Chapter 337
Chapter 337
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 337
Chapter Title: Immortals and Mortals (6)
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She remembered the era when dragons soared through the skies. The time when gods walked the earth, fairies dwelled in the forests, and dwarves lived underground.
It was an age when the constellations in the heavens looked different from today. To her, the stars had been a tapestry woven for fallen heroes. Ages had passed as the constellations shifted, and countless heroes had perished.
For so long, she had remembered them. Mourned them. Honored their beautiful lives, those lives that blazed brightly and radiated light. In her own graveyard, cradling her own memorial towers, she had grieved for them all.
But now, within her graveyard stood only a single solitary tombstone. When it became too hard to bear, she would lift her head and gaze up at the night sky.
Even through those endless ages when so many myths and legends were forgotten, buried beneath dust and debris. Her constellation still remained in that night sky. She remembered the other constellations that had once been near it. But now, the only one she could recognize was her own.
“You’re adrift.”
The dragon, returned from death and oblivion, made her decision that day: to embrace death. A slow fading death. A death of gradual erosion. There was no need for it to be heroic or noble. She simply wished to end this drifting on the shoals of shipwreck.
Several months had passed since then. Life force still overflowed within her body. The dragon drew a line in her private nest with a massive claw. Far in the distant sky, dawn was breaking, heralding another day.
“You’ve been here.”
She had sensed the human approaching the nest interior hours ago. She simply hadn’t felt the need to drive him away. She turned her gaze toward the nest’s entrance.
A hulking man advanced toward her, hacking through the wildly overgrown brush with a broad blade.
“Zephys Shiradast.”
“It’s my first time beholding you in dragon form. I hope you’ve been well?”
“I’ve been alive because I couldn’t die.”
“We’re all marching toward death. We simply haven’t arrived yet.”
Zephys strode forward and sat before her eyes. The dragon rolled her enormous blue eyes downward to regard him. It felt like her chest was being torn apart. Inevitably, Zephys evoked the image of a certain man.
“Have you come to find me?”
“Yes, Abelessas. I’m sorry to disturb your seclusion.”
“What’s your business?”
“Fernandez’s…”
The moment that name emerged, her eyes squeezed shut. She bowed her head, exhaling ragged breaths, emitting a sound like a wounded herbivore. Over her prolonged groans, Zephys’s voice overlapped.
“I’ve heard you’re the one who found his belongings. I’d like to know the location and circumstances.”
“That… was already… relayed through Freya, wasn’t it…?”
“Pull yourself together.”
*-Clap!*
Zephys clapped his hands to seize her attention. His body was far too large to slap her cheek, so he waved his hands instead as he spoke.
“Losing him wasn’t your burden alone. He wasn’t your possession, and his loss has wounded us all, no doubt. You didn’t even attend his funeral in Paltenoya, did you?”
“I… I…”
“I’m not here to reproach you for that. But I have a duty to investigate his death. I’ve come here bearing the priesthood that demands a precise understanding of his fate. I need your cooperation.”
At Zephys’s cold words, Abel gazed at him again with trembling eyes. Meeting her gaze, Zephys stood straight beneath her massive pupils and declared.
“Mourning more grandly doesn’t mean you grieve his death more profoundly than others, Abelessas. Scale doesn’t prove sincerity.”
“Zephys Shiradast…”
“Tell me. The place and situation where you found his belongings. Just as we respect your sorrow, you must respect ours. This can be our way of mourning.”
Abel lowered her head and whispered softly. Each their own way.
“But I still don’t believe he’s dead.”
“Then why haven’t you searched for him?”
Disappearance is more painful than death. It denies the ability to accept the grief of loss. Yet Abel had abandoned the pursuit of Fernandez. If he were truly dead, if she had to confront that death face-to-face, she knew she wouldn’t be able to endure it.
It’s my weakness. Abel admitted it readily. But was that wrong? Was loving one person wrong?
Was it wrong to love so deeply that she couldn’t dare utter the words lightly? Sometimes words lose value through overuse. She feared this feeling would oxidize easily, so she simply held it close in silence.
Thus, she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge his death. She couldn’t attend the funeral. If even she accepted his death, who in this world would affirm his life? Only her. Stubbornly, Abel had chosen to build this nest and barricade herself within.
Until he returned—though dying slowly. She couldn’t accept death, but if it must be, she hoped only to share its end.
“…Very well. I’ll tell you.”
The man had said sorrow isn’t proven by scale. No matter how spectacularly one grieves, it doesn’t make their pain superior to others’. Abel conceded to this logic. The man before her had cherished Fernandez too, and he had the right to hear the answer.
* * *
Beorn sat at the desk in his office, immersed in sorting documents. Recently, incidents of cultist uprisings had become strangely frequent. The indiscriminate cult activities that began in Fairn’s eastern territories were now stealthily spreading across the entire Eastern Kingdom.
The Inquisition, already suffering from manpower shortages, teetered on the brink of exhaustion deaths. Beorn was meticulous, always insisting on keeping minimal staff on standby within the monastery—but in this situation, that was a luxury.
They had enough personnel for a few emergency responses. But if this momentum continued, even that was uncertain. Beorn tapped the desk thoughtfully, lost in worry.
