Alliance

A week passed.

Nechagni Fortress showed no outward sign of change. There were simply too many dead and too many wounded, and some factions could no longer afford to keep their soldiers pulled from their posts.

Anna Heleminus remained, for example, but the mages who had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠accompanied her returned to the City of Mages. The Dragon-kin warriors from Belus Alpen also withdrew to their homeland, leaving only a token force behind—their council leader had fallen in the battle, and the election of new elders could not wait.

They did leave a number of sorcerers to tend to the soldiers and heroes who still lay unconscious, but unease about the alliance's future was impossible to avoid. Though the battle had ended in a human victory, it was a bitter one.

In the midst of all this, Aslan couldn't bring himself to request troops as an escort. Truth be told, he figured he and Angie alone would be enough.

So Aslan and Angie departed Nechagni Fortress.

The path was clear, and the distance wasn't far. They didn't need much: a single horse with a small bundle of provisions strapped to its back, and the two of them crossing the plains where a salt-tinged wind blew.

Their destination was the War God's Battlefield Fortress—or, as some called it, the War God's Fortress Sanctuary.

Turning southwest from Nechagni, they cut across the Thistle Wilderness. As they passed the place where Warpol had once stood, Aslan found his gaze drifting toward Angie.

She walked beside the horse with an easy stride. A girl until only recently, now suddenly transformed into a woman—the last descendant of the ancient gods.

She still couldn't find clothes that fit and had to make do with roughly altered versions of her old outfit.

That makeshift attire was now unintentionally revealing. Angie didn't seem to care beyond the discomfort it caused, but Aslan kept catching himself stealing glances.

The tight leather leggings she'd always worn now clung skin-tight to her legs, tracing every line. The glossy brown hide, polished by long wear, draped softly along the curve of her hips, and her long legs only emphasized the silhouette below.

Even when he tore his gaze away from her hips—telling himself this was wrong—he ran straight into a new problem. Angie's top, which had once reached just below her waist, now barely stayed down when she stretched; her navel was constantly on the verge of showing.

This was the result of explosive growth—the effect of Perfect Body, which pushed the physique to the absolute limits of its bearer.

The curves of her chest, newly prominent, cast a deep silhouette against her front. The kind of contours that snagged a man's gaze without permission. If he had to guess, she was maybe a size below Rumel. Just as he sometimes caught himself glancing at Rumel, he now found his eyes wandering toward Angie. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head slightly.

The magic imbued in her boots meant she didn't need new footwear—a small mercy—but the clothes were a problem in every other way. Even leaving Angie's physical discomfort aside, Aslan was the one struggling.

Humans were creatures whose eyes were drawn irresistibly to abrupt changes and incongruities. At least, that was how Aslan rationalized it.

He was staring blankly into the distance, trying to banish the thought, when Angie turned her head.

"Aslan."

"...Ah. What?"

He forced his eyes to the horizon while gripping the reins. Startled by the sudden voice, he glanced back to find Angie glaring at him with a sullen expression. The wild, pretty girl he had known was now tempered by a sculptural beauty reminiscent of a predator.

When Aslan smiled, meeting that gaze, Angie fixed him with a sulky look for a moment before her golden eyes flicked toward him. There was a faint, simmering heat in them.

Here was the oversight on Aslan's part:

Rumel was simply used to those kinds of looks and didn't mind them.

Angie had only recently acquired this body, and she was hyper-aware of such stares.

So her question was inevitable.

"Why do you keep staring at my butt?"

Aslan flinched. Beyond the sulky face was an expression ready to condemn him at any moment, her eyes narrowed.

"Do you like butts?"

Aslan panicked. He scrambled to hide his discomfort and denied it.

"No, I wasn't staring at your butt. I was just looking at you..."

"Liar."

Angie cut him off, still scowling. The way she grumbled made the girl she used to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be shine through vividly.

"You keep staring right at my chest or my butt. I notice. Do you have a guilty conscience or something?"

A guilty conscience?

Of course not.

At least, Aslan didn't think so. He figured it was just a natural attraction to a massive change.

His excuse tilted predictably in that direction.

"A guilty conscience? It's nothing like that. I just... uh... I was worried, that's all. Wondering if that much growth from divinity is causing you any problems."

"If you're worried, then why are you looking at my chest?"

"...It just grew so healthy that my eyes wandered unconsciously."

At least that part was completely honest. Angie's body was the very picture of healthy beauty. Rumel was well-trained, but there was a strange dissonance to her—the massive chest and childbearing hips seeming almost separate from her musculature.

Angie, by contrast, had a physique that was perfectly proportioned to her solid frame. Though it was an alluring body that matched her explosive growth, there was no error in saying it had grown healthily.

Luckily, Angie seemed to accept that. Her expression softened.

"Really? You think it's healthy?"

She cupped her chest through her shirt with a puzzled expression.

"It's annoying when I throw punches, too. Everything flaps around. Wanna see?"

