Once a Mage Gains Momentum, They Can't Be Stopped
Ian's performance. And Pyra's attitude. Those two simple facts combined to grant Ian undeniable influence within the Red Bear Tribe.
"Seeking Hrun Dal's Tear, eh..."
"That's right, Ragnar."
Ian relayed Pyra's plan to Ragnar. Pyra was convinced Ragnar would bite, and things seemed to be unfolding more or less as Ian had anticipated.
"I'll discuss it with Father. In the meantime, you lot draw up your plans."
A brief lull gave Ian the chance to deftly align his companions' stories. As a mage who'd rolled through plenty of scrapes, he had no trouble spinning tales for the higher-ups—even with his eyes closed.
"Belenca, keep your mouth shut as much as possible. Kira, back me up like usual."
"Got it."
"Of course, Ian."
And finally... the problem child, Takarion.
"Takarion."
Ian called him in a low voice. The surroundings were so quiet that it rang out clear as day.
"I've done everything I can. I've made you Hrun Dal's honored guest, and I've told them we'll definitely find Hrun Dal's Tear if we're together."
"..."
Takarion breathed heavily, his face twisted in distress. Unlike the fanatical monks bound by faith, he was just a shut-in writer who loved spinning tales. Enduring everything so far had been tough enough, but now matching Ian's 'mage act'? That was no easy feat.
"What... what do I have to do?"
Takarion's voice trembled.
Ian explained calmly.
"Say you've received a divine revelation. That Hrun Dal granted you access to the sacred mountain and will guide you to the elixir."
"B-but... that's a lie."
Ian replied shamelessly.
"Depends on your perspective."
It was the kind of scam only mystery scholars could pull off. With a shaman and a mage hyping him up, not even the chieftain could interfere.
"I... I..."
Takarion's voice shook.
"I c-can't do it!"
"..."
"..."
Belenca wearily rubbed her face, while Kira shot Takarion a pitying look. Surrounded by monks, he was a revered gospel author. But thrown naked into the north, he was just a scared young man.
"I'll just stay here! You guys bring back this Hrun Dal's Tear or whatever!"
"You think that'll fly? What if we have to bolt? You staying here screws everything up."
Ian soothed him.
"Come on. You're Takarion of the Golden Finger, right? You've written all about Saint Marcus's courage. Channel that—give these heathens a righteous shout like your hero would!"
"..."
Takarion clamped his mouth shut. Ian was right. The great Saint Marcus never cowered or trembled. He bellowed heavenly judgment at hordes of heathens.
Takarion knew Saint Marcus's courage better than anyone here—down to his bones.
But...
"I... I'm..."
Tears streamed down Takarion's face.
"I'm not Saint Marcus... I don't have that kind of courage...!"
Ian fell silent. Belenca glared and spat,
"So the empire's masses read gospels penned by a pathetic worm like you? Disgusting."
"Belenca..."
Kira gripped her hand tight. Left alone, Belenca might 'teach' Takarion a physical lesson in righteousness.
"Let's leave this to Ian. If it doesn't work out, we ditch 'em."
"...I don't like it."
Belenca figured Ian would abandon Takarion. And honestly, he might. He'd chased the guy from the distant empire to this frozen north.
Yet Takarion kept acting like he wanted to be ditched.
Ian stared at Takarion, steadying his breath. Part of him wanted to cut losses and leave the idiot behind... but all the groundwork so far? Too much sunk cost. Now it was personal. No matter what, he'd drag Takarion back to the empire.
"No courage? Then fake it! You're a monk spreading the saint's words to the faithful. Have you just been parroting handed-down tales like a damn bird? You don't understand Saint Marcus's actions at all!"
Ian's words stabbed deep into Takarion's chest. It hurt because they rang true, and he hated himself for not facing it.
"What do you know! Saint Marcus's feats? I made 'em all up! The finger blasting light to smite demons! Bellowing at heathens! All of it—my imagination!"
"..."
"I'm just a raving lunatic spouting nonsense... The priests were right. My gospel's worthless..."
Takarion collapsed to his knees, sobbing. Picked up by monks by chance, he'd flaunted his writing talent. He dreamed vaguely of greatness, but lacked the wisdom or guts for true respect.
