey ended. Looking back: endless black.
“No regrets, no attachments. Nothing to fear.”
Beyond this door, judgment. He pushed.
Intense light overwhelmed. He pried open heavy lids to survey.
First, a hand swam into view.
“...Can you see my fingers?”
“My lord's awake. Fetch the priest!”
“Food first. Something to settle his stomach.”
“Water, water now.”
The clamor throbbed his head.
'Hell it is.'
He smiled wryly to himself.