The Dark Priest
The titles of Conspirator, Connector, and Dark Priest all once referred to summoners in the past. The name Dark Priest, in particular, represented the darkest and most shameful chapter in a summoner’s history—the very embodiment of their deepest shadow.
“…Both of you, calm down.”
I said it for the sake of the Black Wyvern, still agitated by my emotions, and Erill, who watched me with concern. Yet my own heart remained unsettled, so the words carried little weight.
As I had mentioned before, summoners were closer to priests or shamans than to mages. We were those who communicated and resonated with other beings, and though limited, we could forge connections between worlds far more easily than mages ever could.
That was why we were first called Conspirators. Our primary task had been taming and soothing ferocious monsters and beasts, and that had been our limit.
Back then, we did not fully understand our own talents, and our numbers were few. It was only natural. We were convinced that was the extent of our abilities.
Eventually, however, some among the Conspirators began to awaken to their true potential. They reached beyond monsters and beasts, using mana to communicate with entities from other worlds and summon them forth. From that point on, they were known as Connectors.
Even then, we were still regarded as little more than assistants to mages. We aided them in dimensional research or handled tasks no different from our days as Conspirators. To ordinary people, we were simply less efficient versions of mages.
It could not be helped. Most of what Connectors could summon was limited. We could call forth and control monsters and beasts more easily than before, but that was the ceiling of our power.
For a long time, we remained known as Connectors. Then, roughly a thousand years ago, a Connector of extraordinary talent finally appeared.
He surpassed every Connector who had come before him. He summoned beings no previous Connector had ever brought to this world and glimpsed realms no mage or Connector had ever dared to touch.
Countless Connectors took him as their master, eager to learn his techniques. Thanks to him and his disciples, people began to see Connectors in a new light. We finally understood the true scope of our abilities.
But the path he walked afterward was neither beautiful nor righteous. When he stood at the pinnacle of what it meant to be a Connector, the world he reached and faced was darkness itself.
He touched Urshus, one of the great demon gods, and he and his disciples began calling themselves Urshus’s priests. Yet contrary to the name, what they sought was not stability—it was power. Everything they did afterward was nothing short of vile.
People feared them, calling them Dark Priests, and that fear gradually spread to all Connectors.
Eventually, he and his disciples were judged. His name was erased from history, forbidden even to be recorded. It was an attempt to ensure such tragedy would never repeat, but the opposite occurred. Others continued to walk the same path.
Ironically, the more talented the summoner, the more likely they were to follow that road, and the greater the consequences became. Because of them, the title Dark Priest endured for a very long time.
Though regional and cultural differences existed, it was only three hundred years ago that the name Dark Priest finally faded and Summoner became the accepted term.
That was why, for us summoners, the title Dark Priest remained our most shameful epithet—and a path we must always guard against.
“…I should have just let it go in one ear and out the other.”
Regret washed over me. I could have ignored it. No—I should have ignored it. I should have laughed at his foolishness and sent him on his way without a care.
But I hadn’t been able to. Because I, too, had always carried that same doubt and unease. And moments ago, I had proven to myself that I had no room left for composure—not only in front of Morotai, but to myself as well.
“I should finish this quickly and head back.”
I strengthened the link with the Black Wyvern. Once I returned to Rowell and Aegina, there would be no more pointless provocations. In the light of those two, darkness would never raise its head, and I would never lose my way again.
“Bagloros—have you seen any humans around here?”
I imprinted Bagloros’s image into the Black Wyvern’s mind and peered into its limited memories. Of course, if the wyvern had actually encountered Bagloros, it would not still be alive. Still, there might be traces left behind.
“Ah, there it is.”
The Black Wyvern’s memories were extremely limited, but one clear trace remained—a memory of overwhelming terror.
Exactly what had happened was gone, but the conviction that it must never go in that direction was still etched into its mind. And the only being in this area capable of instilling such fear in a Black Wyvern was Bagloros.
“You go back to your nest.”
I sent the Black Wyvern away first, then climbed onto Erill’s back. Without a saddle, riding her was already difficult enough, but if Bagloros saw me and reacted hastily with his sword, I could lose the summon I had worked so hard to obtain.
At least with Erill, even if he had not seen me riding her, Bagloros would not draw his blade on impulse.
“…Probably.”
He had always been unpredictable. A few years would not have changed that.
“Let’s go, Erill. There should be a small valley just beyond that ridge.”
