Chapter 382
Chapter 382
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 382
Chapter Title: Omen (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Bloti rode the updraft into the sky. Fernandez squeezed his dry eyes shut, steadying his breath amid the scorching wind.
When he opened them again, a plain stretched before him where black-charred earth was overrun by rivers of crimson lava. Beneath an olive-drab sky, winged monstrosities shrieked as they beat their wings, tearing at the air, while demons with vivid red skin surged up from fissures splitting the ground.
It was all too familiar. Fernandez chuckled involuntarily and shook his head.
“Finally asleep, huh.”
Of course it was a dream. He found it somewhat regrettable that he knew it was a dream—no, that he had come to realize it. It meant he could no longer rest peacefully in slumber.
A lucid dream. At some point, sleep had stopped guaranteeing him any respite. The dreams grew ever clearer, ever more brutal.
“What’s on the menu this time?”
He had decided to call this dream his Regret. A display case showcasing his past sins. Today’s theme seemed to be apocalypse. He found that amusing.
“Foolish. I never witnessed the end of the world firsthand.”
He had pulled the trigger toward destruction, sure, but by the strict definition, when the world actually ended, he was already a dying old man. Even in the moment he betrayed Tyban, the world was still clinging to life by a thread.
The breaking of humanity’s last hope could be called an end in the strictest sense, and even the gods of the Pantheon had abandoned efforts to restore the material world. But he hadn’t watched the final moment with his own eyes.
So this dream was just a fragment of his imagination—a fabrication.
“Oh, is that so? How impressive.”
At that instant, a cackling voice came from behind him. Fernandez couldn’t hold back a laugh and turned around.
An old man in resplendent robes grinned crookedly at him.
“What? Happy to see me?”
“Is there a madman out there who’d be happy to see himself?”
Feizashi cackled at his words and waved a hand dismissively. In a flash, mana intertwined to form a chair and a table. He plopped down onto the chair with exaggerated nonchalance, conjured a teacup, and offered it to Fernandez.
“Have some. It’s Dex leaves from the hells, brewed with mana-tainted water. Top-shelf stuff.”
“Ah, I’ve missed this. The flavor too.”
“You know it. Dreams are the best. You can eat and drink whatever you want from your memories.”
Feizashi and Fernandez shared similar smirks as they raised their teacups. A demon plummeted from the sky with a thud, splattering against the ground. Feizashi gazed at the scene and spoke.
“How’s that world treating you?”
“Honestly, I don’t quite get it, Feizashi.”
“What?”
“We merged our souls. Strictly speaking, the distinction between you and me after the split no longer exists. There’s no Feizashi or Fernandez anymore. So—”
“An individual consciousness like mine shouldn’t exist?”
“Exactly.”
Feizashi waggled a finger at Fernandez’s question, cackling. His twisted digit traced the air, and mana wove into bizarre patterns. Meaningless charms—mere finger games—floated about, tying and untying themselves in the void.
“What’s so remarkable about conversing with yourself in a dream?”
“So this is just a hallucination I’ve conjured? Meaning you don’t truly exist, Feizashi?”
“If you want to dive into deep philosophical musings even in your dreams, I’ll play along. But is it necessary?”
Feizashi chuckled wryly and took a sip of tea.
“Just enjoy it. For us, cast out for failing to enjoy life, don’t we deserve at least these dreamlike moments?”
“Deserve... deserving.”
“Even if we save the material world and bring ‘peace upon all the lands,’ will we get so much as a patch of farmland or a sheaf of grain? Do we truly believe those things are rightfully ours? Peace... do we have a place in that beautiful picture? Fernandez. We’re nothing but fools trying to mop up spilled water and wring the soaked rag back into the bowl.”
So why not permit himself at least his dreams? He stared straight into Fernandez’s eyes as he said it.
It was true. Everything he was doing now—for the prime material plane, or more precisely for the Reverse Heaven Ritual—was atonement, self-deception, regret, and a bargain all at once. Just a child’s whim, trying to rebuild a sandcastle that had crumbled.
But Fernandez shook his head. Even if it was a dream, he couldn’t allow himself rest. For a mage, stagnation meant regression. Time spent standing still to catch his breath was no different from retreat.
Hadn’t he vowed never to grow complacent for even a single moment of his life? That was the one oath he had sworn upon his soul.
Fernandez set down his teacup and rose to his feet.
“It’s been a pleasant chat, Feizashi. And yes, I’m glad to see you. Sincerely.”
“Leaving already?”
“Yes. Plenty to do. A fitting reunion for us probably belongs in the distant future—on my last day.”
“But remember this: I’m a part of you that you created, and this moment is nothing more than self-reflection disguised as a dream.”
-Rumble...
The sky began to collapse, the earth to split. Beyond it, there was no starry night sky or subterranean vista as there should have been. Just deep darkness. A profound, lightless abyss.
The dream’s boundaries were crumbling. Amid it all, Feizashi, still clutching his teacup, smiled at the receding Fernandez.
“Thus, my words are another truth of your heart. Fernandez Cerned. You won’t admit it, but don’t you crave rest... no, peace?”
“Someday.”
Fernandez glanced back at the fading Feizashi with a bitter smile.
“At least not today, or tomorrow, but someday.”
-Thud!
The world drowned in darkness, and with the sensation of his body being swept away, the dream shattered.
* * *
As always, Fernandez assessed his body’s condition before opening his eyes. He twitched his fingers slightly, loosening his muscles from head to toe, and contemplated the mana within him. The mana circuits were nearly back to normal function, and aside from faint muscle soreness, no notable injuries registered.
