Prologue — The Night Humanity Bought Tomorrow

It was a stark contrast to the deep indigo night sky, brimming with stars.

A mountain of corpses. A sea of blood. Bodies piled upon bodies until the horizon itself ran red.

Everywhere he looked, there was nothing but crimson. And because every last one of the dead wore pristine white robes, the dark blood soaking into them stood out all the more vividly.

"...Answer me."

The man standing dazed at the heart of the battlefield murmured in a low voice.

"If any survivor remains, answer me."

"If you cannot speak, moving or even a groan will do."

"Please. Please, anyone at all—just answer me..."

His voice trailed off, and he bowed his head. His face looked as though the slightest touch might set him weeping.

He knew. Of course he knew. If anyone had survived, his mana detection would have found them already.

In the end, no one.

No one had survived. The one hundred and fifty-three mages who had entrusted him with their lives had willingly made this place their grave. In exchange for pouring out their boundless futures, their limitless potential, their very lives—what he had gained was...

"This."

The man stared down at a severed head lying carelessly at his feet.

So this was the result. The head of the Great Emperor—the first to unite the demon race and drive humanity to the very brink of extinction.

"Just... this..."

The words wouldn't come. To speak them aloud would be to drag through the mud every soul who had sacrificed themselves for this outcome.

A wet cough wracked him, and he spat up black blood. His body crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.

He had been holding himself together, stitching his shattered heart shut with layer upon layer of mana—but even that had reached its limit. The time allowed to him, too, was nearly spent.

"April 28th, 3:12 in the morning. The death of the Great Emperor has been confirmed."

Just then, an expressionless voice—neither high nor low—echoed at his ear. His gaze, dimming by the second, drifted toward its source.

"...Edna, is it?"

"Yes."

The last dragon remaining in this world, and the observer who recorded its history. Edna Sol Laplace stepped closer, fixed her characteristically unreadable eyes on the Great Emperor's severed head, and spoke.

"I have good news and bad news."

"The bad news first."

She hesitated a moment, then began carefully.

"As anticipated, the demon army invaded the White Magic Tower. In the assault, most of the mages were killed, the tower was half-destroyed, and nearly the entirety of its grimoires and research materials—practically all of them—burned."

The man's eyes trembled faintly as he listened. He had known this would happen. He had known, and still he had chosen to abandon that place and kill the Great Emperor instead. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠And yet, being human, he had no way to smother the emotion surging up inside him.

"...And the good news?"

"The imperial forces arrived faster than expected and rescued some of the survivors—including your disciples."

At those words, a strange relief washed over him. If it was his disciples—those young geniuses—he trusted they would restore the fallen White Tower to its former glory.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Kgh... kgh!"

Perhaps it was because the weight in his chest had lifted, even just a little. For a man standing at death's door, his heart was remarkably calm.

Edna, who had been watching his face intently, asked, "Do you regret the choice you made today?"

"...No."

No—more precisely, couldn't would be the right word. The man gave a bitter smile and swept his sorrowful gaze across the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠corpses around him.

"Every single one of them—I handpicked them myself and brought them here."

How could he possibly tell people like that that it had been a mistake? That he regretted bringing them to this place? It would be an insult to the subordinates who had trusted him with their very lives.

But... to say I have no regrets at all would be a lie.

Tonight, humanity had seized a future called tomorrow—but the White Tower had lost everything, its legacy of the past included. He knew it had been an unavoidable choice, and still a thread of regret kept circling the edges of his heart.

I may have been the greatest mage, but perhaps I wasn't a very good head of the tower.

The thought came to him out of nowhere. What if he had lived not as humanity's hero, but selfishly—looking after only his own? What would have become of things then?

"...Kgh!"

Idle thoughts, and this was as far as they went. Death was closing in. The moon filling his vision swam and wavered, splitting into many.

"Do you have any final words to leave behind?"

"...My disciples."

The man recalled the three disciples who had been rescued safely, and smiled bitterly.

"Look after them from time to time. They're still so young. They must be terribly frightened."

"...I will check on them now and then."

Sensing his end was near, Edna bowed with perfect formality. It was a courtesy far too great for a demigod dragon to offer a human—but ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the man before her had earned it.

"This observer, and the continent, will not forget the sacred sacrifice rendered by the heroes of the White Tower."

"Of course... that's how it should be."

His eyes were closing now. An irresistible drowsiness pounced on his whole body like a ravenous beast. Never in his life had his eyelids felt so heavy. Never before...

Thud.

"..."

For a long while after that, Edna kept watch over the ground where the white mage slept. The record she left behind that day was a simple one.

A soft rustle. The moment a pleasant breeze gently stirred the curtains—

"Ack!"

With someone's scream, Oscar's eyes snapped open.

"Wh-what's wrong with you?! I was just trying to swap out your cold compress!"

"..."

He realized he was gripping the other person's wrist in a vice and slowly released it.