The destination was close. In mere minutes, we arrived above the valley. There were no obvious signs at first glance, but I did not need to search.
“Could you breathe some fire? So Bagloros can see us.”
Erill gladly obliged. She exhaled flames into the air, and soon a black mist surged upward from below.
It had been a long time since I had seen that sight.
The Veil of Night. That unique method of movement, as if dragging night itself along, could only belong to Bagloros.
“Let’s go down, Erill.”
There was no real need for it, yet the fact that he had used such a conspicuous method of travel meant he had recognized us after all.
We landed near the water’s edge. The area was quickly engulfed in black mist before the darkness vanished in an instant. Standing before me was Bagloros, wearing the same youthful boy’s appearance he had during the Great War.
“It’s been a while, Bagloros.”
I raised my hand in greeting toward my old companion. It was only a formal gesture—I did not expect a reply. After all, this was Bagloros. Even after our victory against the Demon King, he had not spoken a single word to us. The only thing he had done was raise his right hand toward us in celebration.
“Yeah. It’s been a while, Anak.”
“……!”
The unexpected response left me momentarily stunned. It was a perfectly natural, ordinary greeting—the kind any normal person would give. But not from him.
Bagloros, the one who crept through the night. The world’s strongest assassin, respected even by the highest-ranking members of the assassin guilds. Yet in truth, he was nothing like the cold-blooded killer or underworld powerhouse people imagined.
It was true that before Thanatos appeared, he had demonstrated overwhelming skill in the underworld. Even after the High Assassin Guild emerged, he remained the only assassin who could maintain his previous exorbitant fees. Entire mercenary companies had vanished beneath his blade, and even Lacho, the famed “Hawk’s Claw” swordsman celebrated across five kingdoms, had not survived an encounter with him.
But none of it had been his own will.
He had first made his name in the underworld long before the Great War began. Years had passed since then, yet he still wore the face of a young boy for a reason.
He was not an ordinary human. Not in the sense that he was simply stronger than humans like Rowell or the others—he was literally not human.
He was a chimera. A synthetic lifeform.
The product of a mad dark mage’s insanity, an accidental miracle that far exceeded even its creator’s understanding. When Medrup examined him, he concluded it was merely a coincidental miracle born from the compatibility between the original subject’s talents and the various parts grafted onto him. It had never been the dark mage’s intention, nor the result of deliberate design.
But to the dark mage who created him, whether it was an accident or not made no difference. To him, Bagloros was simply his creation—his possession.
From the very beginning, Bagloros’s abilities had far surpassed his creator’s. Yet the control spells implanted during his synthesis made him easy to command. Moreover, Bagloros had possessed neither emotions nor will, so he never rebelled.
When we first met him, he had been holding off a large demon force alone. The dark mage had deliberately left him behind to cover his own escape. Whether the mage had succeeded, we still did not know. At the time, however, Bagloros had faithfully carried out his final order without doubt or hesitation.
Even after Rowell saved him, he showed no gratitude or relief. Instead, he had been confused by the absence of any further commands to follow. His recognition of Rowell as his new master and his oath of loyalty had likely stemmed from that confusion and the pure kindness Rowell had shown him for the first time.
During our travels, through Rowell and Medrup’s continued efforts, he gradually developed emotions and will. Even so, his way of expressing them remained extremely limited.
Even after years of traveling together, our conversations with him could be counted on one hand, and none lasted longer than two minutes. Much of what he said felt unnatural. When we once discussed the underworld custom of sending flowers, or when we attended a soldier’s funeral and offered white flowers at his grave, he suddenly brought up the topic and left us all bewildered.
That was the extent of even simple conversation. The only times he had clearly expressed his own opinions or will were when he risked his life in a duel against Orcan before our enemies, when he took the Demon King’s blade in Rowell’s place during the final battle, and when, right after the victory celebration, he announced he would enter the Mereka Mountains alone.
Yet now he had responded naturally to my greeting. Something that should never have happened.
“B-Bagloros, right?”
A foolish question. Even if that appearance was not his only form, there was no way I would fail to recognize him. I was simply that shaken.
“Yeah.”
Bagloros answered again. Short, but this time it was a clear reply—neither a light nod nor silence.
“You’ve… changed a lot, Bagloros.”
Honestly, for a brief moment, I had almost suspected he was someone else entirely.
“Yeah. I have.”
His speech was so natural that it felt awkward instead. Just what had happened here over the past few years to change him this much?
“What exactly happened here? How did you…?”