Chapter 339
Chapter 339
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 339
Chapter Title: The Immortal and the Mortal (8)
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-Poof!
Incredibly, flower petals scattered through the air. And, unbelievably—
[Savior, be eternal!]
[Be eternal!!]
The phantoms cried out in one voice, with fervent zeal for a single man.
Fernandez stared blankly ahead. At the phantoms gathered in the plaza, showering petals as they cheered...
[What's wrong, Fernandez? Could your mind still not be fully clear? We must summon the physician. Did I not tell you? You need an examination!]
"Perhaps... the physician could prepare some medicine?"
[Ah, you were well-versed in alchemy as well. Yes, tell me. There is nothing impossible in this Ivaris, no matter the elixir.]
"I need the swiftest, most agonizing death possible..."
Fernandez muttered through gritted teeth. The focus was fading from his eyes.
His keen senses screamed that the statue's height surpassed Ivaris's outer walls, and that this plaza sat at an elevation higher than the surrounding plains.
From there, it was simple math. Any traveler near Ivaris who gazed upon these walls would see—no exceptions—the face of this statue.
Like a mischievous child peeking only its face over a fence... with that benevolent smile.
'Feizashi!! Emergency! Get out here now! Take... take my place!'
Fernandez shouted in panic. Of course, no response came.
A crushing loneliness enveloped him. Truly, in this hellish material world, he had no allies...
"My life is my mold." Feizashi's aged voice echoed like a hallucination.
[Haha, what an amusing jest! But it's too soon to be surprised. Ivaris's ancient arts know no bounds. Now, begin!]
"Do not... begin. Whatever it is. Do not start."
Ignoring Fernandez's voice, which bordered on desperate, Ravirata cheerfully waved her elongated staff.
Soon, mana flowed along the iridescent paint meticulously applied to the statue's surface, beginning to sprout.
Fernandez instinctively analyzed the mana’s form. Contrary to his halted thoughts, his instincts eagerly dissected this unfamiliar magic.
A quick conclusion emerged. It was a spell to draw water from underground aquifers.
Complex and ornate, yet its structure was no different from the aqueducts in any city.
"Water...?"
-Splash!!
With Fernandez's faint mutter, torrents of water began pouring from the eyes of the statue modeled after him.
The statue, back to the sun and gazing skyward, shedding tears—it embodied the pinnacle of ancient Ashite art, appearing almost sublime.
Water streams flowed along the channels painted on the statue's surface. Due to the immense scale, even thin streams resembled rivers by the time they reached the ground.
The streams soon connected with the city's aqueduct system.
[This is how Ivaris's artisans racked their brains to depict you restoring life to us. The water source is the city's lifeline, the origin of life. Your sublime tears flowing from those eyes will bring life to my millennial city...]
Ravirata's voice boomed. She turned to Fernandez.
Seeing him utterly motionless, she tilted her head.
[Fernandez? Fernandez! Oh no! Physician!! Summon the physician! He must have overexerted himself right after the grand ritual!]
Fernandez, who had fainted standing, was soon carefully supported by the phantoms and led to his chambers.
It was the first day after his return from death.
* * *
"I'm sorry. I... I just can't anymore..."
"Just a bit more effort, Piel. Just a little longer..."
The inside of the tent was a mess of papers, maps, and scribbled notes scattered everywhere.
In one corner stood a simple cot, soaked in cold sweat and bloodstains. Piel lay there, panting with a pallid face.
A man's rough hand rested gently on her sweat-matted hair. He stroked it with careful motions.
Piel closed her eyes briefly and drew deep breaths.
"Count..."
"Just a little more effort, all of us. Piel. We're almost there."
It was Robert. He sat wearily beside her, rifling through a stack of papers.
Crushed file folders and torn notes littered the area around him.
He pulled a single sheet from the pile and handed it to Piel.
Piel struggled to sit up.
"The one hundred seventy-seventh scenario, Piel. Can you see it?"
"...No, Count. This one... I can't see it either."
"Nothing at all?"
"Yes, Count. This plan will fail."
Robert let out a deep sigh and picked up a copper cup. He lifted the teapot hanging over the campfire and poured tea into it.
Piel took the cup from his hand and sipped. She set the trembling cup down and looked at Robert.
"I've wasted months of your precious time due to my incompetence."
"If you're incompetent, then no one on this continent is capable."
Robert shook his head firmly. He plopped down across from her and scratched his disheveled hair.
