Chapter 110
Chapter 110
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 110
Chapter Title: Wildcast (3)
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To devise a perfect strategy, the essential prerequisite was accurately assessing one's own abilities. For Fernandez, this was no different from a matter of survival. In his previous life, survival demanded deploying everything he was capable of with maximum efficiency in the optimal circumstances.
Thus, pinpointing the conditions required to unleash his most powerful spell, along with the resources it would consume, seemed like the perfect starting point.
After all, his life was little more than a expendable resource—and to confront a great demon, every ounce of him would need to be committed entirely.
-Hwooooong...
A sandstorm of bone dust whipped across the wasteland. Fernandez gripped Nepherka's neck at the heart of a vortex sealed off in every direction.
"I've got something I've been wondering about your kind. Wight. Why do you remain loyal to the Pharaoh?"
[What?]
The abrupt question left Nepherka looking flustered, like an enemy caught off guard. Fernandez could read his emotions through the chain looped around the wight's neck.
"What validates the Pharaoh's authority? Your gods are dead, the great demon sealed away—and even the power that raised you isn't his. So why the loyalty?"
[...]
Nepherka fell silent, but Fernandez could feel the turmoil churning in his mind. The wights of Ivorysheet—so-called high nobles—were driven at their core by ambition.
Their souls were no different from what they had been in life. They still craved eating, drinking, and idle chatter. Yet all that emanated from their rotting flesh and parched bones was the chill of death.
They mimicked eating as they had in life, adorning themselves with glittering jewels. But it was all hollow, mere phantoms without substance.
Thus, what moved them was satisfaction alone. Ambition alone. A futile ambition to affirm that they could still wield influence in this world.
Fernandez slowly placed his hand on Nepherka's skull. He felt the soul within recoil. The legion's defeat, the Pharaoh's reprimand that followed, the blow to his pride from his own failure—it was all palpable in his grasp.
Shattered self-regard. The instability of a soul forcibly revived. And above all...
Fear.
In a single instant, his legion had crumbled. No chance for the burial priests or mages to resist. That one unknown spell had obliterated Ivorysheet's finest defenses. And then the swordsmanship that overwhelmed him.
Nepherka feared Fernandez. And Fernandez knew that scent of fear all too well. A familiar, exhilarating sensation.
In a low, resonant whisper, Fernandez murmured,
"I'm curious what you're capable of."
[What is it you want?]
"For you to achieve what you truly desire."
[...To kill you and beg forgiveness from the Pharaoh.]
"No."
Fernandez slowly bent at the waist to meet his gaze. Nepherka tried to turn away, but the iron grip fixed his neck in place.
"You crave something higher. Wight. A divine Pharaoh? You know your master isn't a god. Most of your gods are dead, and even those that linger have forsaken you. Does the Pharaoh of a kingdom reduced to burnt ashes have to be Tutan Gartep?"
[But the divine bloodline...]
"Ha!"
A smile curled Fernandez's lips.
"If bloodline is the issue, then look at your body. Does a drop of blood flow anywhere in it?"
[So you're telling me to betray the Pharaoh now?]
"I'm telling you not to betray yourself. Wight, Mumto has lost his dominion over you all—did you rise just to bow to the control of someone even weaker?"
His somber blue eyes seemed to bore into Nepherka's glowing gaze. Had there been flesh, Nepherka would have swallowed dryly, his body trembling.
It was a horrific, terrifying temptation. A scent of death and flame wafted into the wight's hollow throat. Slowly, the bone-dust sandstorm began to clear.
Beyond the hot gale mingled with the wails of the dead and the grit of shattered bones, sunset settled between the canyons. Far off, blurred figures of beastkin and swinefolk watched them in terrified awe.
Heat haze swirled around Fernandez. The smell of death and flame. The smell of ambition. Nepherka's soul began to burn hot.
Betray the Pharaoh. The Pharaoh dies. And he becomes the god of this great wasteland. A strange sentence he'd never once considered.
*Never considered it? Truly?*
Nepherka went quiet. Don't betray yourself, he'd said. Yes. Deep in his heart, a towering ambition still breathed.
-Tak.
Nepherka swatted away the wrist resting on his skull. Then he lifted his blazing gaze to Fernandez.
[I pledge no loyalty, mage.]
"So be it."
[I pledge no loyalty to you. I pledge loyalty to no one.]
"So be it."
[My name is Nepherka. Nepherka the Unruled. Nepherka the Ruler!! I rose again to dominate. Slayer of legions, killer of nobles!]
Such archaic phrasing. Fernandez grinned deeply. He stared into Nepherka's blazing eyes.
"So be it."
Corruption. Temptation. Division. Schemes all too familiar to him. With power and allure, eloquence and magic at his command—and he possessed them all to perfection.
*
[At the Pharaoh's side are three generals known as the Triarch.]
"Guess you're not one of them?"
[...The Triarch remain solely by the Pharaoh's side. Their duty is to guard his safety. Merenre and I were given our legions for offense. Before the Pharaoh advances, it's my role to clear the lands he will rule.]