The man shook out his tingling wrist and grumbled, "I nurse you back to health, and this is what I get... You've got a nasty sleep habit, you know that?"

"...Sleep habit?"

Oscar murmured quietly—then bolted upright in bed.

I was asleep? That deep? Completely defenseless?

He would never make such an amateur mistake. No—more than that, wasn't he already dead? The proof was his shattered heart—

"...Huh?"

Thump. Thump.

It was beating. His heart—the one the Great Emperor had torn to shreds—was somehow beating, whole and sound.

Just as Oscar, unable to make sense of the situation, opened his mouth to demand answers—

BOOM!

The hospital room door flew open with a crash loud enough to bring down a wall.

"So you're already awake."

As a man in his mid-thirties, draped in the robe of the White Tower, strode inside, the young man who had been tending the patient hastily blocked his path, his face draining of color.

"E-Elder! He only just opened his eyes—maybe you could scold him a little later—"

"Out of my way, Franc. This once, I must give that boy a proper talking-to."

"Oh, I wholeheartedly agree! A very proper talking-to. But perhaps with a little time in between—"

Oscar watched the two of them wrangle in silence, then abruptly asked, "How did I survive?"

"...Ha! Right—I suppose it would seem a miracle to you too."

The man let out a hollow laugh, brushed past Franc, and approached the bed. Looking down at Oscar with hard, unflinching eyes, he asked, "Do you remember what you did?"

"..."

What he did. He presumably meant how Oscar had led out the White Tower's elite mages and perished together with the Great Emperor. His heart seemed to be in perfect working order, judging by the way it throbbed like this.

"I remember. But it was a choice I had no alternative to—for the sake of humanity."

"...What? For the sake of humanity? You had no alternative?"

The man scoffed, and sparks flared in his eyes.

"Was there some grand justification behind the embezzlement you committed?"

"...Hm?"

Embezzlement? He'd never done any such thing—

The moment Oscar looked up at him, bewildered, the man—furious down to the roots of his hair—roared, "You pathetic, worthless fool! If you'd shown even a shred of genuine remorse, I'd have been willing to show some leniency!"

Along with the roar of rage, an open palm came hurtling down toward the crown of his head. Oscar instinctively cast a spell.

Wind Shield.

In an instant, a curtain of wind swept up and began spinning furiously above his head. The moment it struck, the man's wrist would snap like a straw stalk.

"Hm? Now this is..."

Then the man, having gauged the refinement of the Wind Shield, suddenly froze his palm midair. He put on an expression of considerable surprise, and his anger cooled a notch.

"...Not bad. So you haven't been merely idling your time away, have you."

He studied Oscar with a complicated look, then whirled around.

"Your disciplinary hearing is postponed until you've fully recovered. Devote yourself to nothing but rest for the time being."

With those parting words, the man left the room—and the blue-haired young man called Franc immediately darted over.

"Hey, are you actually insane? You know exactly how the Elder's temper is. Why would you poke the hornet's nest?"

"...Elder?"

Oscar had no elder like that under his command. Most likely a mage brought in from one of the White Tower's branches—because a mage with the skill and standing to become an elder, in the White Tower of now...

There wouldn't be a single one.

Oscar's expression turned bitter. He quickly composed himself and asked, "What's the date today?"

"September 21st."

"...I slept for five whole months?"

"What kind of nonsense is that? It's barely been three days."

Three days? He had killed the Great Emperor on April 28th, so five months should have passed without question. Wearing a look that said something was deeply wrong, Oscar spoke up.

"First, bring me Lloyd. If he's not there, then Gilli or Sasha. I need to hear the full situation from the kids."

"...What. So it's not an act—you really do have memory lapses?"

Franc stared at him, dumbfounded.

"If it's not that... I could believe traitors, sure, but there's no way you'd just toss around the Tower Master's name like that?"

"Traitors?"

"Yeah. Traitors."

Franc nodded.

"Lloyd Schultz, who abandoned the White Tower and became the Red Tower Master's disciple. And Gilliot Dominic, who made off with a high-tier grimoire."

"...What?"

Lloyd—that boy had joined the Red Tower? And Gilli had stolen a high-tier grimoire and run?

"What kind of ridiculous—" He couldn't abide slander of anyone, but his disciples? Never. Just as Oscar's anger flared, he faltered. To his eye, which could read the wind, the air around Franc was utterly calm.

Then... everything he said is true?

His mind was reeling.

"Those kids... traitors... wait. And you're saying Sasha is the Tower Master?"

"She's an exemplary one."

"...How does a five-year-old child become Tower Master?"

"Why are you skipping the twenty years in front of it?"

Twenty years in front? So Sasha was twenty-five? Which meant he himself had been asleep for a full twenty years?

...He looks perfectly fine, but there's something wrong with his head.

Letting out a sigh, Oscar turned his head toward the polished window—and caught sight of his own reflection in the glass.

"..."

And who might you be?