It was unthinkable for the man who had once been meticulously neat to the point of obsession.
Yet these past months had utterly transformed him.
A future shrouded in dark clouds. Visions of doom so vile that they drove prophets to suicide. That reality closing in moment by moment.
Demons cackling dryly from the shadows. Civilizations fracturing and crumbling beneath their rampage.
Robert headed the intelligence agency. Naturally, he knew as much about demons and their schemes as the Inquisition's priests.
But knowing and witnessing it firsthand carried different weights.
And, all too predictably,
Living in that reality—plunging into the fray—carried yet another weight.
With the heavenly emissaries deaf to the material world's pleas. Robert thought more desperately than ever.
In this hellish world sprinting toward apocalypse, someone to dirty their hands in his stead.
A cowardly wish, but as he gazed at his knights dying before him, Robert prayed for it.
And then, a saint was born in the Great Wilderness.
A great saint who cleaved through thousands, tens of thousands of demons, confronting and slaying the mightiest one. Amid that night tangled in terror and despair, a man who symbolized the dawn's first light.
Robert had always dreamed of heroes. Heroes from tales.
Heroes were forged in tragedy, and he never saw himself as a coward fleeing from it.
Yet seeing Fernandez struggle in despair, he mourned his own cowardice.
And at the same time, he could only be grateful not to stand in that place himself.
So what could he do? As head of intelligence, demons always outpaced information and strategy.
Then—
'We need prophets.'
Not superstitious shamans. True prophets.
The Empire's vast talent pool held such beings. Prophets. Foresight wielders who transcended senses for genuine prophecy.
As intelligence chief, Robert had long sought ways to use them.
Only one problem.
'Prophets have short lives.'
More precisely, prophecy was a power too immense for mortals.
All who awakened and wielded it shone briefly before taking their own lives.
Information was poison. As the one commanding the Empire's intel, he knew it best.
Unlike him, who parsed reports, prophets directly confronted opaque futures.
How to utilize them? He'd abandoned it before, but now found answers—from the Great Wilderness prophet.
"Piel, are you all right?"
"I've worried you, Count. I'm still fine."
Piel stammered a reply, her face haggard.
From her demeanor, Robert sensed she was battling suicidal urges even now.
To prevent it, he never left her side, not for a moment.
He couldn't lose her like this. She could be this world's sole salvation.
"Rest a moment, then let's check the next scenario, Piel."
"Yes, Count."
With that, Piel slowly closed her eyes.
* * *
Prophetic ability is not a double-edged sword. It is a blade aimed solely at the prophet.
No matter how cautiously used, it will one day sever the prophet's neck.
Thus, Robert formed a hypothesis. If information overload drove prophets to suicide, could artificially purging acquired knowledge extend their lives?
Amnesia Morai. The Empire Ironside's potent drug. In precise doses, it erased one day's memories. Robert dosed Piel with it, segmenting her information.
She couldn't read futures leading to doom. And prophecy showed the most probable future.
Based on these premises, prophetic power could avert apocalypse.
Drawing from his vast intel, Robert cataloged doom-avoiding possibilities.
Hundreds of "apocalypse" scenarios were drafted.
Over months, he secluded with Piel to find "visible futures."
During their months together.
Piel lived decades each day by daylight, forgetting a day each night. Her day was fixed, repeating in endless time.
Robert studied hundreds of world-ending methods by day, devising counters for each.
Each night, he lamented their failures, filling Piel's lost day with grief.
Piel overcame prophetic suicide urges via the drug, at the cost of years of her life.
Robert pitied her, condemning his actions.
Robert flailed against a doom-bound world, an unchanging future, bearing despair for Piel.
Piel admired his resolve, pitying his sorrow.
Months. For two struggling against endless darkness, that time was long enough to fall for each other.
Their love deepened amid midday despair and deep night's grief.
* * *
And when Everys finally found them.
"The one thousand four hundred fifty-sixth scenario, then."
Scratching his unkempt beard, Robert smiled at his old subordinates watching him—and his sister.
"Ironside. Ready to work?"
"Yes, my lord."
The Imperial bureaucracy had a famous adage: "The only information Ironside doesn't know is that which doesn't yet exist."
And now, even nonexistent intel was known—their chief had returned.
Imperial Ironside Graysircle. The continent's premier intelligence network resumed operations.
It was the fifth day since Fernandez's return from death.