Chapter 209
Chapter 209
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 209
Chapter Title: Letter from the Mad Mage
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Bennett Hilton,
Greetings, Hero who saved the world. I hope you've been well.
I've been keenly following the trail you and your friends are blazing into history. Word is you've become the leader of a new force called the "Reformists," battling the stale customs and corrupt practices of the old Goddess Church.
Your actions seem infused with unmistakable power, which gladdens my heart. And the path you're forging is undoubtedly the road of light, filling me with pride.
But clashing with the powers that be is always grueling, isn't it? Just as a well-prepared mage fears nothing, the ruling factions have built an terrifying foundation over countless years.
With the grand festival looming, I worry you might be facing some real troubles. Just like me.
The Academy remains peaceful as ever. We've been lopping off the black mages' insidious reaches wherever they've shown themselves, and our innate luck has nipped the hidden threats in the bud.
One such stroke of fortune: We successfully slew the Queen of Succubi infesting Elmost Territory under the alias "Pleasure-Drinking Virgin."
We haven't picked up on "Fear-Eating Corpse Flower's" movements yet, but shrinking the black mages' influence like this should carve out decisive opportunities for us.
I hope this brings you even a sliver of joy.
Now, onto the troubles plaguing me. This is why I'm writing to you. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could share our burdens and lend each other aid?
I have faith.
A star aglow in my heart, I serve my quiet, gentle goddess. This faith is ancient—and endures unshaken, solid as eternity.
But after certain events, I've acquired a second faith. To another deity: playful and seductive, beauty incarnate, capable of bewitching all creation.
Devoting oneself to a single god is virtuous, of course.
Yet my heart refuses to choose one over the other. It embraces both, revering them equally. They're both irreplaceable, equally vital.
With that in mind, I seek your counsel, Bennett.
You masterfully chased two hares, snared them both, and cradled them close. Your strategy holds firm even now. How on earth did you manage it?
If words on paper fall short, I'm prepared to visit you myself. Please reply as soon as your heart allows. I cheer your journey on.
From the Academy—a mage dreaming of reunion.
Bennett's party huddled around a round table, heads bent in frustration. Their own looming crisis was bad enough, but now a letter from some lunatic professor at the Academy had piled on extra stress.
Bennett peered at the letter on the table, muttering wearily.
"This is why I hate mages. They always write in these cryptic riddles..."
"You've actually exchanged letters with mages before?"
Tara, squinting through her magnifying glass in a staring contest with the letter, looked up at Bennett's mention of a pen pal. Maybe a lady mage—his older sister?
Bennett crossed his arms and replied.
"Back in my black mage days... Plenty of orders came worded like that. I still remember one: 'Behold the winged serpent that swallowed gold coins; may its fangs gleam with shattered crescent moonlight.' Guess what that meant?"
"Uh... Basilisk dental care?"
"Shove a dagger into some merchant's skull."
"Ugh."
Do they have a disease that kills them if they don't twist everything? Tara yanked off her magnifying glass with a grimace. If Bennett's experience held true, this mad mage's letter might need three loops of decoding.
"The first half's straightforward. No metaphors, crystal clear."
"Yeah. 'Keeping tabs on us Reformists,' that sort of thing."
"He seems aware we're in deep trouble. Too spot-on for mere pleasantries—he's no ordinary guy."
"...A lunatic who unleashed succubi on the Academy to sniff out black mages. Probably getting intel through methods we couldn't dream of."
The mad mage had bonded with Alexon over drinks at a faculty gathering, so yeah, it was a way Bennett's party hadn't considered.
The major snag facing Bennett's party.
It tied directly to the upcoming "Hero Selection Tournament" in the holy city. The moment the Goddess Church's hero emerged, the Saintess would bind to the hero's party per ancient "Canon."
The "Canon" wasn't some scripture verse. It was the goddess's unbreakable decree.
"Share with others, doubt not your king"—uplifting words like that held religious weight.
Customizing her saintess robes into rags might spark rumors, but it wouldn't get Tara excommunicated. Defy the "Canon," though...
Divine power from the goddess would cut off instantly, and those fossil cardinals would excommunicate her on the spot.
"Eh, my divine power's been cut off for ages anyway."
Tara snorted. She'd been cut off long ago, faking it by draining others' power through her Unique Skill: Total Absorption of Joy and Sorrow. The goddess's wrath didn't scare her.
But the cardinals' political backlash? That was dangerous.
"We can't dodge the political fallout. She'd have to step down as Saintess, and our Reformists would shatter and scatter."
"But joining a hero's party meekly..."
"If that hero's the cardinals' puppet, you wouldn't survive long. 'Tragic accident on the road'—Saintess Tara meets her end."
Thus.
Bennett's party needed the Reformists to claim the hero spot at the "Hero Selection Tournament."
Or at minimum, block the cardinals' faction from producing one.
They were deep in strategy talks when the mad mage's letter arrived—like he knew exactly what was brewing.
