Chapter 15

Unlike the heads of ordinary wizard houses, the head of a great house could not easily pass the position to their own child. The odds of passing on powerful mana were only a little higher than those of passing on height or looks, and a great house had dozens of relatives in any given generation. Since they all shared the same ancestors if one went back far enough, at least one of those relatives was usually stronger than the House Head's own children.

“So when a child with the greatest talent of her generation was born to the House Head, she received his wholehearted support from an early age.”

Arabion's princess, Maysa, was the youngest daughter of the House Head and a noblewoman from a collateral branch of House Berg. The eldest of the House Head's three children had manifested the maternal bloodline and been sent to that house for adoption. The second had proved disappointingly unremarkable. Then, as luck would have it, a concubine bore him a child talented enough to succeed him.

Maysa was apparently gifted not only with powerful innate mana but with a natural aptitude for learning magic. In just ten years after awakening her mana, she had mastered all manner of combat magic, including Arabion's bloodline magic. With all that support, her mana reserves already rivaled those of the house's core members, though she was only twenty-one. She was expected to become one of the strongest House Heads in Arabion's history, and quite a few people hoped that by the time she took over, she might even be able to destroy Zahar.

“If she has that much mana at her age, did they give her priority at the house's ‘funerals,’ too?”

“They did. She even absorbed my great-uncle's mana. Though we got a share of it as well.”

Monsters were not alone in leaving mana behind after death, causing all manner of phenomena such as the formation of wraiths. All magical living beings shared that trait. Naturally, a dead wizard's mana could also be absorbed. Turan and Asiz themselves had absorbed the Berg knights' mana when burying their bodies.

This was commonly called a “funeral.” Arabion had concentrated the funerals of nobles who died of old age or accidents on a select few talented young wizards. That allowed them to build ample strength without leaving the house or bothering with pilgrimages. Of course, the other members would have to hunt monsters diligently, deprived of their chance to inherit that power.

‘The great houses really do have good reason to stand above everyone else...’

For a moment, Turan felt envious. Then he reminded himself that his talent alone was an enormous gift and snapped his fingers. Flames born of frictional heat shifted in succession from a fireball into an arrow, a spear, and a sword. Asiz laughed incredulously at the sight.

“Shaping flames? You've already added three more?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn it. I've already forgotten how to do that.”

Even as they walked and chatted, they practiced magic in various ways. Seeing Turan train with all sorts of spells every day had inspired Asiz to resume the combat training he had neglected. He said he did not want to stand by helplessly and watch his people die again.

Asiz shared his theoretical knowledge of various spells—many of which overlapped with what Keorn had taught Turan. In return, Turan taught him a few spells he had developed himself on the hill, along with some of the simplest laws of nature he had learned at the library. Of course, he gave no hint that he could use Search or stealth magic. He did not want to offer any clues to his Zahar bloodline.

In any case, these exchanges gave Turan a sense of how quickly a wizard of ordinary talent learned magic.

‘Even if he focuses entirely on one spell, it takes days to learn. And even then, it's nowhere near ready for actual combat. Stop practicing, and he forgets it in no time...’

After briefly making that assessment, Turan watched Asiz struggle and warned himself not to grow arrogant. How could he dare be conceited when he had just heard of someone around his own age with similar talent, and far greater power?

“Anyway, Turan, have you decided what sort of magic tool you want?”

“More or less.”

Turan's first thought had been a magic tool imbued with the power of healing. His exceptional talent allowed him to learn most spells through practice if he wished, but healing was all but impossible without the right bloodline. Since gaining a rough understanding of how wounds healed at the library, he had become capable of mending minor scratches. That hardly made the ability useful in combat.

The problem was that half his bloodline remained “locked.” If that other half turned out to be a Healer bloodline, the magic tool would be wasted. For that reason, he was also considering something useful regardless of bloodline magic, but he had yet to decide what to do. Asiz chuckled as he watched Turan ponder.

“Well, take your time thinking it over. You're going to stay with us and rest for a while once we arrive anyway, aren't you?”

“Not for long. I'm on a pilgrimage.”

“Don't be in such a hurry. We've got plenty of time.”

He was right. Turan still had hundreds of years or more ahead of him. He could live long enough for the children of the ordinary humans passing on the opposite side of the road, avoiding their gaze, to grow old and die. Perhaps even their children's children...

Turan shook his head at the thought that suddenly occurred to him. Why was it that this world offered so many things to make him arrogant?

