'Now I Must Take My Leave'

The story wrapped up in a haze of vagueness. The chronomancer had spouted nothing but cryptic nonsense from start to finish before turning on his heel and walking away. Ian could suddenly see why Eredis despised chronomancers so much.

'These chronomancer bastards are all slimy creeps!'

The chronomancer knew the future. But the truly insidious part was that he couldn't divulge it to others!

It wasn't just some chronomancer code of conduct, either.

The future hadn't happened yet, so it was fluid—full of wild possibilities. The past, on the other hand, was set in stone. It didn't change, which was exactly what made it the past.

But if you spoke the future aloud and fixed it at this current point...? Was it still the future?

No. The moment it was uttered, the future tangled with the present and became part of the past. All that effort to foresee it went to waste—the original future vanished, replaced by a new one.

'What the hell kind of nonsense is that? Tsk tsk.'

It sounded complicated at first, but the idea was simple enough. Say Ian learned chronomancy and foresaw the future. He sees Belenca getting trampled by a horse at lunchtime tomorrow. Shocked, he blurts out to her, [You're gonna die tomorrow!].

Now the question: Would Belenca actually get trampled to death at lunchtime tomorrow?

Why? Because Belenca now knew about it ahead of time and decided not to go out around lunchtime. She dodged the horse, saved her skin.

Next question: Did Ian actually foresee the future correctly?

Ian foresaw a future where Belenca died. But by spilling it, he saved her life and invalidated his own vision. In one fell swoop, the future he'd glimpsed ceased to be the future.

This fluidity of the future was immense—no chronomancer, no matter how seasoned, could predict exactly how a single word might alter it. That's why they kept their prophecies to themselves, hoarding them to preserve the timeline intact.

"Ian. I'd like to take this troublemaker off your hands. What do you say?"

Gerard asked, gripping Larabel's bindings. She'd tried to kill Ian multiple times and gotten caught for it—by all rights, her life was his to claim.

"What're you gonna do with her?"

"Can't say specifics. She's useful, that's all."

Aaah, yeah. Figures. Wasn't expecting a straight answer anyway.

Ian shrugged. He'd planned to ship Larabel off to the heavens anyway—out of his sight, problem solved. If Gerard wanted to take her instead? Fine by him. Same end result.

But handing her over for free felt like a waste.

"Eh, don't really wanna. Got screwed over pretty bad—feels unfair to just let her go."

"Mm. I get it. You have every right to vengeance."

Gerard extended something toward Ian: a beautifully crafted gemstone pulsing with potent mystery.

"This is the Eye of the Wind. It holds the power of winds, enough to summon a gale."

"Hm..."

As expected—a mystery-infused artifact.

"Hand Larabel over, and this is her ransom. It'll be useful to you, Ian."

Ian tilted his head. Useful? Sure. But the effect seemed underwhelming. A gem that whipped up a gust? He could do that himself, just by chatting with the wind's mystery. Unconditional gusts would be handy, but...

Right then—

"...?"

The Status Window suddenly kicked into gear. Bemused, Ian pulled it up.

"..."

Sneak attack worship? Nah—sneak attack quest?

No details on the fine print, but Ian's gut screamed: This quest tied directly to the sky's mystery, ruler of this world. The same entity that reincarnated him here and gifted the Status Window.

Complete the True Anorilsil, and the distance between him and the heavens would shrink. Meaning... he could finally grill that smug world-boss about his isekai deal.

"So, Ian? I think the Eye of the Wind would serve you well. Care to hand over Larabel?"

Ian grinned at Gerard. "Why? I can summon wind myself, y'know."

Gerard grinned back. "You know better than anyone why you need this gem, Ian."

...

Chronomancers.

Ian was convinced: Gerard knew he was linked to the sacred heavens. Not the exact how, but enough. The chronomancer wanted Ian to meet the heavens—that must be his vision of a "better future."

What happened if he did? No clue. Only that slimy chronomancer glimpsed the big picture.

"Execute her yourself if you want. Just know you'll miss out on the Eye, and I'll have to find another ally."

Ian didn't overthink it. He'd grown pretty comfy in this medieval fantasy grind—bartering lives for loot felt normal now.

"Deal. Larabel's yours. Not instead of anything, but... work her like a slave, yeah?"

Killing her would've worked, but then he'd have ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to hunt for another wind-infused item. Too much hassle.

Decision made, Gerard chuckled. "Haven't told you yet, have I?"