See... what?

Before Aslan, flustered in the saddle, could stop her, Angie swung a punch. A blast of finely churned air scattered across the grass, and the motion sent a visible jolt through her chest.

What the hell? Is she doing this on purpose?

The way she moved was so provocative that Aslan's mind blanked for a second. He snapped out of it only when she spoke again.

"Same when I run. How does Rumel fight with these strapped on?"

"...Well, she wears a breastplate. Maybe that helps?"

He couldn't say for certain. He'd never watched Rumel change clothes and had no idea what kind of underclothes she put on. Nor could he guess whether a breastplate alone would be enough.

"Hmm, a breastplate. Sounds like it'd be even more suffocating...."

Angie's sulky look returned as she planted a hand on her hip. Amidst the damp, fluttering grass, she abruptly paused and glanced around.

"Anyway, maybe it's because the grass is wet? My clothes keep getting damp whenever they brush against it."

"Ah, it rained yesterday. This area gets frequent rain."

Aslan followed her gaze to the soaked, swaying meadow. Angie's clothes, predictably, were slowly darkening with moisture as she walked through it.

He was considering draping the Wings of Stymphalos over her when she suddenly held out a hand.

"Then give me a ride. I'll sit behind you."

A wide grin. It wasn't much different from the smile she'd worn as a girl, but now there was something else rippling beneath the innocence. Aslan hesitated for a moment, but her logic was sound. Wet clothes were unpleasant, and riding on the horse would keep her dry. Giving her a ride was the right call.

He just had a strange feeling he would regret this choice.

But a vague premonition wasn't enough to refuse his first companion's request. Aslan took the woman's hand, waited until she was ready to mount, and pulled her up behind him.

The load-bearing horse, reinforced by Aslan's special feats, didn't even flinch at the added weight of a single person. It simply blew out a puff of hot breath into the cold air.

Angie showed no particular reaction to being on the horse. It wasn't her first time riding, so that was expected. Aslan picked up the reins again and immediately flinched at a localized pressure against the Wings of Stymphalos. If the nerves connected to the cloak were still intact, the soft sensation would have made him gasp. Even through the metal-feathered cape, he could feel it clearly—the weight of a chest pressing and rubbing against his back.

Aslan tried desperately to ignore it. He snapped the reins short and urged the horse on.

The horse plodded across the blue-green, rain-soaked meadow, the saddle gently rocking the two riders. With every sway, Aslan was acutely aware of the shifting pressure and shape of the breasts rubbing against his back.

He had to ask.

"...Isn't that uncomfortable?"

"Hm? Not really. It's better than walking."

Her voice held no trace of heat or embarrassment. She genuinely didn't care.

And she had ridden behind him like this before, many times. Whenever Aslan rode, there were countless instances where Angie's chest had pressed against his back. Only Aslan was conscious of the physical change. Angie was acting exactly the same as always.

That was why Aslan hesitated to speak, worried it might sound like harassment.

"I mean... does your chest feel constricted or anything...?"

He glanced back to gauge her expression. The woman, a good twenty centimeters shorter, wore a quizzical look. When she followed his question with a glance, she pulled at the tight collar of her top to check.

Aslan squeezed his eyes shut in that instant. Angie looked down at her own chest and shook her head.

"Not really? The horse is warm, so it feels nice on my thighs. My chest is a little cold, though."

Well, the surface area had increased.

As Aslan accepted that logic, the woman let out an "Ah" of realization. She then lifted the edge of the Wings of Stymphalos draped over his back. Before he could react, she slid her body in tight underneath the cloak, pressing herself flush against him. She let the metal cape fall back into place, sharing it with Aslan, and leaned her cheek against his shoulder blade.

A sudden, distinct mass pressed into the line of his spine. Aslan froze. Angie rubbed her cheek against his back.

"Angie...? Why...?"

"Huh? Oh, it just seemed like this would be warmer. Is it not okay?"

"It's not that it's not okay... I... never mind."

Making a big deal out of it felt wrong. So Aslan shut his mouth, and Angie let out a contented breath, rubbing her cheek slowly against his spine as if steam were rising from her.

Pressed tightly to his back, she fell silent for a long moment, then let out a wide yawn.

"S'warm... makin' me sleepy.... Wake me up when we get there...."

Leaning into him, her breathing evened out, and she fell asleep. The close contact remained, and Aslan wore a troubled expression, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything outright.

How could he? Angie's behavior hadn't changed. She was acting exactly as she normally did. The only difference was that the sudden transformation of her body had made all those "normal actions" devastatingly potent. Her innocence and familiarity had, in this context, become a form of seduction. Aslan let out a deep sigh and kept the horse moving.

*

They arrived not long after—half a day's ride, perhaps. The War God's Fortress Sanctuary stood gray under the recent rain. By the time he woke Angie, who had been dozing against his back, and tied the horse to the distant treeline, the gray had melted into a crimson sunset bleeding across the sanctuary walls.

