Alasil Heals Marhal's Wounds
Alasil had healed Marhal's wounds. It was a miracle he was even alive. One arm was mangled from the wrist down, hand and all, while the other had shattered bones and torn ligaments. That alone would cripple most people. No priest in the city church could handle injuries like these.
The worst was the gash in his side. Blood poured from the torn flesh, his innards peeking through. Even if somehow stitched up, infection would claim him. Alasil had witnessed the clash between Marhal and Gaster. This was just a glancing blow. A direct hit would've reduced a man to bloody pulp, no trace left. An absurd monster. And that monster had vanished without a whisper.
Nothing remained where Gaster had stood—not even the black demon mist they'd all heard tales of. She had no idea what happened inside that fog. But Marhal had slain the beast. A feat for the history books. And now that hero lay with his head in her lap as she mended him.
The side wound closed rapidly. Not some incurable disease, just raw trauma—easy enough to fix. Fake successor or not, she bore the Egoman name proudly. She could work miracles worthy of it.
Next came the hands. As she reached for his crushed one, her gaze lingered on Marhal's fingers.
"Slice one off clean, regrow it—bet he wouldn't even notice?"
Regenerating an arm was beyond her still, but a finger? Doable. Just one as a keepsake…
Crazy bitch. What the hell are you even thinking?
Healing him was barely keeping up as it was—now she wanted to lop off a digit? She was certifiably insane. Alasil refocused on the treatment.
She was healing Marhal. That alone satisfied her. Someone who trusted her with his life. A sensation she'd never tasted in the orphanage, the back alleys, or the Holy Empire. Was this how addicts felt, unable to quit? If so, she got it now.
Alasil continued the healing. All the while, her eyes kept drifting back to his fingers, lingering far too long before pulling away.
Marhal stood on the earth. No better word for it. Endless stretches of land and sky, dotted with towers large and small between them. Each tower unique—no two alike, even if they seemed similar at a glance. Sizes varied wildly: tiny spires barely visible to the eye, giants scraping the heavens.
A tower loomed behind him too, starkly different. Three lines twisted together into a single form: a central pillar with two serpentine strands coiling up it endlessly, vanishing into the heights.
Marhal had seen it all, but never a space this bizarre.
"So you've finally made it here. Or was it some freak incident?"
A figure appeared before him. She pulled back the cloth hooding her head, revealing a woman's face.
"Mar-nee."
She looked late teens, early twenties. But her real age…
"Knew you'd think something weird."
"Nah."
The Hero had always been young; the Saint and Thief had de-aged after wiping out the demons. But Mar looked the same as when Marhal first met her.
"Where's this? I can guess, roughly."
"The Chamber of History. That's what I call it."
"So this is what 'seeing history' looks like. That's mine, huh?"
It was a topic that came up now and then after the demons vanished—people chatting about visions of history.
"Yep."
"Figures it'd feel familiar."
Three distinct histories braided into one tower. That was Marhal's legacy. He knew what they represented: the history of the man called Marhal; the Bachea Empire's legacy he'd shouldered, intertwined with the West's; and finally, the demons' history.
"I can tell the others' too, somehow."
The distant white tower was the Saint; the bloodstained black one, the Thief; the grotesquely warped spire, the mage; and the plain but colossal, majestic one—the Hero.
"What's with those?"
Beyond the standout five were other massive towers. Anyone with that much personal history wielded serious power. But none rang a bell.
"Towers from folks long gone. Or group histories, not individuals."
"That Giant History stuff?"
"Exactly."
Giant History. Mar's theory after slaying the Demon King and unlocking these visions. Only the Hero Party knew the details. History accumulated, never truly vanishing. Humanity's collective past, a nation's saga—they shaped civilization. Sure, imperial bloodlines or ancient nobles carried history's gifts. But a whole nation manifesting as mysticism or magic? Never happened. The Holy Empire's "god" came closest, but even that never showed its face or wrought direct miracles.
"Ran into demons in the Duchy. No contact with others—just a squire suddenly turning. Giant History too?"
"The Giant History of demons already existed. Touch it, and anyone can become one. Their movements, humans turning— all as expected."
"…So it doesn't end just 'cause I clean up?"
