Black Witch
Black Witch
Black Witch Rowena. Seeing her again forced Aslan to retrace his life.
A life that held nothing but pain.
Unlike his time as Lee Hyun-woo, his twelve years as Aslan had been a gauntlet of condensed suffering.
Aslan had fought without pause. Battled priests, battled monsters, killed people.
He had carried out murder when his heart wasn't in it. He had handled problems with brute force when a better solution existed but his abilities fell short.
Those twelve years were unambiguous agony and despair.
He no longer needed to consciously remind himself that this Geladrion was nothing like the world he had lived in before.
He no longer needed to go looking for proof that this world under the evil gods' dominion was filthy beyond measure.
Rowena's reappearance brought all of it back.
And it steeled his certainty that he was the only one who could change this world.
It made him understand that even if someone inherited his will, they could not finish it.
To change the world, Aslan had to kill the evil gods.
And the Flock—the Flock had merely brought him here. It was still an evil god that had to die.
No more hesitation.
Aslan consciously reaffirmed that even if it meant killing Rowena, he must not stop when that moment came. He held the meaning close, reciting his responsibility and his duty.
No matter how much Aslan loved Rowena, no matter how desperately he wanted to make her the exception, he could not. Rowena had to die.
No more confusing what must be done.
That didn't mean everything would suddenly resolve itself in a single stroke.
It simply meant he could see the path forward—the road he had to walk to complete his objective.
Aslan organized the necessities in his mind.
Three things mattered above all.
One: gather every Master, and prepare every human in the world to fight the evil gods.
Two: advance the main quest.
Three: collect Purity, the power arranged by the Ancient Gods.
And in his assessment, the second and third did not require high priority.
In fact, they were best postponed as long as possible.
The mid-game main quest was structured around gathering the power of the Ancient Gods.
That meant tracking down temples and resting places of the Ancient Gods scattered across the continent. The main quest and Purity could be collected in tandem during that search.
So the second and third could wait. The problem was the first objective.
Gather every Master, and ready all humanity to fight the evil gods.
That would never happen on its own. It required deliberate manipulation, active effort. Preparing the world to fight was one thing, but building a continent-spanning alliance meant putting boots on the ground himself.
Conveniently, Aslan knew of a Master who would make a suitable companion.
Close enough to reach easily. A long-term resident of the area. The kind of companion whose performance—even if he only knew it from the game—ranked among the best.
The only reason he had delayed was the investment required to raise them.
The Master of Fistfighting.
A hand on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts. He registered the weight of countless stares.
"You okay? You're bleeding..."
It was Angie.
She hadn't even found time to change. She still wore the daring, sleeveless dress with the side slit she had added by hand.
Her hand rested on his shoulder, her expression fretful. Aslan caught the flicker of emotion in those golden eyes, read it, and shook his head with an awkward look.
"...Ah, I'm fine. Wild magic's clotting it."
"Really? Doesn't look like the bleeding's stopped."
"What you're seeing is what seeps out while it's clotting. Nothing to worry about."
That emotion wasn't Angie's alone. Aslan lifted his gaze and found Ereta and Rumel watching him with the same look.
Rumel clutched a vial of medicine, shifting her weight anxiously. Ereta studied him with unblinking focus. Aslan shook his head, waved a hand, insisted he was fine.
"I can use Equalization if it comes to it. Don't worry. There are Restoration School spells as well."
As he spoke, Aslan glanced at the Emperor. The man had been staring blankly at Aslan's ankle. He flinched when their eyes met.
"Ah, yes. The imperial treasury holds a handful of Restoration School scrolls. With a catalyst and a mage skilled enough to use them, you could save even the dead."
"You heard him. Rest easy."
Angie finally let her hand fall, reassured. The same could not be said for Frida, leaning against the wall with displeasure written openly across her face.
She stroked the crown of some beast sprawled at her feet—wolf or bear, it was hard to tell—and spoke.
"You don't know how to value your own hide. Fool. Learn to look after yourself."
Whether she said it as his sworn sister or as an ally, he couldn't tell. Aslan answered with a wry smile. Frida clicked her tongue and shook her head.
Nor was that feeling hers alone. Anyone unfamiliar with Aslan's approach to combat tended to wear that expression.
But these people had not gathered to fret over his wounds.
After Aslan returned from the fight with Rowena, he had moved through the banquet hall, gathering the scattered leaders for the meeting that had been his original purpose.
The official pretext was assessing the damage from the magic and determining responsibility. Everyone knew better.
The alliance leaders, convened out of sight of any watching evil god or priest, directed their attention toward Aslan. He accepted their gazes with a slight smile.
"First... let's set aside the concern for my injuries. Let's talk about the work ahead."
"Work," the white-scaled elder prompted.
Aslan nodded.
"What we do next, and how we prepare. I'll start with my immediate objective."
