Assault on the Capital (3)
Assault on the Capital (3)
The massive sawblade came slicing down toward Mapheltan’s head.
He didn’t move—just gazed calmly at the oncoming steel.
A flicker of doubt passed across Azbal’s face.
The moment he sensed something was off, blue mana flared around Illea.
A biting chill swallowed the air.
Azbal froze in mid-fall, transformed into a sculpture of ice.
Beautiful—but art never lasts.
Cracks spread across the frozen surface, and with a shattering crash, the statue exploded.
Fragments of ice scattered into the night sky.
A giant bird swooped in, snatching Azbal away.
From a safe distance, he called out, “A mage, are you?”
He seemed a little surprised, but still wore his easy smile.
He was the type whose face naturally smiled.
“Something like that,” Illea replied.
“You open the spatial gate too?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s your name? Feels like I’ve heard of you.”
Any mage of high caliber would have been on the church’s radar.
Practicing magic itself was a crime, and a powerful mage’s existence alone was a calamity.
A true master could reduce an entire city to dust on a whim—so the church kept constant vigilance against them.
“That’s a tricky question,” Illea said.
Azbal’s narrow eyes swept over her.
With her black hood and mask, her identity was impossible to discern by sight.
Her voice was likely altered as well.
Mages were meticulous like that.
Azbal scratched at his headscarf.
“Damn. I bragged I’d find out who’s behind this, and here we are.”
Just confirming that the White Horn was behind the incident was already a major achievement—yet it felt lacking somehow.
Illea tapped Mapheltan’s arm and whispered, “…I’m at my limit.”
Her mana was gone. The spatial transference array would soon close.
They had to leave the capital.
Mapheltan nodded.
“You’ve done well. More than enough.”
He’d reaped plenty of fear, earned the evil deed of attacking the capital, and diverted attention away from the south.
A solid result.
The Dark Elf spoke.
“You’re leaving?”
“It’s about time.”
“Don’t forget our contract.”
“How could I? My life’s on the line.”
As he turned away, Azbal spoke up.
“Not leaving. We'll finish this now.”
Mapheltan smiled faintly at him.
“We’ll meet again. Keep this until then.”
From his hand, a small black faerie took shape and flew toward Azbal.
“What’s this?”
“A channel to speak with me.”
“Told you already—demons don’t do conversation.”
Before Mapheltan could reply, Azbal launched from the bird’s back, raising his Visored vertically.
The massive saw reflected the moonlight, flashing cold blue.
The Dark Elf leapt as well, twin black daggers in hand.
Azbal brought the saw down.
The Dark Elf crossed his blades to meet it.
Steel clashed with steel.
Holy power collided with demonic energy.
A massive shockwave rippled out, snapping Illea’s hood back.
A sharp tearing sound screamed through the night.
Azbal bore down harder.
“You’re annoying. Step aside, lackey.”
The Dark Elf shouted desperately,
“Go! I can’t hold him long!”
The saw was chewing through the daggers, inch by inch.
The Dark Elf was forced lower and lower.
Mapheltan spoke in a low voice.
“I’ll keep my word.”
Then he and Illea slipped slowly into the spatial gate.
He kept his composure to the end.
If he was to live as an Apostle, he had to act like one.
Once they were gone, the array’s light faded.
Darkness returned to the night sky.
The Dark Elf plummeted toward the ground—a trail of white radiance following him.
Holy power was burning his body to ash.
From atop the great bird, Azbal gazed at the fading remains of the array.
“…Got away.”
The black faerie landed on his shoulder.
He hesitated briefly, then clenched it in his fist.
“No talking to demons. Next time, I'll cut you in half.”
He flicked the faerie’s head.
With a dull thump, its body burst apart into black smoke.
***
In the Death Gorge, Raguel stood alone, taking in his surroundings.
His eyes shone with life.
Just the fact that light entered his vision and shapes formed on his retinas filled him with excitement.
Simply seeing was happiness.
No longer would he live blind.
Nor was he a cripple anymore.
Strength filled his body. His new flesh gave him pure joy.
He began to run.
He didn’t stop until his lungs burned.
He ran until he collapsed.
Lying on the ground, tears welled up.
“…Thank you.”
Johan had truly kept his promise—bringing light to a life of nothing but darkness.
It had been an exchange, a transaction… but the chance itself was enough to be grateful for.
God had ignored his prayers. Johan had answered them.
In his heart, the Grand Saint was already gone.
Johan had taken that place.
Since Johan had given him a reason to live, the path Johan showed would now become his own.
Raguel swallowed his resolve.