So they racked their brains decoding it. Maybe it held a lifeline.
...
"How about it, Niore? Figured it out?"
While Bennett and Tara veered off-topic, Niore had silently reread the letter dozens of times. Finally, she reached a verdict.
"Huh?"
Because if he'd truly grasped their full crisis, he'd have packed in more details, right? The handwriting lacked any tension, too.
And if the mad mage were dead serious about something vital, it'd reek of overt... indulgence, pleasure, mischief. Way more than this.
But.
"Have we been overworking Niore too much...?"
"Looks like it. No way this is a love letter. Put the paperwork aside and rest, Niore."
"Come here. Use my lap."
Bennett gently stroked Niore's nape, pressing lightly to tilt her head. She yielded without resistance, flopping softly onto his thigh like a pillow.
His callused, massive hand caressed her hair tenderly. Niore smiled, relaxing fully to show her contentment.
She clung just enough—not overwhelming Bennett, not overstimulating him. A hand on his thigh to feel those firm muscles, say.
"This next part about having faith... Metaphor? Or a real devotee of the goddess?"
"Either fits. He's acted to protect both worlds, so he could have ties—or at least goodwill—with this one's goddess."
"Assume he's a believer in our goddess for now. Then the bit about a 'new additional faith'—literal meaning?"
"Believing two gods at once, without apostasy. Sounds off..."
Niore figured her hunch was spot-on, but with Tara and Bennett deep in earnest debate, she held her tongue.
Bennett's lap was heavenly comfort, and watching them banter amiably lifted her spirits. She had been overworked lately—a quick nap sounded perfect.
Strategically prime spot, too. Backed by a mountain for defense.
When the lovey-dovey vibe hit between Tara and Bennett, she'd just roll over, pretending to sleep-talk.
"Old tomes mention—most faded, but traces of some entity defying the goddess. Not form or powers, just echoes. If he's hinting at that..."
"Bit of a stretch. That's core church intel—only insiders access it. Even that professor couldn't snag it easily. Probably another metaphor."
"Or just fishing for an excuse? 'I'm veering apostate, so you Reformists watch my back.' Ground to visit us."
"The letter itself feels like pretext. Why bother writing otherwise? So first, reply... with an invite."
Niore drifted off to their fumbling as a lullaby.
In the end, Bennett's party decoded the mad mage's letter as: 'Stick around and black mages will fuck you over. I'm coming to handle it. Help you out while I'm at it.'
They replied formally, inviting him under festival pretext.
"Hero Selection Tournament."
The Goddess Church cardinals' lavish push: summon hero candidates nationwide to pick the continent's ideal savior.
Rumors said preliminaries led to three trials, guaranteeing one sole victor. But.
"Definitely rigged."
Tara had joined the church via Bennett, spearheading Reformists to fix its rot, constantly clashing with cardinals. She knew their game inside out.
Pigs lusting for power.
Hoarding divine power, fancying up holy magic, welcoming fat purses over the suffering. Bennett felt their greed crystal clear.
Fair play? Dream on.
Their backed candidate—Benjamin. Piles of schemes to crown him hero.
Bennett eyed the hero candidate portraits on the poster. Spotted the limp seaweed hair. There.
A sharp-faced youth with stringy dark green locks. Benjamin.
Background checks painted him vile, lecherous. Pre-candidate scandals galore, post-nomination threats and worse.
Strutted streets with his sycophant pack.
Hyena who couldn't leash his urges.
The cardinals made this problem child their pawn, backing him full throttle. Buried bad press with cash, spread fake hero tales.
Easy to manipulate? Or some hidden merit? Or ironclad confidence even this trash could win...?
To peer into the cardinals' minds clustered around the Pope, beyond that portrait. As Bennett glared at the poster.
"Hero vibes totally fucked. Pushing a creep like that as candidate? Tells you what the church'll be like in a century..."
A snappy voice piped from beside him.
Familiar. Unforgettable. But impossible—she shouldn't exist. Bennett had split his own heart in two.
"......"
"......"
Yet alive.
Eyes rippling with malice, fangs made to devour human despair. Cloaked in innocent beauty, but horror lurked within—
"Outer God. You're alive?"
"Oh ho ho...? M-Me? No such thing. I'm Lady Hui Young-hyun of fine birth."
Shing.
"Keep yapping."
"I'm branch leader of the Open Faction's Hao Mun division, with over ten mouths to feed... Ack, eat this, punk!"
Kagagak, shwaa!
Evil God-chan scraped her scaled sole on the ground, kicking up gravel into Bennett's eyes. But he anticipated, swinging his blade to scatter it. Then gave chase.
Tadadada.
Short, rapid steps tangled with wide, rhythmic strides. Evil God-chan bolted desperately, mind reeling.
"Why now, why him...!"
"This time, I'll dice you into ten chunks. Your corpse goes on Abraham's tombstone."
"Nooo, nooo—!!"
Chase season 3.