Marhal had promised the others: he'd finish the demon war. But if they could sprout from bare soil, it'd be a lifelong curse.
Mar shook her head, cupping his cheek.
"Future demons? Any powerhouse can handle them. But the West's demon plague, its grudges—that history only you can bear. This, you must do."
"Good to know. But sis, that demon sealed underground in the ruins—you set that up too?"
"How was the gift?"
"Merchant house went bust. Checks turned to scrap."
"Bust?"
No change in expression, but Marhal knew her well—she was flustered.
"Caught in the imperial power struggle."
"That doddering old fool…"
She pouted. Didn't look it, but she was sentimental deep down. Bad news on her gift? She might meddle in the throne fight. Subtly, of course—shadowy, insidious. A force of nature with a grudge. Whoever got tangled would suffer.
Marhal's body began fading from the feet up. This space wasn't his by right; some effect had let him glimpse it briefly. Time to go.
"Oh, sis—met someone using Silanatiell."
"Already?"
"Young woman. About your age when we first met."
"Pretty?"
"Kinda. Like you in your you—kidding."
He pivoted fast, spotting massive fireballs blooming in the sky. Magic here too? Fitting—she made the impossible routine.
"…Wait. Won't take months."
"Didn't we all agree—no meddling unless I ask first?"
"Circumstances changed."
Marhal vanished. Alone in the Chamber, Mar stared blankly at his spot. That braided tower. Size-wise, only the Hero rivaled it; heterogeneity? Marhal won. His choices could reshape this land.
Her gaze dropped to the ground. The Chamber of History—everything here was history. Even the earth she stood on: life's history, eons of accumulation forming the continent.
She knelt, touching soil firm as stone, no grit.
Marhal would've noticed if he'd touched a tower: same texture as the ground.
"Humanity's millennia birthed superhumans and mages. Then the Empire spawned demons, surpassing them with inhumanity."
Marhal mentioned humans turning demon. Inhumans would follow soon. Giant Histories stirred. Observing them was her latest obsession.
"Can't wait to wrap this up and see you."
No plans to meet, but his words nagged: young. Pretty. Woman.
Mar opened her eyes. Focus shattered; her mind snapped back to reality.
Lightning cracked a clear sky.
Marhal's senses sharpened on waking: a nun's habit in view, a hand stroking his hair.
"Nice view, huh?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Guys love this stuff, or so they say."
"Who?"
"Corrupt priests."
"…Sample's too spot-on to deny."
Corrupt priests: slaves to lust. The Church encouraged marriage, even polygamy. Scriptures said spreading priestly seed—chosen blood—was divine will. Regulars toed the line for optics, but outliers sired hundreds of bastards. The Saint claimed it; young Marhal hadn't believed it then.
"So, how is it?"
"Miracle's solid. Was touch-and-go."
He flexed his hands—both fine. Gut wound gone too. Priestly pals were clutch.
"Not that. My hands."
"Feels like I'm babying you."
Alasil had been petting his head nonstop. Ignoring him neatly, she pressed on.
"Hair's silky. Special care?"
"Born with it."
"Saved this for you. Cool?"
She dangled a jet-black quill pen. Marhal took it, gauging the power within.
"More than cool. Upgraded."
Gaster's death had infused it with stolen history beyond what it'd taken. Testing it on himself, he grasped the new function.
Steals history.
Gaster's ability now dwelled in the Pen of Responsibility. Beyond binding targets, it ripped away their history. Monstrous against anyone with a past.
Marhal rose. Alasil pinned his shoulder—strong grip.
"Might fool others, not me. Hair's alive, needs care—especially for outdoor types. And this skin…"
Her fingers brushed his cheek.
"No merc has this. Who are you? How do you know the Saint?"
The question he'd expected. Almost disappointing if it hadn't come.
Marhal played coy.
"What if I don't answer?"
"I'll be disappointed."
"Tragic."
"You mean that?"
"Dead serious. Trust-sensitive type."
He paused, choosing words carefully, voice low and steady.
"Folks think the Hero Party was four. But there was a fifth: the guide who led the Hero's path."
That credential had lost shine lately. Not for boasting, but fine for answering queries. Mix truths and lies, hide one fact: the name Marhal Muneduus. Unrecorded even in imperial annals.