The room was cramped and dim, lit only by a few carefully placed lamps. Aslan spoke from his seat, angled against the wall.
"My current objective is to find the Master of Fistfighting. Find him, and... bring him on as a companion."
The Master of Fistfighting. Duke Hilsinger's face showed recognition at the words. Aslan caught it and nodded back.
"Boy, do you actually know where he is? The Master of Fistfighting..."
"I know. Where he is, and why he's there."
Tiyamal's expression clouded with puzzlement.
"If you knew, why didn't you recruit him first? This old-timer here was a wanderer, and the busty girl over there was only found a little while ago. If you'd brought the Master of Fistfighting in sooner..."
Busty girl. The room collectively wondered whom he meant, then followed his gesture. Rumel tried to cover her chest with her arms, her face going red.
No one had been looking at her chest, and her arms were nowhere near large enough to conceal it anyway.
Aslan answered simply.
"He fell lower on the priority list."
"Then what changed? Fay doesn't really get it."
It was Fay who spoke this time. She seemed genuinely curious about his reasoning. She dangled a leg as she asked, having slipped off her shoes at some point. Her bare foot was clean.
"The situation has changed. But before I get to that... there's something I need to explain. About what happened today."
Fay started to ask, but Aslan raised a hand to stop her. His smile was bitter, tinged with weariness.
"Everything that happened today was orchestrated by my wife, Rowena."
Rowena. Angie, who had already heard the name, flinched. Tiyamal snorted and flicked his tail.
"Rowena is... a priest. She and I were married once. We lived together. Until Rowena burned a city to the ground."
"The one you spoke of in the underworld. Is she connected to the current situation somehow?"
Couldn't you just kill her the next time you meet? Ereta raised a hand slightly as she asked. Aslan forced his lips upward.
"I'm telling you because it won't be that easy. Rowena was a high priest of the Abyss... before she became a priest of the Dusk Flock. She wields the power of both the Abyss and the Flock. She's arguably the most powerful Illusion Magic user in history. What happened today came from Rowena's magic."
At that, the faces of Ereta and several others darkened. They knew something of the Flock.
"What Rowena pulled off today doesn't even qualify as interference, honestly. By her standards, it was probably closer to a prank."
A being whose mindset was far more incomprehensible than anything Ereta had known, even as the Saintess of Slaughter. That was Rowena. Aslan understood the kind of thing Rowena would do, the way she would think, and he spoke it plainly.
"To Rowena, what happened today was just a prank where a few people happened to die. Whatever she does next won't be a prank."
The strongest illusionist in history, coming to obstruct them in earnest.
The weight of that statement sank in fast. The faces around the room dimmed in quick succession.
Aslan watched the appropriate level of wariness settle over them before continuing.
"And Rowena won't be the only one coming to obstruct us. After her, other powerful beings will actively interfere. The enemies we face will grow stronger. We have to prepare for all of it while still pursuing the objective."
"...And how is the Master of Fistfighting connected to this?"
Rumel was still trying to cover her substantial chest. Aslan nodded.
"He's the minimum requirement for standing against a priest and winning. Technique exists so the weak can defeat the strong. What I need is that technique—powerful technique honed to its limit. The Master of Fistfighting satisfies that requirement. As do you, Lady Rumel."
At the phrase technique honed to its limit, Rumel shyly twisted a braid around her finger. Aslan added:
"Of course, that alone won't be enough. From now on, we move more aggressively. I will gather every Master, recruit those as strong as the Masters, and forge a grand alliance that spans the continent."
A grand alliance. The Emperor looked around the room with a dazed expression. The faction leaders who met his eyes wore similar faces.
It felt like the ambition of someone trying to unify the entire world.
And that wasn't all.
"I'll also excavate and collect the powerful relics scattered across this world. Things made by gods, by Ancient Gods, by mages... anything. Any artifact that can help us win this fight. I'll use those relics to dramatically elevate the combat power of everyone in my party."
Until now, Aslan's personal martial prowess and his companions' base abilities had been enough. That would no longer hold.
It was time to think in terms of every available means.
One of those means was companions.
In Eternal Dominion, the player's maximum level was 20.
Companions could only reach half that—level 10.
Even that wasn't a shared progression; companions could only be advanced every time the player gained two levels.
And unlike the player, they received no perks.
At a glance, it seemed lackluster, but companions generally started with high base stats.
Many also possessed unique techniques. A well-raised companion with those special skills could significantly lower the game's difficulty.
The way Tiyamal could wield archery at an insane level, or Fay possessed exceptional ambush capabilities.
In-game, the limit was four such companions.
But here, a variable emerged that even Aslan couldn't easily assess.
Angie's existence.
The fact that the system treated Angie not as a companion, but as a player.
From that, Aslan hypothesized.
Their combined companion slots might allow for eight companions in total.
It was only a hypothesis, but if it proved true, the journey would become far more manageable.
For that reason, Aslan looked at Angie quietly.
