Chapter 290
Chapter 290
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 290
Chapter Title: The Prophecy Points to Death (2)
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◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ “Ahh...”
Among those blessed by the stars, there is a miracle that appears only to an exceedingly rare few. It is a miracle that reads countless possibilities—and thus peeks into the future.
“An oracle has come down.”
People called that miracle a prophecy, and those who uttered it prophets. Moreover, the prophecies of these prophets were on an entirely different level from the mere fragments of the future spoken by saintesses or other blessed ones.
“Flee.”
What they proclaimed was a fixed future.
A future that would inevitably come to pass, so long as no variables intervened.
“In ten days and three more, in the northern Kennel snowfields...”
And so, the prophecies they spoke were never vague. They weren’t riddles laced with metaphors, difficult to decipher. The futures prophets described were direct. Precise.
“Death will appear.”
That was precisely why.
“The apostle of a false god—the most terrifying calamity symbolizing death itself—will reveal itself there.”
They were met with doubt.
How could even a saintess foresee something so accurately? The world mocked the prophets. They refused to believe their words, and sometimes branded them as madmen.
The very first prophet was a prime example.
“Please believe me—the stars showed me the future. Death will bring ruin to all of the north. It’s true, I beg you, listen to me...!”
Hundreds of years ago, in the early days of the founding, the first prophet had appeared. Everyone doubted her existence. They jeered at her as a lunatic, and even the Delorim Church turned a deaf ear to her words—despite her being a high priestess at the time.
Yet there was one.
Exactly one person who heeded her words back then.
“Death’s coming, huh, zealot?”
The lord of the north in those days.
A young man who unified the chaotic north and vowed to claim the throne, becoming its guardian.
“Death must mean the Sword of Death, Ganikalt. Am I right?”
Grace.
“You’d better stand by those words.”
He believed the prophet.
Letting out a hearty laugh, he slung a massive greatsword onto his back and marched toward the Kennel snowfields foretold in the prophecy.
And he never returned.
Everyone said he had vanished. Whispers spread that after unifying the north, he disappeared without a trace. But the warriors who lived through that era knew the truth.
The enormous sword scar etched into the snowfields.
The splattered blood of Grace littering the site.
That trail of blood stretched deep into the northern wilds. Warriors followed the stains to the very end, but they could go no further. Where the blood ran out, a ferocious blizzard raged.
“A holy site.”
Grace’s young successor, who had tracked the blood alongside those warriors, named it thus.
“This is the north’s holy site.”
The holy site of the north.
The place where the great Grace closed his eyes forever.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ 2.
“You mean the founder of the Grace family?”
“Yeah. Grace, right? Do you know anything about your family’s founder?”
Rak blinked.
Lania propped her chin on her hand, waiting for his reply. There was a reason for her question. Doubts had been steadily piling up since last summer.
No matter how I look at it, there’s a connection.
The founder of the Grace family.
And the Sword of Death, Ganikalt.
Something linked the two.
Lania was already half-convinced. She had no choice. Simply listing the evidence she’d gathered made the connection obvious.
The north’s holy site still holds the holy sword Ganikalt wielded in his hero days.
That holy sword remained linked to the Sword of Death.
And in Rak’s trial... Ganikalt from his hero days appeared.
Ganikalt van Galatrick.
The figure Rak confronted in his trial had been the first hero. And Rak had said he acted as if he knew Grace.
“Hmm... Truth be told, there aren’t many proper records, since he was such an unusual man.”
Rak rubbed his chin.
“All I heard from my father was that the founder was incredibly eccentric—he acted like a total oddball...”
“Like what?”
“They say he insisted on a sword twice my size. Ignored the blacksmith’s warning that it’d be impossible to balance on swings, and had it forged anyway.”
Lania had a hunch about that particular quirk.
She pictured the blade gripped by the Sword of Death. It was definitely too unwieldy for any normal frame.
“...Anything else?”
“Ah, they say he climbed the snowy peaks naked—over and over. Claiming enlightenment strikes in extreme conditions...”
“...Don’t you do that?”
“I wear pants.”
He wears pants, at least.
Lania shot Rak a skeptical glance. He raised his voice indignantly.
“I swear! After Mother chewed me out as a kid, pants have been non-negotiable...”
“Okay, okay. Anything besides that?”
“Hmm... There’s talk he never took a swordsmanship master?”
“A master?”
Lania blinked.
“What’s that mean?”
“They say he summoned dozens of scholars to the north for lessons. But oddly—no sword master among them.”
No sword master, huh.
Lania rubbed her chin.
Come to think of it, didn’t Cardi mention Ganikalt and Grace were master and disciple? Yeah—if Ganikalt taught him the blade, it made perfect sense.
Is that really all there was to it?
It felt like more.
Lania groaned, stroking her chin. A mere mentor-student bond hardly explained lingering effects after centuries.
“Feels like there’s something more...”
“Pardon?”
“Nah, just... I’ve heard a lot.”
Lania exhaled shortly.
“Anyway, that’s enough of that.”
She crossed her arms, scanning the surroundings.
Deep in the woods, where Rak had felled a few trees for practice. A massive boulder sat there—cleaved clean in two.
“Grown a lot while I was gone?”
An axe was buried in the rock’s split core.
The work of a single swing. Having watched him cleave it, Lania voiced her honest take.
“Rox would weep blood tears seeing this.”
He’d improved since clashing with Rox.
By a solid margin.
Even Raniel couldn’t help but marvel at Rak’s progress. He knew only dogged, straightforward training—but damn, did he stick to it.
“Dawn hikes, morning classes, axe swings from afternoon till bedtime. Oh, and steady practice on that breathing technique you taught, Professor.”
The iron axe haft bore handprints. Rak’s splayed palm was thick with calluses. Lania smiled, pleased.
