Chapter 211
Chapter 211
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 211
Chapter Title: Intermission: Two Villains
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How do Inquisitors distinguish heretics? Why is it that among the sects of the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods, only the Beitasser Church operates Inquisitors? Fernandez had once pondered such questions.
Those thoughts took him back to his days as Feizashi. On one occasion, after capturing a Heretica who had tried to assassinate him, he had asked her exactly that.
“What basis do you use to prove heresy or innocence?”
“You are a heretic!!”
“Ah, of course I am. But do you truly believe there were no innocents among those you burned? Is it arrogance, or fanaticism?”
Unsatisfied with her answer—and with no reason to let her live—Feizashi took the Heretica’s life. She had replied with “investigation” and “intelligence.”
Feizashi, who had spent his life hunted by Inquisitors and aspiring heroes, had plenty of such opportunities. Those who could give better answers always, truly always, came to him of their own accord.
And so, one day he captured an Enmagicka who had tried to dispel his magic and asked her.
“What criteria do you use to distinguish devil worshippers from mere bandits? Isn’t it the same for both—that they take lives and steal wealth?”
“The minions of Hell cannot escape the eyes of the watchful!”
“You use magic yourselves. If you’re not drawing on Hell’s power, how do you visually distinguish your magic from that of devil followers?”
Instead of answering, the Enmagicka bit her tongue. Unable to stop her sudden act, Feizashi clicked his tongue and used her corpse as an experimental subject.
The priestess’s flesh was no different from an ordinary mage’s body. Her mana circuits, constructs, immunity, and resistance to Hell’s power were all unremarkable.
And then, one day. There was a time when Feizashi thrashed in terror of death.
“Beit-asser’s—spiiirit-aaah!!”
“Please, just, die already!”
“Spiiriiiit-aaah!!”
Demonica. Heaven’s devils, created by Beitasser. Their divinely infused bodies resisted nearly all magic, and even physical force failed—devils themselves could not escape those clutches.
They charged in like lightning-struck boars, smashing through the traps he had meticulously set, one by one, with their bodies.
Loud, stupid, straightforward. Yet no devil could survive on the straight path they charged.
At the end of that horrific battle he never wanted to recall, Feizashi barely managed to neutralize the Demonica. The once-renowned Ashen Dawn Society was utterly destroyed, forcing him back onto the road of wandering after losing his base. But at least he survived.
To the neutralized Demonica, Feizashi had laboriously asked.
“What separates devils from humans?”
“Shut up!”
“Tell me. We whom you call heretics—how are we different from you?”
“Devil worshippers reek!”
That was the only information Feizashi could glean. “Devil worshippers reek.” He spent his life unable to understand those words.
But now, as Fernandez, with the Demonica’s “sense of smell,” he understood.
It wasn’t a smell. Precisely, it was instinct. Just as long years of magic training instill an instinct for handling mana, or a swordsman honed over ages develops an instinct for reading optimal sword paths.
Priests of Beitasser, after long pursuits of devils, develop a kind of instinct. A combative instinct and instinctive revulsion unseen in other priests.
It was an instinct on the level of a mysophobe’s compulsions. Fernandez classified it as a unique property of Beitasser’s divinity.
Fortunately, he had developed such an instinct himself, which meant ample test subjects. Subjects for researching ways to use black magic without detection by Inquisitors.
When it came to self-experimentation, Fernandez was something of an expert.
* * *
Whoosh.
Sitting cross-legged before the bonfire, Fernandez settled in. The Dragonspine Mountains were deep and vast woodlands; even Inquisitors couldn’t monitor every corner.
Moreover, what fool devil worshipper would use black magic and perform rituals right under the Inquisition Keep’s nose?
“Either mad, or bold.”
“Exactly.”
It was effective in piercing their expectations. Every accessible area within a day’s travel via the highways from the Inquisition Keep was blanketed by Heretica and Torchmen surveillance. If he had to complete the work within days, this was the most rational choice.
Barring the minor issue of a straight trip to the pyre if caught.
Fwoosh.
He poured reagents into the bonfire. The flames roared fiercely, blooming green. Fernandez gazed at the flickering fire and slowly thrust his hand in.
It wasn’t hot. The massive magic circle centered on him and the precisely prepared reagents produced flames that couldn’t harm his hand.
Within the magical blaze, his fingers curled one by one. The flames licked up his fingers and the back of his hand, a tingling sensation rippling across his skin.
Whoosh.
A black halo ignited behind Fernandez’s back. Click—the sound of a latch engaging echoed from within the flames. The incantation was complete.
“Speak.”
A hissing voice emerged from the fire. Soon, the flames blazed brilliantly, shaping a form. Within sat a familiar beastkin, staring at him.
“Long time, no see, Partak.”
“I thought you’d forgotten me, my lord.”
“Your usefulness hasn’t run dry yet. Why would I?”
Fernandez smiled at the flames. Partak responded with a phlegm-rattling chuckle.
“For someone who says that, you’ve never replied to my reports.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“There are rumors lately of unrest in the eastern situation. Your doing, my lord?”
“Yes. That’s why I need you. Nothing from the council of elders?”