Sunlight warmed his eyelids, making them tingle pleasantly. He opened his eyes slowly. Against the backdrop of a large window, Abel gazed down at him intently.
“You’re awake?”
After staring blankly into her blue eyes for a moment, he realized he was lying with his head in her lap. This was her room.
As his sleep-numbed mind cleared, he recalled treating her body before drifting off. Her spirit form had been damaged from wounds sustained during the Kingsgate siege.
“How long was I out?”
“Ah, you can keep lying there. Only three or four hours, at most.”
“That’s plenty.”
Even in his Religiosa Demonica days, he’d thrived on four hours of sleep every three days. His current body wasn’t much different, so four hours was luxurious—positively indulgent.
Fernandez cracked his back with a pop and sat up. Abel watched him with a wistful expression before rising herself.
“It’s still early morning, Fernandez. Shall I fetch some breakfast?”
“I’m fine. How’s your body feeling?”
“Nothing compared to the ordeals you’ve endured. But thank you. I feel truly alive again.”
“Good to hear.”
He turned his head and paused, spotting Kirhas at the doorway. Her eyes were bloodshot red, arms crossed.
“What are you doing there?”
“It’s so unfair. So, so, so unfair!”
She stomped over, puffing indignantly, and plopped down in front of him. Her tail swished upright, thwacking her own thigh.
“Come on, lie down here. Sleep four more hours! I mean, sir benefactor, did you know? Normal people need about eight hours a day! You’ve had four, so now it’s my turn to be your pillow for half.”
“No such hobby.”
“I do!”
“Wish you didn’t.”
Fernandez stepped past her toward the door. Gripping the handle, he turned to Kirhas.
“How’d it go?”
“You’re too much! I’m really, really upset. I got hurt too, you know! My cheek almost got pierced—it was a close call!”
“You’ve suffered.”
Kirhas huffed at his utterly insincere tone, then deflated, her tail drooping. She let out a plaintive rumble like a wounded cat, eyes welling up.
“How could I focus on work with you sleeping in Abel’s lap?”
“Failed?”
“No, it was impossible from the start! They wouldn’t even talk!”
Kirhas wailed, and only then did Fernandez smile, ruffling her hair.
“That’s fine. Grab some food with Abel. There’ll be a victory banquet in the king’s presence tonight, so afterward, let’s contact Ana for the first time in ages. We need updates on the Catfolk Alliance too.”
“Yes!!”
Kirhas perked up her ears and beamed. Fernandez gave her a brief glance, twisted the doorknob, and opened it.
“Oh, right. Where are those guys now?”
“They’ve set up camp under the cathedral! No one’s going near them, so it won’t be hard to find.”
“Priests, honestly.”
Fernandez chuckled dryly and exited the room.
* * *
“Um... sir... knight. Is there... something specific...?”
“...”
“Anything you need...?”
“...”
A peddler selling simple provisions near the refugee lines stammered at the knight blocking his path.
Like most merchants, the man had a sturdy build and considerable height. But the knight before him had shoulders twice as broad and stood a full head taller, staring down silently.
The peddler’s guts had shrunk long ago under that icy gaze peeking from beneath the helmet’s visor. Speech felt like a miracle; trembling, the rural merchant fumbled toward his pouch.
“P-Perhaps... stall fees...?”
“...”
“Eek! N-No, then tribute... or... uh... uh...!”
Noticing the knight’s glare sour, the peddler flinched and clutched coins haphazardly. He’d seen these terrifying knights butcher Fairn’s elite troops during the Kingsgate siege. This one was dressed the same, longsword sheathed at his hip.
-Clink!
Then, a copper coin sailed over the knight’s shoulder, landing squarely in the peddler’s hand. He peered past in bewilderment. A young man in light tunic approached.
“That enough for some jerky?”
“Y-Yes, milord!”
Even a rogue knight wouldn’t slaughter innocents in broad daylight—especially not under Altbert’s cathedral. Grateful for the witness who’d appeared on his own, the peddler hurriedly handed over a bundle of jerky.
The youth took it stone-faced and passed it to the knight beside him.
“...”
“Macto supelau do, brother. Was this what you needed?”
The knight eyed him steadily, then nodded curtly. The youth turned to the flustered peddler.
“This knight can’t speak due to his vows. I hope you understand.”
“Oh dear! What’s not to understand? This country bumpkin’s ignorant of the world! All my fault!”
“No need for that. You’ve been generous—thank you.”
Catching the peddler’s desperate plea to take more and leave, the youth smirked and turned away. The knight still loomed silently.
“Fernandez Cerned, ordained priest of St. Bartholomew Monastery, greets my far-traveled brother. Brother, do you know if His Holiness’s envoy has arrived at the camp?”
“...”
The knight glanced between the jerky and Fernandez, then nodded and turned, striding off. Fernandez shook his head wryly and followed.
The Pope of Beitasser’s Church wasn’t so incompetent or emotional as to send vow-bound knights into a secular war without preparation. Naturally, someone from the Papal Court—able to communicate—accompanied the order.
He needed to meet that person. To learn why the Papacy had intervened in this war.
The Pope’s involvement. Had the Pantheon Church resolved to clash directly with material world royals? Was it Beitasser’s unilateral action? If the Conciliar Declaration had collapsed, what of relations between dioceses?
Each was a critical issue that could shatter the fragile peace like thin ice. If disputes between dioceses escalated, the Pantheon’s dissolution could spark a religious war.
Praying it wouldn’t come to that, Fernandez followed the pilgrim knight past Altbert’s gates onto the plain.