“You’re doing great.”
She turned her gaze.
“So.”
Belnoa sat there, head bowed.
“You want to face the trial? Belnoa.”
“...Yes.”p> It had been some time since Chloe’s identity as the hero was publicly revealed. Now that Chloe was joining select battlefields in earnest, Belnoa had come to Lania with a request.
“I need to grow stronger—faster.”
She wanted to face the trial.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Lately, Belnoa kept dreaming of being pursued by something. It wasn’t confined to dreams. The thought crept in during lectures, mid-training—over and over.
The dread of being left behind as-is.
For Belnoa, who’d advanced without a single setback, this was uncharted terror. All the more so, having survived a world where lagging meant death.
Chloe’s pressing ahead.
Belnoa had seen Chloe wield magic.
Apprentice hero, right? Once officially acknowledged, Chloe’s spells defied Belnoa’s wildest imagination.
“I can do so much more now.” “So I feel like I need to show a bit right away. People are really feeling Lord Galahal’s absence.” The magic Chloe unleashed was ferocious.
Watching pure white light incinerate the area, Belnoa instinctively stepped back. The fragile girl she’d felt compelled to protect was gone.
“Thinking of heading to the battlefield.” “Not the front lines or anything. Just joining one op on a minor field. Won’t be too risky. You don’t need to come.” Chloe surged ahead, leaving her behind.
Belnoa couldn’t seize that retreating figure. She’d truly felt unneeded at Chloe’s side.
And that’s exactly what happened.
Chloe returned with honors. Her debut operation etched the name “Chloe” into the knights’ minds.
A colossal spell detonated on the field.
The platinum starlight—hero’s hallmark—clinched victory in one blast.
“Holy Flow Hero, Chloe.” The knights grasped the worth of a hero-mage hybrid. Still green, but Chloe brimmed with promise.
“Lord Galahal’s successor.” “The potential he staked his life to protect.” “His sacrifice wasn’t in vain.” Such murmurs began trickling in. Chloe kept advancing. Farther. Riskier. Belnoa knew she couldn’t join her yet.
She was at a standstill.
Frozen, unable to advance.
“I...”
Belnoa swallowed hard.
Lania nodded to Rak. He slipped away wordlessly, leaving them alone. Belnoa forced her lips apart.
“I keep feeling like I’m falling behind.”
“Falling behind?”
“Yes. I can’t get a handle on it. Can’t push forward. Months have passed already...”
The next tier of shamanism glimpsed in the Holy Grail’s trial.
Belnoa couldn’t break through.
“So I want guidance.”
“From inside the Holy Grail?”
“Yes.”
“It hasn’t even been a year.”
It’d be grueling.
Belnoa wouldn’t yield, despite Lania’s warning. With a sigh, Lania drew the Holy Grail from her robes.
“Out the second it feels off...?”
Lania trailed off.
The Grail wouldn’t resonate before Belnoa, stalled at the wall. A few swings yielded nothing.
As if she lacked the qualification.
“No reaction.”
“...Pardon?”
“No reaction.”
Lania indicated the Grail.
“Not a fault in the Grail itself—your trial and Rak’s seem special, different conditions...”
She wasn’t certain.
But one thing was clear: the trial wouldn’t yield for Belnoa now. As if commanding her to conquer it solo, unaided by the Grail.
“...So I can’t face the trial?”
Belnoa’s voice dropped.
Head bowed, he bit his lip. Like this, she’d never reach Chloe’s side. To draw near the light, by any means...
“Hey, Belnoa.”
As that thought gripped her.
A voice rang from overhead.
Looking up—Lania loomed close, fist clenched, staring down.
“Snap out of it.”
💥 BAM! 💥 Lania cracked Belnoa across the skull.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ 3.
Sara had been chosen by the stars from birth.
Born with divine power eclipsing dozens of high priests, hers only swelled as she matured.
“Delorim Church’s blessing.” “The church’s pride.” “Sara is the true saintess.” By fifteen, a mere gesture summoned divine arts nearing miracles—even the pope struggled against them. Crowds hailed Sara as saintess. And so she was.
At seventeen, Sara became the youngest saintess ever.
Ten years passed.
Now twenty-seven, Sara dreamed. She, who had never dreamed before, sensed her subconscious adrift in pitch darkness.
Whoosh.
Suddenly, everything bleached white.
Too sharp for a dream—visions whipped past. Snow howled. Amid the gale, a dragging scrape approached.
It drew nearer.
Sara slowly lifted her gaze ahead.
Something stood there.
Death. Death given form. Forgetting this was a dream, Sara whirled and bolted.
Terror ripped screams from her throat.
She flailed in flight.
But no mortal outruns encroaching death. A faint sound behind—shing, sword unsheathing.
Slash.
The blade razed everything.
Knights in Sara’s path, northern warriors, countless unknowns—all shredded in one stroke.
Bodies sundered.
Prone on the ground, Sara gasped skyward. Choking blood, her fading sight caught constellations overhead. She drank them in.
Thus Sara awoke.
“...!”
Sara bolted upright, gasping.
She clutched her chest, heaving ragged breaths. Stumbling from bed, she groped for the pitcher—toppled it.
Crash!
The racket roused Kyle.
Squinting at Sara, he asked what was wrong. Trembling, she seized his arm.
“Death. Unavoidable death.”
Sara gasped out.
“Death descends on the north.”
Twenty-seven.
Ten years a saintess, Sara now prophesied. Unlike her prior visions.
“The day the stars align to two and six—death sets foot in the north. The north...!”
Concrete. Certain.
A prophecy bound to unfold.
Having glimpsed the future, Sara screamed in dread.
“The Sword of Death, Ganikalt—he comes there.”
The saintess became a prophet.
The prophecy foretold death.
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