Do You Know Yullan Egoman?
Only a tiny handful of people could answer the question above. But change it slightly, and almost everyone in the world could respond.
Do you know the Saint?
Ask it that way, and anyone who can speak—even a child—would nod.
But pose it like this, and even those who nodded before would furrow their brows.
Do you know where the Saint is?
It's said that Saint Yullan Egoman returned to the Holy Empire after defeating the Demon King. Yet since the demons vanished, the Saint has never appeared at any public event. Even among the Holy Empire's upper echelons, scarcely anyone knows his whereabouts.
The Holy Empire's capital is the Papal Court, carved into rugged mountains. Behind it lies a vast plateau that people call the Holy Land.
It's a world where gods don't perform miracles. A world where history itself is called god.
The high priests know there is no god. And yet they don't deny his existence. Knowing there is none drives them to an even more fanatical obsession with proving it.
What could be more futile than a history denied by its very subject?
If they denied god, the church's history—the Holy Empire's history—would end.
According to the Holy Empire's records, the Holy Land is where god descended. It's strictly guarded; even the Pope would face severe punishment under doctrine for trespassing carelessly.
The Holy Land. Smoke rose from the world's most sacred ground.
The source was a kiln.
In the heart of this holy soil stood a massive kiln. Beneath it, logs and charcoal blazed. Smoke billowed from the connected chimney toward the sky.
A proper kiln has vents for precise temperature control. Whatever you bake inside needs careful heat management. But this one lacked any such devices. Instead, it had a door.
A door big enough for a person to pass through.
Open the earthen door—built to withstand the kiln's heat—and step inside to an inferno hot enough to melt iron. No flames lit the interior; it was pitch black.
A kiln devoid of even a single point of light.
The Saint was there.
In a pit where meat would char to ash before it even warmed, he sat naked with eyes closed.
The Saint's expression was serene. No mystical aura shielded him from the heat. He endured the kiln's blaze purely with his body.
This was the Saint's training—a sight that made countless priests and even Popes who came to meet him gasp and turn away in horror. A feat possible only for those called Inhuman.
The Saint had no body hair. It had all burned away soon after he entered the kiln. His head had been shaved long before, but that's another story.
Sitting naked in the kiln, he resembled a fetus in its mother's womb.
In the darkness, the Saint opened his eyes. They were clear as a child's.
He, who had been facing forward, now lifted his head.
"Mar. What brings you here?"
Light appeared on the kiln's ceiling. A brilliant star-like glow illuminated the interior. Light he hadn't seen in months.
Yet the Saint showed no discomfort from the glare. Controlling his flesh was child's play for him.
The light spoke.
"The seal's broken. You felt it, right?"
"Something must have happened. And Marhal can handle it alone. Didn't we teach him?"
"I'm not worried about Marhal. I taught him to deal with anything on his own."
"We taught him."
Mar was stubbornly fixated on the oddest details. And he himself matched her retort for retort without missing a beat.
A faint smile tugged at the Saint's lips. When it came to them, he could shed his saintly mantle and become merely human—Yullan.
In truth, no one else saw him as human anymore.
"Then why contact me? I'm busy."
"You really plan to go through with it? That absurd idea of becoming a god."
"When opportunity knocks, ignoring it would be foolish, wouldn't it?"
Even through the light, her incredulity was palpable.
After the Demon King vanished, the five who stood in her place had amassed histories transcending mere humanity.
The world lumped the four of them together as Inhuman, but they truly became so only after the Demon King's fall.
Each reacted differently to shedding their humanity.
The Hero laughed it off—good was good.
The mage sought to analyze her own history.
The thief griped about his suddenly youthful face.
The guide sought new paths.
And the Saint aimed higher.
Having escaped humanity, there must be something beyond. That was godhood.
The Saint sought to become a god.
The Holy Empire's atrocities were committed in god's name. A mere phantom god couldn't halt them.
The Saint was the same. If he alone tried to upend the Holy Empire, rivers of blood would flow endlessly.
He wanted to change it without bloodshed. Thus, he chose godhood.
His companions' reactions to his declaration varied wildly. The Hero thought it possible. The thief and mage called him mad. The guide asked if there was a path to it.
With the mage's and guide's help, the Saint found the way to godhood.
It had been nearly ten years—perhaps more.
"Are you listening?"
"No. I was lost in thought for a moment."
"When was the last time you checked your history?"
"No idea. I don't remember."
To see history. Impossible for most—even master mages or superhumans. But not for them.
"Then look. We're not moving, so they've started their nonsense first."
Yullan closed his eyes. His mind soared away.
It seemed above, yet was below; appeared below, but was above. Flying through a disorienting space without direction, Yullan's mind reached a certain place.
A transparent space with a towering white tower. This tower was Yullan's history as a man.
The tower he had built was pure white, without a single flaw.
But the one he saw now bore a gray stain. A corner at the base had turned gray.
Yullan opened his eyes.
"History Succession. Or should I call it theft?"
"You've been hit too, huh."
"You as well, Mar?"