*
Fernandez gazed at the night sky, reading the constellations. Mana flows churned strangely in the vicinity. He'd tapped every nearby leyline for a grand-scale spell, so it was only natural.
Yet because he'd drawn on soul-realm mana, the celestial wheels shone even more vividly. He pondered as he watched a yellow-glowing star—and the rivers of mana spreading like haze between them.
Abel would gaze at the stars and think of their beauty, the tales woven into the constellations. She loved this filthy, brutal world. As if pearls held value precisely because they lay in the mud.
But Fernandez was cut from different cloth. He saw filth for what it was: filth. And he pondered how to exploit it.
While Abel beheld the stars, he saw the mana currents threading between them. Tutan Gartep's influence flickered across the heavens. Mana flows were concepts that transcended perception and space alike.
That's why such things were visible in the pristine night sky of this barren wasteland.
-Hwoooong...
A chill wind wrapped around his robes and brushed past. Footsteps approached.
*
[The strongest of the Triarch is Tutan Gartep's foremost champion: Warrior Chief Kaharephr. He knows nothing of magic—a complete layman—but he fights as if blessed by a war god. He will never leave the Pharaoh's side.]
"How strong is he?"
[Sufficiently.]
*
Beastkin warriors approached Fernandez from behind. They reeked of fear—the familiar scent wafting from their bodies.
After long battles, flights, and wanderings, the warriors were in wretched shape. When Fernandez turned to them, they bowed their heads in terror, tails tucked low.
"As you commanded, we've gathered all the warriors, Nosa."
"Is this all you have?"
"Some must stay behind to protect the tribe's children, women, and elders. These are all who can leave the tribe to fight."
Some thirty haggard beastkin males eyed Fernandez warily.
"Are we to die?"
"What?"
Fernandez furrowed his brow at their words. What nonsense was this?
"If you're going to kill us and offer us as tribute to the demon... please spare our tribe's children..."
"What the... Never mind. No need to explain. If I meant to kill you, why keep you alive this long? You're still useful."
Fernandez lost interest in the men and turned back to the sky. The warriors hesitated, bowed low, and asked softly,
"Then what must we do to repay your grace, Nosa?"
"Tell them what you saw."
"...Pardon?"
"What I've done. What I can do. What it seems I could do. From now on, spread tales of me to everyone you meet. Make sure my name reaches every ear in this wasteland."
So it could become one of the countless rumors and superstitions drifting across the wastes.
"Idle gossip for the ignorant. A warning for the wise. And a caution to the wights who wander these lands."
Thus compelling them to prepare for him. To beware him. To crave verifying the rumors' truth firsthand.
*
[Mages and priests won't be your equals. Mage. They're hopeless fools who couldn't imitate so much as a fraction of your spells. The one you must beware is him alone: Tutan Gartep's Warrior Chief Kaharephr.]
"I'll have to draw him out from the Pharaoh's shadow."
[Indeed. If you can. The Pharaoh's frail—make him send his mightiest champion.]
"Like word that the weakened Mumto has slipped his seal and now wanders the wastes alone."
[Exactly.]
Nepherka smirked at Fernandez's words. Yes, a rumor like that would work. Tutan Gartep lurked in his palace, shielded by tens of thousands of skeletons—no warrior more trustworthy than Kaharephr.
Should tales spread of a spent Mumto roaming solo, the Pharaoh would surely dispatch his Warrior Chief.
Mages? Unreliable. They'd be seduced by Mumto's magic, hungering for his knowledge. Priests as well—Mumto bore divinity; they might even submit to him.
But the Warrior Chief was different. He claimed the title of wasteland's strongest, his loyalty proven in life.
Thus, if the Pharaoh sent an assassin after Mumto, it would be the Warrior Chief without question.
"You know your role?"
[Time's the real hurdle. Mage. Fail when preparations are complete, arrive late, and our plan crumbles to nothing.]
"I've never missed a deadline."
Nepherka hesitated, eyeing Fernandez's smile. Could this mage really pull it off? The Warrior Chief would come laden with every anti-magic talisman imaginable to counter Mumto.
[Hope you win. Don't underestimate the Warrior Chief, mage. You might drop dead before you cast that boasted magic of yours.]
Fernandez merely smiled at the threat.
*
The warriors were bewildered by Fernandez's command. Black mages typically craved secrecy about their nature—too many hunted them down.
And weren't these dangerous times? The wasteland teemed with established powers who wouldn't welcome a new contender.
Yet the beastkin dared not press him. They simply bowed and asked,
"How shall we address you, Nosa?"
"Wildcast (Wandering Mage)."
Once the rumor spread of a single spell banishing an entire legion to the soul realm—and Nepherka returned to confirm it as truth...
If he whispered it right in the Pharaoh's ear—that one mage had wrought all this, declaring it as he sent Nepherka back—then the Pharaoh would act at once. Hiding deeper still, rallying his legions for utmost defense, dispatching an assassin.
-I have returned.
Should those words reach him, Tutan Gartep would surely...
"Call me Feizashi Wildcast."
Feizashi—ancient Melacum imperial dialect for "traitor." He would make that name a symbol of terror.