She shrank under his gaze and mumbled, "Whaaat..."
"Angie, can you feel something like a power flowing inside you?"
"Power?"
"Yeah, power. Not physical strength. Something... a bit more intangible. The kind of thing that's hard to grasp."
Angie's expression turned uncertain. She tilted her head before answering.
"Uh, um... why?"
"Do you think you could draw it out? Draw it out and, say, share it with other people?"
"I don't think so... I don't even really know what you're talking about..."
Not even the faintest comprehension. Aslan attributed that to her mental stat sitting at 1.
She had never felt mana. She'd had no occasion to sense another kind of power through Luck.
Unlike Aslan, who had long since grown accustomed to such things, the girl had no experience handling those forces.
Aslan saw Angie's expression fall and reached out, brushing her cheek lightly.
"It's fine. Even if it's impossible right now, you'll manage once you take it slowly."
If she figured it out eventually, that was enough. If not, he could find an item to raise her stats and let her feel it indirectly. No reason to rush.
The girl accepted his touch with a small smile. At that moment, Frida, who had been leaning against the wall watching Aslan in silence, opened her mouth.
"Then what would you have Baramunz do?"
The question came abruptly, but Aslan answered as though he had been waiting for it.
"Sister, do as you have been doing. Train soldiers, and assist the Kallus Empire in preparing contact with the Northern Empire."
"Hmph, the Northern Empire. I doubt those bastards will welcome it, but I'll make the attempt. And this brat of an Emperor here—what do you plan to order him to do?"
"B-Brat...? The Emperor...?"
Frida sneered and jerked her chin toward the Emperor. Ileina looked flustered, as though she had never been on the receiving end of such a gesture in her life. Aslan looked between them in turn.
"Your Majesty, in addition to what I mentioned, I ask that you pursue contact with the smaller powers of the Northern Continent. Lending them the name of the Kallus Empire will make it easier to secure their cooperation."
The Emperor still looked too stunned to respond. Aslan turned to the Chairman of Belus Alphen.
"Elder, I ask that you formulate strategies applicable to the entire allied force. Strategies to be used against priests and evil gods."
"Difficult, but I will endeavor to do so."
That left Duke Hilsinger. Aslan turned his gaze to the man, who shook his head lightly.
"I haven't yet agreed to Hilsinger joining this alliance..."
"If you had no intention of joining, you wouldn't have come. Whatever it is—if you have a task for me, name it. Even if you don't, I'll handle it regardless."
Stop playing coy, the words implied. Duke Hilsinger wore a troubled expression as he countered.
"So readily? What if I demanded a terrible price?"
What came back at that troubled look was a scoff from Aslan. A scoff that bordered on self-mockery.
"I don't have the luxury of caring about such things. Demand whatever you like."
At that unflinching declaration, Duke Hilsinger answered with visible consternation.
"In truth, I have no intention of demanding anything difficult or sordid. I merely... spoke out of a touch of worry. What I will ask for..."
The Duke scanned the room. The eyes that met his watched with either disinterest or curiosity.
Aslan caught those looks and was about to ask if the Duke wanted to speak privately when Duke Hilsinger sighed and let his vulnerable, naked face show.
"Bring me my son."
His son. Family—the one subject where anyone weakened. Frida snorted, watching the Duke's expression sink.
"So short on talent that you have to ask a man as busy as the Master of Combat to fetch your own brat? Why not just send your subordinates?"
The tone was thick with antipathy. Duke Hilsinger laughed softly.
"I cannot. Or rather, it is not that I haven't. They've all failed."
The Duke sighed and gestured. One of the guards who had stood silently behind him stepped forward.
His arm was broken, twisted at an angle. Tiyamal studied the angle of the break—the kind that came from being deliberately snapped—and made a low sound.
"What, did he break it while threatening you? Holding your life over you?"
"I wish that were the case. Regrettably, it is nothing of the sort. My son... Richard has a talent for combat. And it seems he found himself a fine teacher. No one has been able to bring him back since."
A teacher. A talent for fistfighting.
Aslan narrowed his eyes, something like premonition stirring, as the Duke nodded toward him.
"He became a disciple of Itar. Because of that, every subordinate I've sent has come back with broken limbs. That is why I am asking you."
The Duke's gaze rested on Aslan, who accepted it. His eyes widened—in surprise.
Not because of Richard's skill.
Because of the name Itar.
The very Master Aslan had marked as his next recruitment target was Itar, the Master of Fistfighting.
Itar, the Master of Fistfighting. Like Anton, the current Master of Magic, he was a character created by one of the game's top backers.
As such, Itar possessed a unique concept and ability, and because of that ability, the world at large called him by a particular title.
The Weakest Master.
And Aslan knew.
Despite that epithet, Itar was one of the strongest tanks in the entire game.
Now Aslan understood why Duke Hilsinger's subordinates had been unable to subdue Richard.