"What?"

"Larabel's already my slave."

"..."

So much for "work her like one." Semantics.

Gerard dragged Larabel into the woods and vanished.

"See you again, Ian."

"Yeah, hit me up if you need something."

Surprisingly, Gerard had dropped a bombshell about the chronomancers' conclave.

'You'll join the conclave someday.'

Ian was a bit shocked—it was as good as saying he'd master chronomancy. A prophecy from a chronomancer himself. Near-certain he'd become one.

'But only after you complete your task.'

'Task?'

Gerard ruffled Ian's hair with a laugh. At fifty-something, the gesture felt paternal to an eighteen-year-old.

'No need to overcomplicate it. Your path is your future.'

'Yeah, duh?'

Past piled into future. Timeless truth. Everyone knew it.

'Stay true to the now, Ian. Live steadily, day by day, and you'll end up somewhere you never dreamed.'

Ian laughed at the advice. Straight out of a YouTube motivational reel—blunt, piercing, profound.

Just keep grinding.

To live Gerard's words, Ian got moving. First up: deal with the captive werewolf.

"Let Larabel go, so sacrifice this mutt instead?"

Ian figured he'd haul the werewolf to Drbosi Castle. With Larabel gone, they needed a fall guy for the chaos. A talking wolf-monster? Perfect scapegoat for medieval rubes.

Tweak the tale with Kira, and the locals would cheer as they torched it. Two mages could frame a random farmer as an evil sorcerer if they tried.

"W-wait! Noble one! Might we speak first?"

"...?"

The werewolf, sensing the pyre in its future, dropped to its knees by Ian and begged. Ian blinked. The accent was wild.

What the—why does this thing sound like ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that?

Thick foreigner vibe, like butter-smeared slow-drawl from a dubbed anime villain.

"Where'd it learn our language?" Ian muttered.

Kira whispered back, "Sounds like from Rolland Kingdom?"

"Rolland?"

West of the Holy Empire lay a proper kingdom—centralized under a real king, unlike the empire's name-only claim.

"Belenca, didn't your dad work there?"

"He did."

Rolland was her destination too—beg employment from her father's old noble patron.

"If a mere cur asks my homeland, yes! I hail from Rolland Kingdom's fair countryside fields, an unknown—"

"Shut it, Chihuahua."

Belenca smacked the werewolf's head. It yelped, going all puppy-eyed—less wolf-man, more dog-man.

"Ian, no need ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for the body. Just lop off the head?"

The werewolf teared up. Too harsh! Why wouldn't anyone want this precious bod?!

"Noble one! I am Louis of Blanche! Hired by a mage, that's all! Free me, and I swear fitting ransom!"

Belenca snorted. "Dire wolves at your command, terrorizing folk? Ian, it's a monster. Mercy for non-humans?"

"Noble one! Half beast I may be, but the other half's human! Half a heart's still a heart! Proof—behold!"

Louis yanked out a holy symbol of the Heavenly Faith.

Belenca roared. "You fiend! Stole a sacred seal?!"

"Misunderstanding! It's mine—legit initiation gift from the faith!"

No way. Ian was impressed. A devout werewolf?

"Faking it! Mouths heavenly piety while slaughtering innocents!"

Louis straightened. "Knights kill more farmers than beasts do—and with holy relics on 'em. So they're heaven-forsaken too?"

"..."

Belenca shut up. Knights butchered peasants on whims—priests still called them faithful. What made a werewolf convert different from blood-soaked knights?

Ian snickered. "Eh, just a knight in a fursuit."

"...Damn it."

"Ooh! Gratitude, noble one!"

Louis bowed, genuinely touched. Ignored "fursuit," latched onto "knight." ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Priests treated him like a monster; Ian equated him to humans. Unlike the locals, Ian had zero heterorace bias—modern media had normalized it (the irony: he'd never seen one IRL).

Buttery-accent furry knight? Sure, why not? Louis had that suspiciously rich-fur fetishist appeal. Ian might've spared him on furry connoisseur vibes alone.

"Give Louis a chance, and I'll prove my worth for ransom!"

Normal lords wouldn't hire him—heterorace, untrustworthy, faith or no. But Ian was ex-modern, now mage. Beast allies? Old hat. No prejudice.

"Alright. What can you do?"

"Fight like human knights—and command wolves best of all!"

Wolf wrangling. That's a cheat skill.

Ian listened intently.