Chapter 123
Chapter 123
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 123
Chapter Title: Butterfly's Dream (1)
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*
Sunlight touched the corner of his eye. Before opening his eyes, Fernandez checked his condition. It was a survival tactic he had learned during his long flight. The kind where he didn't let anyone else know he had woken up first.
‘I'm powerless.’
He couldn't feel the divine power that used to pulse vigorously through his body, nor his muscles. Limp ligaments and parched muscles twitched feebly.
‘How much time has passed?’
The last scene he remembered was leaping toward the massive cliff leading to the spirit realm. Which meant he should be in the spirit realm now.
‘Feizashi. Can you hear me? Feizashi!’
No voice answered him. Unless someone had annihilated the soul that Beitasser's authority had split apart—which wasn't possible—this was—
“Teacher, hee hee. You're awake?”
“...?! ”
Fernandez snapped his eyes open. It was a crude bed made of woven straw bundles in an old shack. Propping himself up on one arm amid the rustling bedding, he glared with bleary eyes at the silhouette far off, tidying the table.
“You always do this. If you're awake, just get up right away—why do you always wriggle around before rising?”
“...What is this...?”
Fernandez rasped out the words, then grabbed his throat in shock. Wrinkled skin met his fingertips. The voice. It wasn't his voice.
No, it was a voice he knew.
No. It was an excruciatingly familiar voice.
A voice he'd shared eighty years with...
“Ah, right. Water? Just a moment!”
The silhouette chattered cheerfully and soon brought over a cup of water, handing it to him. His vision was still hazy and foggy. His dry eyes needed time to adjust to the sunlight. He took a sip from the simple ceramic cup and...
The white hand holding it caught his eye.
‘Arazelmon...!’
The tips of her pale, slender fingers—under the nails of her index and thumb—were stained light purple. Arazelmon. A common symptom among mages, pharmacists, or alchemists who handled rare reagents.
And he remembered this woman who spoke in this voice. This woman who treated him this way. Or rather, the woman whose fingertips always bore traces of arazelmon.
Faded colors returned to the old, worn frame in his mind. His vision sharpened, revealing the interior of the shack where he lay.
Shelves crammed with alchemical reagents and experiment tools. A simple pump drawing in water, small cages holding tiny animals. The view beyond the shuttered window. Fields of wheat stretching under an autumn sky.
Beyond that, farmers at harvest. Women handing out midday meals. Children flying kites, the crowing of chickens, the barking of dogs.
And a familiar scent. Freesia flowers. Her own perfume, refined by her hand.
-Click.
Colors returned to the old frame in his head. To his memory of this scene, that painting. Even the fragrance carried on the chill autumn breeze that afternoon.
“Aria...”
“Yes, Teacher?”
Black hair swayed. Beneath it, a woman with a warm face smiled at him.
*
‘What the hell is going on?’
-Clink.
Fernandez sat dazed, dipping bread into his soup, lost in thought. The last moment he remembered was the gateway to the spirit realm. So the most plausible hypothesis was that all this was an illusion, with Mumto toying with him...
“Um... Teacher? Not to your taste? I made your favorite.”
Meat was rarer than one might think in the countryside. Yet this sticky soup was thick with finely shredded chicken. Delicious. A nostalgic taste. Fernandez chewed the soaked bread and shook his head.
“It's excellent.”
“...R-Really...?”
Aria rolled her eyes anxiously. Fernandez sighed at the sight. There were no certainties.
‘Come to think of it, it was the same when I returned to sixteen.’
Whether he'd truly come back, or if it was all illusion, a demon's dream, or a dying delusion.
Nothing was certain. Every assumption was grim, and verifying them was impossible. Fernandez felt the hellish mana surging inside him, and the vast, intricate mana circuits woven through his body.
If he willed it, he could cast spells impossible at this age without any backlash, cleanly and perfectly. He had the experience, knowledge, and intuition.
But it didn't sit right. He gazed cautiously at Aria dipping bread into her soup. She was still beautiful, and his heart still raced every moment he looked at her.
‘Can't let my guard down and enjoy it.’
If this was reality, was the past year a dream? If this was illusion, must he escape this sweet fantasy?
‘Suicide...?’
Should he try it? That was the worst of last resorts. If by some chance this moment was real, he'd be throwing away an opportunity handed to him on a platter.
He flexed his fingers slightly. Familiar mudras ingrained in his body formed one by one, and the mana circuits activated instinctively. The incantation began weaving in his grasp. He could feel even the finest thread of mana flow from his fingertips.
“Aria.”
“Yes, Teacher?”