“What else would there be? Same as always—eating, drinking, rampaging. Better than beasts, a bit dumber than idiots.”
Partak glared outside the tent with disgust. Since Kirhas Hearttaker’s grip had solidified, the catfolk union’s council had lost influence, reducing Partak—from a power base in their support—to a mere shadow advisor.
Not a welcome change. Especially with the current acting great chieftain being a true seer from a shaman lineage, backed broadly from chieftains to warriors.
So, to this enigmatic lord who had suddenly contacted him, Partak licked his lips and tapped the table.
“You’re not asking about beastly squabbles out of mere curiosity. Command what you desire.”
“I like your directness.”
Fernandez smiled down at the flames. To Partak, watching through the hazy fire from beyond the tent, it felt like an eerie pressure.
The murky green flames before Partak flared brighter. His lord couldn’t have botched mana control, so this was blatant intimidation. Partak wet his burning throat, feigned calm, and stared into the fire.
“If you incite civil war, how many would follow you?”
“...You mean to divide the beastkin catfolk union? What line do you have in mind?”
Division is the foundation of rule. Benevolent kings unite the people; tyrants split them in two. The masses are beastly, always needing clear enemies, and a king’s politics fundamentally sharpen those divides.
This was the age of tyrants. Every ruler was adept at redirecting the people’s rage and want toward external—or internal—foes. Partak was one such man, ruling by those arts.
“The elders and chieftains are already clearly divided. The chieftains are in that seer bitch’s pocket, and the elders are mine. Isn’t that the rule you desired, my lord?”
“Not enough. Not shadowy plots, but turning blades on each other—sparking strife, then struggle, then war. How many would follow you for that?”
“...”
Partak fell silent, staring into the flames. He thought of the toil to unite the catfolk union.
Was he serious? The union had barely navigated the wasteland’s tangled politics, exterminating rival catfolk forces, and grown. Splitting the beastkin now, just as momentum built, was tantamount to stealing their future on a grand scale.
Of course, the beastkin future wasn’t Partak’s concern. But he’d thought his lord desired a united beastkin nation. Even going so far as to heroize some stray catgirl.
“It won’t be easy. Hearttaker’s support runs deeper than expected. War survivors from the Rabireta dynasty conflict now form the union’s core. They’re the type to douse themselves in oil and leap into flames if the great chieftain commands it.”
“Impossible?”
“You want to heroize the great chieftain again? Her authority already reigns over all beastkin. If it’s just playing rebel to be crushed by her, there are better fits. Raise the banner of reclaiming lost lands and strike the Wraith Dynasty. That’s more fitting, my lord.”
If Partak led a rebellion, his lord’s nature guaranteed it would be crushed. Only a matter of time, based on Fernandez’s schemes so far.
He gazed at the sinister silhouette beyond the flames like one beholding an incomprehensible creature. Even in the blazing fire, emotionless glass-like eyes gleamed.
“Impossible?”
“No need to bolster the great chieftain’s authority further, is there? The forces I could muster wouldn’t reach a tenth of the catfolk total. Before she even arrives, my revolt would fizzle, and all you’d see is my corpse on a gibbet.”
When the hunt ends, the hounds are roasted. Partak felt his role withering in the great chieftain’s shadow. The elders he controlled could no longer check her power.
He wasn’t stupid. To survive, he needed authority, and most authority begins by eroding another’s. Absent great chieftain, hero who abandoned beastkin catfolk. That narrative had so far proven effective.
But was it enough? Her supporters bordered on fanatics, unmoved by his opinion campaigns. Lately, Partak even sensed assassination threats from her backers.
“You mean to discard me?”
So he had to ask. Even if discarded, he wouldn’t go quietly. Steeling himself, he calculated survival odds.
“Your usefulness hasn’t run dry yet. Why would I?”
Hearing the exact same reply as the first—and seeing Fernandez’s smile—Partak felt long-forgotten dread toward this inscrutable master.
“You needn’t draw the blade yourself. That’s politics.”
Even as the words continued.
“Set up a straw man. If troops are short, ally with wraith lords. Make the strongest foe possible.”
Not the kind of foe suited for the great chieftain to crush. If so, Partak himself would step forward—as the union’s sole open resistor to her authority.
“Human nobles move within pretexts, face, and profit.”
Human nobles? Partak looked up. A map of the great wasteland hung in the tent’s corner.
“Dangle the pretexts they crave, the profits they desire. Then unleash the hounds.”
“The great chieftain won’t welcome a war drawing in foreign powers.”
“Impossible?”
Whatever it took to shatter the beastkin catfolk union’s growth—that was the goal. But Partak’s concern was elsewhere.
“Can I survive?”
“If you’re useful.”
“Must I step forward myself?”
“I hope not.”
“Then, my lord, I shall gladly direct the play to forge a hero.”
Kirhas Hearttaker had been merely a slave-born foreign beastkin girl. The foundation for her rise to hero was the joint work of Partak and Fernandez.
Thus, in crafting heroes, these two were experts. Every hero needs a villain, after all.
On a night when murky green flames blazed. Gazing at their bonfires. From different places, the two villains shared the same smile.