"Call us Inhuman or Hero all you want. In the end, those with power think alike. They'll seize and dominate by any means."
"What will you do?"
"Leave it be for now. What we've built won't crumble to cheap tricks. But something else concerns me, so I'll watch that instead."
"What?"
"Would the Empire and Holy Empire be satisfied with just our histories? If they succeed, there's a history that could hand them the world."
"...The demons' history."
Easier to steal than their histories, with owners staring wide-eyed. The demons' history, scattered when the Demon King died, was ripe for the taking.
"Should I help?"
"Not yet. Just keep it in mind. Neither the Empire nor Holy Empire can inherit demon history just by making new ones. You know that."
"Because Marhal holds it."
Inheriting demon history was harder than stealing from the mage or Saint. Their histories were public; the demons' was sealed in one man.
It wouldn't be released until everything ended.
"If we move, it'll be a wildcard among giant histories. Prepare for a rare outing, just in case. You know what I mean."
"Understood."
The light vanished. The kiln plunged back into darkness.
Human Yullan became the Saint once more and closed his eyes.
At Marhal's call, Marina turned.
She had been glaring at a painting from nose-touching distance. At his voice, she stepped back two paces, glanced around, and greeted him with faintly flushed cheeks.
"Nice to see you. You're that guy from before..."
"We didn't exchange names. Marhal."
"Ah, Marhal. Nice to meet you. I knew you were a landlord, but invited to this gathering?"
Marina asked in surprise. By her reckoning, only landlords with major influence in the West could attend. Winning land took youth; building villages, cities, and profits took experience. The famous landlords she'd met were all over forty. Marhal, who looked under thirty, was impressive.
"I'm reasonably well-known."
"But why enter another Land Race?"
"The more land and history, the better."
"Pardon? What was that?"
Land and history. Everyone coming West wanted land. Few equated land with history. Only heads or heirs of great noble houses grasped that link.
Her question sliced empty air. The one to answer had entered the meeting room with his group.
"Wait, hold on!"
Marina called, but Marhal didn't stop. The door closed, leaving her alone in the hall.
The artworks that had captivated her moments ago no longer mattered.
Marina headed for the room Marhal had entered.
As Marhal entered the room, dozens of gazes stabbed at him. Hostility and indifference dominated; friendliness was scarce.
Marhal's land management differed sharply from others'. Even merchant Ena seriously suggested raising taxes—imagine how grating he seemed to the other landlords.
Should I have kept a lower profile?
Had Marhal deliberately hidden, they couldn't know his face. This stemmed from his choice not to hide. To build influence fast from the Land Race's start, it was the best way.
Marhal scanned the attendees. Most were dismissible. Similar types, moved by money and power—movers of money and power.
Three warranted caution.
Azenman, who could backstab anyone if the math worked. Count Lugen, who seemed dim but wasn't. And that priest up front.
Priest Ales. Dressed and titled as such, but officially defrocked.
Priests are god-chosen. Impersonation is heresy, punishable by summary execution.
Yet Ales wasn't branded heretic or hunted by the church.
If Count Lugen represented the Empire's will in the West as Small Empire's lord, Priest Ales was the Holy Empire's unofficial proxy among western landlords.
Agents of the East, in a way.
One each from Duchy, Empire, Holy Empire.
Azenman would deny it, but with many ties to the Duchy, its politics inevitably shaped his decisions.
If they were the East's proxies, the West's was here.
Last heir of the Bachea Empire. Inheritor of the Paulownia Crown.
"Landlord Marhal, you may introduce one person to the gathering. Two violates the rule set from the start. Dismiss one immediately."
Ales said.
Holy Empire liturgical tongue. Not as potent as ancient imperial for crushing foes, but effective.
Marhal knew it too. A few stress shifts and grammar tweaks turned Holy Empire speech into liturgical.
He countered in perfect liturgical Holy Empire tongue.
"Priest Ales, are you serious?"
"By god's name. I am."
"It's been a year and half since I showed my face. Dementia set in that fast?"
"What?!"
"One per landholding. You were here when the gathering formed—forgot something that crucial? I'll send memory-boosting tonic soon."
"Fine. My slip. But another issue: we know only one land of yours."
Marhal sighed—an overt dismissal.
"Priest, you've really lost your edge while I was away? Or do you want all-out war? Where was I lately? Which land did my proxy manage?"
Ales had been competent as priest. Capable landlord too, but only that. Probe further, and answers soured: ignorant, arrogant, buoyed by Holy Empire backing for loyal underlings.
Even now, his allied landlords glared at Marhal.
"All-out war? Not a bad idea."
"Is that so?"
Ales, priest-bred with elect complex. Marhal stayed meek if untouched—but no landlord who poked him survived unscathed.
Onlookers Lugen and Azenman exchanged glances. Rivals clashing was welcome, but not now.
"Save the fight for later. If you still want it after my piece, I won't stop you."
Two doors: front for Marhal, back for staff.
Marina entered through the back.
A small fireball appeared in the room's center.
"I despise political rhetoric. Straight to the point: demons have begun reappearing in the West."
Demons. The word silenced all.