As he wiped his tears, a familiar voice came from behind.
“So here you were, staging a one-man drama.”
Raguel spun around.
Mapheltan approached with a faint smirk.
“M–Mapheltan!”
From his arms, Zal’karin popped out.
“Tsk! The ‘Left Hand of the End’ is getting sentimental, are we?”
Zal’karin’s appearance had changed greatly.
From a tiny furball, he’d become a small demon with a clearly divided upper and lower body.
His red fur flickered like tiny flames; his once-round body was now more elongated.
He was also bigger—about the size of a grown man’s forearm.
“Zal’karin?” Raguel asked, startled.
The little demon smirked.
“How do I look now, kid? Still think I’m pathetic?”
Honestly, he didn’t look that threatening yet.
“Yeah, still. But you have grown.”
Red flames shot from Zal’karin’s mouth.
“Even with this?!”
Illea sighed, pulling back her hood.
She ignored Zal’karin and said,
“You’ve changed a lot yourself, young master.”
Raguel looked almost like a different person now—his skin pale to the point of translucence, his hair a cascade of golden light, and his eyes a natural jade.
In his left eye glowed Mapheltan’s sigil.
Raguel’s eyes went wide.
“I–Illea?”
He froze like a statue.
“Yes, it’s me. Why?” Illea tilted her head.
Before losing his sight, he had seen her once or twice—but never realized she was this beautiful.
She was like a divine sculpture.
His heightened perception as a High Elf now let him judge beauty more objectively—and Illea was a different kind of being entirely from humans.
“You’re… like a doll,” he said, stunned.
Illea smiled gently.
“And you’re quite something yourself. Thank you.”
Raguel turned to Mapheltan.
“You’re still a little scary.”
“This is pretty good for a demon,” Mapheltan said with a click of his tongue.
Scary, maybe—but not disgusting.
“I… guess so. Compared to the demons in the tomb, that’s true,” Raguel admitted.
Those had been truly hideous.
Mapheltan studied him.
“My face aside… the problem is you, Raguel.”
Illea nodded.
“Yes, this could be a problem.”
Tension flickered in Raguel’s expression.
“Am… am I that bad?”
“You’ve changed too much,” Mapheltan said. “Your skin was pale before, sure—but now your hair and eyes are completely different.”
It was a bigger issue than expected.
Everyone in the lord’s manor who knew him would notice.
“For now, you can wear an eyepatch and dye your hair, but that’s just temporary,” Illea said.
“We’ll need a permanent solution,” Mapheltan replied.
“I’ll think about it too.”
Illea approached Raguel.
“Excuse me for a moment, young master.”
She placed a hand on his head.
Deep blue mana wrapped around him—his hair shifting to a dull brown.
He looked a little more like his old self.
“Recovered your mana already?” Mapheltan asked.
“My familiar is nearby,” she replied.
A mage could borrow demonic energy to convert into mana; a witch could draw it automatically from her familiar.
“The World Tree?”
She smiled.
“You already knew.”
Not from her—he’d known from the original story.
“Something like that. Go on then—you have business with it, don’t you?”
She gazed at him for a moment, then said,
“I’ve made up my mind.”
“About what?”
“I’ll tell you when I’m back.”
Mapheltan frowned.
“What are you—”
“Just wait a moment.”
She walked off toward the World Tree.
***
Time passed.
The sun would be up soon, and Illea still hadn’t returned.
Mapheltan wanted to be back in his domain before dawn.
Just as he was getting impatient, she appeared in the distance, her steps lighter than before and a deep smile on her face.
She stopped before him.
“I have something to tell you.”
Her demeanor was different—serious enough to make him tense.
“If it’s not important, can we discuss it back home?”
“No. It has to be now.”
He clicked his tongue.
“Then spit it out—the sun’s almost up.”
Her expression turned solemn.
“I’ve been thinking—about how a Thirteenth Apostle could exist.”
“And?”
“If the Twelve Apostles are the gods of the Twelve Forgotten Races… then the Thirteenth could also be the god of a race.”
His face grew still.
“…What are you implying?”
“I think you know.”
He had an idea—but had never spoken it aloud, knowing the taboo among witches.
“Witches do not believe in gods,” he said.
Illea’s eyes softened into a smile.
Then she suddenly knelt on one knee.
Surprise flickered across his face.
“Then… how about I believe, starting now?”
“What are you—”
Her voice was steady.
“Devour my familiar, Mapheltan. O Thirteenth End.”
She meant for him to absorb the World Tree.
Mapheltan was utterly taken aback.