The War God's Fortress Sanctuary was not, strictly speaking, a safe place. Inside were Warrior Monks and faithful, though they were untested, along with a number of smiths who assisted them. Those among them already deeply entangled with the god, as well as the priests, threw themselves at intruders with vicious intent. Had Aslan brought ordinary soldiers, casualties would have been unavoidable.

But what he had brought was a last descendant of the ancient gods who had seized the boons of Strength and Agility. With a single kick, she folded a body in half. A swing of Victory cleaved five men at once. Before Angie's overwhelming power and speed—catching a charging Warrior Monk by the nape and snapping him—the nameless, newly made zealots couldn't even mount a proper resistance.

The War God's complete lack of resistance might have helped too, but the cleanup was nothing short of simple. So simple that the sun still hadn't set by the time they finished.

They've already relocated... or chosen a different approach.

Just as Aslan suspected, the sanctuary was practically empty. Only skeleton defenses and immovable objects remained.

When the cleaning was done, Angie tossed aside the Warrior Monk she'd just broken and spoke.

"Didn't you say there was something to see here? Can we just kill them all? Or, I dunno, should we have asked for directions..."

"It's fine. I know where it is."

That wasn't the reason he'd come. He was here to read the stele where the War God ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had inscribed the names of the Masters and their specialized disciplines.

His purpose was clear. Anton's death.

It was the one thing Aslan hadn't prepared for. The most unexpected loss of that day's battle. Granted, the entire battle had been one surprise after another, but Anton's death stood apart.

A grim look settled over Aslan's face as he walked. He crossed the long, Greek-influenced sanctuary, shadows now pooling deep within it, his mind circling back to Anton.

A Master of Magic who had died leaving not a single speck of his soul behind. The mage who had traded his very soul as fuel to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠blast away the Sword of the War God and buy them time. Anton, the most paranoid, selfish mage Aslan had ever known.

Why did you make that choice, Anton?

Aslan had thought Anton would survive to the bitter end, proving useful to the party. That he would act smarter, more self-serving. As if to mock that expectation, Anton had vanished without a trace. The only thing left of him in the fortress was the artificial cat he'd used to store his soul.

It isn't like you.

What had changed him to make that choice? Why, at the end of a seventy-year life, had he taken a different path? Aslan couldn't know. The dead tell no tales, and only a mournful sigh followed the thought.

When his steps faltered, Angie, who had been watching him, reached out. A warm hand rested lightly on his cheek. Aslan looked over reflexively, and she was smiling softly, her golden eyes resembling a wild beast's.

"I don't know what you're thinking about so hard... and I probably can't say anything that'd really comfort you."

She rubbed his cheek with her warm hand.

"Cheer up. That look on your face... it hurts my chest."

She was right; it wasn't the most eloquent comfort.

But for Aslan, who had fought alone for so long, it was enough.

He patted the hand on his cheek, flashed a faint smile, and started walking again.

With the position of Master of Magic now vacant after Anton's death, his reason for being here was obvious. He needed to find the next Master and recruit them as a companion. If that proved impossible, he at least needed their location. He also had a secondary goal—confirming whether the War God intended to pull out of the Northern Continent—but finding the next ally was paramount.

Aslan moved toward that primary objective without hesitation, and in the deepest chamber of the sanctuary, he found the massive stele. It rested on a pedestal that almost resembled a throne, etched with a long list of names. From Aslan's own, to Fay, Ereta, Rumel, Richard, and Tiyamal. The community back on Earth had once called this the War God's Bucket List.

Aslan's eyes scanned down the tall stele. At the very bottom, he found the name he was looking for.

[Master of Magic]

[Experiment 4]

The moment he read the name, his expression hardened.

Angie, who couldn't read, might not have recognized the letters, but even if she could, she wouldn't have understood them. The word Experiment was written in a dead language, long obsolete since the end of the human era—the language of the Ancient Empire.

To Aslan, the meaning was simple. This Master of Magic was on the Southern Continent, where magic was more advanced. And, regardless of their own will, they were being subjected to magical experimentation—or had been.

In the Southern Continent, the number of people who could pull off something like that was limited. An eccentric mage from the Polaina Mage Autonomous District. Or the Anurtin Council, a gathering of particularly brilliant and twisted mages who pursued the infinite advancement of magic. Failing that, deep within one of the countless Labyrinths scattered across the Southern Continent, in a laboratory dating back to the Ancient Empire.

Just as Aslan narrowed down his list of candidates, the text on the stele shifted.

[Master of Magic]

[Experiment No. 5]

The name changed right before his eyes. Seeing both entries, Aslan realized the truth.

The new Master of Magic was an artificial human, magically created. Experiment No. 4 had just died, and No. 5 had inherited the title.

Faced with a cruelty of human making he hadn't encountered in a long time, Aslan bit his lip, his expression grim.