The Gospel of Saint Marcus's hero never yielded to threats, shining golden as he crushed evil.
But Takarion wasn't him. Just a flabby, spineless hack.
Then Ian whacked Takarion's head with his staff.
"Gah!"
"Kwek!"
Takarion rolled on the ground, tears flowing—this time from pain. Ian had clocked him hard.
"You just keep yapping—three verses, four encores! Takarion!"
"I-Ian?!"
"Book sales bloating your gut? Know what that's called? Masterpiece syndrome!"
"...?"
What disease? Takarion couldn't parse it.
"Don't you feel sorry for all those writers twisting in agony 'cause their stuff doesn't sell?"
"W-why should I?!"
Ian whacked him again.
"Kwek!"
Takarion clutched his head, writhing.
Ian bellowed,
"There's power in your Gospel of Saint Marcus, Takarion! Strength for the despairing to rise! Light for the fearful to follow! That's what it conveys!"
"B-but... it's all lies...!"
"Doesn't matter! Marcus in the gospel exists in your heart! That's why you could write him!"
"...!"
Takarion shuddered like he'd been struck by lightning. Ian's forceful voice flung open the locked door in his soul's depths.
He was right. Takarion's childhood brimmed with torment. Bullied by peers, he'd prayed endlessly for a superhero savior.
The Gospel's Marcus embodied that desperate wish. Fiction through and through... but the hope woven in? Pure truth.
"Whew. Fine. Stay if you want. We'll say the Gospel's author martyred himself. Better for the faithful that way."
"N-no...!"
Takarion shot up.
"Take me too! Ian!"
Ian glanced sideways.
"Why? Snug under furs, rolling in comfort?"
Takarion shook his head.
"The gospel's my invention, but Saint Marcus lives in me. He'd have yelled if he saw me slacking!"
Takarion shouted,
"'Don't be a fool—march on!'"
Ian smirked, tapping Takarion's shoulder with his staff.
"Now you look like a monk, Takarion."
"...Ian."
"Don't lose that faith."
# Ian's group met the Red Bear Tribe's chieftain. Ragnar and Pyra were there, along with Sigr.
"...I knew this would happen."
Pyra commanded the room with a solemn tone. He waved his mangled hand before the chieftain and Ragnar.
"Great Hrun Dal whispered to me in mystical visions: 'Pyra, you shall never complete the elixir of life!'"
Before Pyra's mad fervor, even the chieftain and Ragnar held their tongues. That was a northern shaman for you.
"[The warrior-priest of the Heavenly Faith they brought is my guest! Await my emissary, Pyra!]"
Pyra's voice turned shrill and sharp—like a blizzard's howl, or a woman's piercing cry.
"But foolishly, I ignored His will and troubled my guest! Now, at last, my eyes are open!"
Pyra pointed at the raven on Ian's shoulder.
"Behold! This noble raven! Proof that Mage Ian is Hrun Dal's emissary!"
"Caw! Caw!"
Ian gently scratched Oberon's neck. The warriors murmured in awe at the casual display. Taming a raven? Hrun Dal's favored shaman, no doubt!
Ian stood and declared,
"Great Hrun Dal commanded me to retrieve His gift. With Takarion here, we'll surely find it."
Ian pulled an arcana card from his robes and held it high.
"Ooh, that's...!"
"Hrun Dal's vision, for certain!"
Ian pocketed the card and glanced at Takarion. The monk's turn.
Finally, Takarion rose.
"I... I heard Saint Marcus's words."
"Saint Marcus?"
"Ah! You wouldn't know! Saint Marcus was a saint from the ancient Golden Empire, known as..."
Cough. The chieftain cleared his throat. Ragnar cut Takarion off sharply.
"Enough! We don't care!"
Takarion pouted. Otakus thrive on info-dumping their obsessions.
"Anyway... yes. He commanded me, in heaven's name, to meet the northern god."
"A revelation..."
The chieftain beckoned Pyra close.
"Is this true?"
"Would I lie?"
Pyra's eyes sparkled with pure conviction—no trace of deceit! With shaman, mage, and priest aligned on one truth, the chieftain bought it.
"Very well. Go to the sacred mountain."
Ian smiled to himself.