“Someone’s behind it.”
That was the conclusion. Someone was orchestrating this large-scale heresy incident. But who, and how?
The new organization Fernandez had left behind before his death, Malefica, remained intact even after him. The malignant groups that refused to submit to the Church were mostly being eradicated. The Empire, at least, was nearly fully purged.
Yet the Eastern Kingdom. In this region where Malefica’s influence was faint, entirely different heretical factions were springing up. Had they timed it for when the Church’s administrative power focused on the Empire? It was too aggressive to attribute solely to that.
They weren’t from the same lineage. The cult organizations being apprehended in real-time across regions each had distinct doctrines. For such disparate groups to unite suddenly? Impossible.
Thus, someone lurked behind this proliferation of organizations. Someone capable of rallying various cultists centered on the Eastern Kingdom, Fairn’s eastern territories…
Rallying…?
“…Damn it.”
When his thoughts reached that point, Beorn bit his lip. Malefica was the collective of black mages who had submitted under the Church’s banner. In less than half a year after their emergence, they had swept away heretical organizations across the Empire.
It was the power of uniting cult fragments with utterly opposing tendencies. The reason the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods held the initiative in the war against heresy lay in the cultists’ disunity. They were never friendly to one another.
Each had their own faith, rituals to enact it, and beliefs—utterly different. To each individual, the others were enemies rivaling the Pantheon itself. If such groups were unified, it was no ordinary matter.
Beorn narrowed his eyes and tapped the corner of the desk. Starting from Fairn’s eastern territories… Could he assume this plague’s horde had a base somewhere in those shadows…?
*-Knock knock.*
“Abbot. It’s Benicio.”
“Come in.”
A lean middle-aged man with a large scar on his cheek opened the door. The sharp-featured man bowed briefly and handed Beorn a stack of documents.
“Emergency strike support request, Abbot.”
“Where to this time?”
“St. Antharius Monastery. The Heretica dispatched there was Brother Olivier, and he’s tracking after discovering the monastery’s total destruction and traces of cultist activity.”
“Traces of cultist activity? The Merdis Cult? If it’s northwest of Fairn, that was their operational area.”
“No, Abbot. Symbols of the Brendar Brotherhood were found.”
“Damn it. Does that mean they’ve advanced as far as Fairn’s northwest?”
“Yes, Abbot.”
“Those ones can perform their own demon-summoning rituals. Send support requests to Demonica and secure personnel.”
Beorn pulled out his roster and unfurled it. Stroking his chin, he squinted.
“Three… We have three brothers available now. Two more strike requests, and central operations will halt…”
Beorn shook his head and looked at Benicio. At that gaze, Benicio nodded and spoke.
“You’ve sensed it too, Abbot.”
“Indeed. They’re rampaging like they want to die. What do you think is the cause?”
Large-scale cultist uprisings were a threat, but paradoxically, a massive opportunity. Heretical factions were dangerous when lurking in civilization’s shadows. If they exposed themselves and ran wild, it was the perfect chance to eradicate them in one fell swoop.
Even with current manpower shortages and urgency, it wasn’t impossible. If the Inquisition mobilized fully externally, no matter how long it took, the exposed ones would eventually be tracked down.
Right now, these heretical sects were boldly revealing themselves and rampaging everywhere. As if seeking suicide. The problem was that Beorn had no choice but troop deployments, without grasping their intent or scale.
He felt dragged along by their intentions, a sticky sense of crisis. It was close to instinct from his long years leading Heretica. He sought the opinion of a brother who had served alongside him for ages.
But Benicio shook his head.
“It’s not exactly pleasant, but it’s still an opportunity, isn’t it, Abbot?”
“You might be right. Perhaps I’m overreacting…”
“Always be suspicious. That’s the precept you taught me, Abbot. It’s what I tell the other brothers too. You’re doing your utmost.”
“Spare the flattery, Brother Benicio. Assemble a strike team with one Demonica brother and head to the area. And…”
“Yes, Abbot. I’ll return as swiftly as possible.”
“No. Return as safely as possible. Without sacrificing any brothers.”
“Macto.”
“Macto supelau do, brother. Go.”
Benicio gave a curt bow and departed. Beorn unfolded the documents Benicio had handed him, reading while rolling his rosary beads in his palm.
[Seek justice.]
He rubbed the engraved words on the rosary’s surface with his fingertips, pondering what the scene at the storm’s end would look like.
[Then your firmament shall add righteousness unto thee.]
The sun was setting. Shadows stretched long beneath the vast foothills of the Dragonspine Mountains. In his office, only the crackling bonfire and a faintly glowing candle remained to illuminate his side.
Amid that, Beorn stared silently at the map for a long time.
His one remaining eye gleamed fiercely in the darkness.
* * *
*-Warning: You are entering Papal territory.*
*-Trespassers will be burned at the stake.*
*-St. Bartholomew Monastery.*
Deep in the night, a signpost on a forest trail creaked eerily as it swayed. A man paused, gazing at the sight.
*-Crack!*
A flash of light burst forth, and the signpost split in two, rolling into the mud. The man stomped on the fallen fragment and continued up the mountain path.
*-Warning…*
*-Burning…*
*-Monastery…*