“Where's the church?”
“Oh...?”
Aria's big eyes widened in surprise. She stared blankly at Fernandez for a moment, then reached out to touch his forehead.
Her cool, slender fingers felt pleasant against his skin. Aria placed her hand on her own forehead, paused, then spoke.
“No fever... Why the sudden strangeness? You're scaring me.”
“I need Beitasser's church.”
When he awoke in the coniferous forest at sixteen, it was Beitasser who confirmed his past life. So if he needed certainty, he had to go to Beitasser.
Aria munched the last of her bread and swallowed. Then she smiled brightly.
“Let's go together. I have something to pass to the pastor anyway.”
*
Fernandez dressed properly and stepped out. He stared silently for a moment at the small, worn house, its signboard “[Page's Apothecary]” hanging crookedly by the door.
“Forget something?”
“No. Let's go.”
“Okay!”
At his words, Aria beamed white-toothed and strode ahead. Through the village, toward the modest church atop a small hill.
The village scene unfolded before his eyes, dirt paths and all. Children scampered by, bowing to him. A woman shaking laundry called out warmly upon seeing him.
“Oh, Apothecary Teacher! Fine day!”
“Ah, yes. Fine day, ma'am.”
“Got any hornwort salve? Seems our Jack's caught an autumn cold.”
“...Yes. I'll check. But I'm headed somewhere now.”
“Ah, sure. Please stop by! And here, some leftover new potatoes...”
“Thank you, ma'am.”
It was always like this. Fernandez was the village's only apothecary, and the rural folk treated the city-educated man with utmost respect. Each time, Aria would puff up proudly, clearing her throat with an ahem.
Fernandez tried his utmost to compose himself. No matter what face he made now, it'd look ridiculous. No point showing his confusion.
Finally, the church appeared. Staring at the simple wooden door, Fernandez swallowed.
‘Hoo...’
To seek answers from a god at a church doorstep in his lifetime. Fernandez chuckled dryly and shoved the wooden door open with all his might.
*
In his life before regression, he'd never set foot in a church. The moment he did would be his last day—when facing the Inquisition, he'd thought.
Thus, he kept a cold distance from this church's pastor. They knew of each other but made no minimal effort at friendliness. The local pastor resented his attitude, and quick-witted Aria had dragged the pastor off somewhere the moment they entered.
‘Good girl.’
Sharp, too. She knew his church visit wasn't for the pastor. Fernandez headed to the prayer room.
Beitasser's prayer rooms were spartan to the point of bleakness. A massive statue engraved with a key-cross stood on the dais, surrounded by chairs.
He strode to the front row and sat. He glared at Beitasser's holy image. At its base was a small relief. Etched there in ancient Gael:
-Macto. Praise be.
-Superlauda. With utmost effort.
‘As if rural villagers know ancient Gael. Arrogant bastards.’
Fernandez smirked and clasped his hands toward the statue. Modern magecraft theory held prayer as a telegram to the gods, and all gods perceived prayers directed at them instantly.
Summoning demons and petitioning them was structurally no different from praying to gods in magecraft. And Fernandez was a master of magecraft and demonology.
‘Answer me. Beitasser. Aren't you watching?’
The exact same time and place as before. If this wasn't a dream, delusion, or demonic illusion, Beitasser would respond. If the god heard his prayer, he couldn't ignore it.
‘I was your saint. Was that a dream? Or is this moment the dream? If not, answer. Beitasser. In exchange, I'll give the answer you most desire.’
Prayer to a god was a transaction. Gods didn't answer faithful because, coldly speaking, it wasn't profitable.
Most faithful begged their gods for favors. Gods weren't servants or fairies. To hear a response, one had to offer an enticing deal.
‘If this era is real, the Pantheon hasn't sealed yet.’
The Pantheon's sealing marked the material world's fall. While communication between the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods and the material world remained open—
‘So answer. Beitasser. Did I foresee the future? Or is this my vision?’
Please. Answer. So I can gaze at Aria's smile and laugh freely. Or at least, so I can ignore their smiles and kindness without guilt.
At that instant, the statue base he stared at—the ancient Gael beneath—began to twist. Stone couldn't change on its own. This was a miracle.
-What truth do you wish for?
‘Are you Beitasser?’
-Who do you wish me to be?
‘Damn it. Don't answer questions with questions.’
His prayer paused the script. Then new words appeared.
-Flee. As far as you can. For your soul's sake.
‘What?’
Soon, a thunderous voice boomed in his head.
[I found you. Mage.]
‘...Bei...tas...ser...?’
*