* * *

Ever since leaving Hisaril Hill, Turan had often marveled at how much richer the land became the farther inland he traveled. Lush forests, streams and rivers brimming with clear water, plains so thick with grass that anything sown there seemed certain to grow. To a young shepherd raised among rocky hills and wastelands dotted with sparse weeds, this was paradise.

Now, however, Turan realized that the “abundance” he had seen before was a sham. Golden wheat fields stretched beyond even a noble's sight... And he had not only just come upon them. They had been walking for half a day already, yet there was still no end in sight. It was staggering. The harvest here seemed enough to feed every person in every town and city he had passed, with plenty to spare.

“It really might be. I've even heard people get lost in those fields fairly often.”

Asiz shrugged as he replied to Turan's assessment. This vast expanse was called the Dakayn Plains. After a full fifteen days of walking from Maderi—a distance that would have taken an ordinary person a month or two—they had reached Arabion's heartland.

At the center of the plains stood Morgen City, Arabion's seat, while satellite cities ruled by vassal houses such as Berg dotted the edges. The region's total population was said to number in the millions, a scale almost beyond imagining.

Once they entered the Dakayn Plains, Asiz knew his way around, so they reached Zavillin, House Berg's territory, without needing to ask passersby for directions. The sun had set and the gates were firmly shut. When they pounded on them, someone shouted from above.

“It's past curfew! Come back tomorrow!”

“It's me, Bin!”

“Young Master Asiz?”

The knight perched atop the five-meter wall, who had called out about the curfew, leaped straight down upon hearing Asiz's voice.

“It really is you, young master! Have you finished your pilgrimage already? And where are the others...?”

“They've all departed for the palace in the heavens. We can talk about that later. Could we go inside and rest first? Please let my parents know I'm back, too.”

The question about his retainers cast a shadow over Asiz's bright, cheerful face. It seemed his almost exaggerated cheerfulness had indeed been an attempt to bury his sorrow. He would probably need a very long time to truly overcome those feelings. Perhaps he never would.

A short while later, the two followed Zavillin City's main avenue to House Berg's palace. Thanks to the advance notice, the entire family had come out to greet Asiz. The first to rush forward was a middle-aged woman in an elaborate dress. With her dark blond hair and features so like Asiz's, anyone could tell they were mother and son.

“Asiz, my baby! What on earth happened?”

“Mom!”

Turan was inwardly appalled to see a forty-three-year-old man throw his arms around her with an unabashed cry of “Mom!” True, he looked like a young man in his twenties... No, even taking his appearance into account, it was rather disconcerting.

The woman was presumably Midella Berg, Asiz's mother and the head of House Berg. Behind her stood a man who appeared to be her husband and a younger man who looked a little older than Asiz. Judging from what Turan had heard, they seemed to be his father and his older brother, the heir.

“Asiz, remember your dignity. At least call her ‘Mother.’”

“I-I'm sorry.”

Asiz flinched at his father's reprimand and lowered his head, then promptly turned to gesture at Turan.

“This is Turan, a friend I made in the south. He risked his life to save me when I was in mortal danger. Without him, I wouldn't have made it back alive.”

“Your pilgrimage route shouldn't have been all that dangerous... What on earth happened?”

“We were attacked by Dark Elf wraith sorcerers.”

Like a child who had been beaten up, Asiz told his mother the whole story: the sudden ambush, his retainers dying under the assault of an army of wraiths, losing consciousness in the midst of danger, and waking to find Turan there, having already dealt with the attackers. House Head Midella flew into a rage.

“Dark Elves! Those filthy worms dared to go after my child? If I don't lead an army there myself and tear them to pieces—”

“Calm yourself, House Head. People are watching.”

Even after her husband's efforts barely managed to calm her, Midella's eyes remained bloodshot. Asiz's father, who seemed far more levelheaded than his wife, addressed Turan.

“Now then, may I ask which house our benefactor belongs to?”

“I'm afraid that's difficult to say.”

“Difficult?”

“Yes. To be honest, it would be more accurate to say I don't know.”

Turan did not use his usual excuse that an enemy house made it difficult to reveal his affiliation. Houses with a history of hostility were one thing, but there were fewer currently hostile houses than one might expect.

Hadn't House Head Rug of House Valtas named Arabion and Zahar as one possibility the moment he heard that story? That was why Turan had prepared an answer that was both honest and not quite honest.

“My mother was a commoner, and I don't know who my father is.”

As Turan smoothly revealed what he had kept to himself until now, Asiz looked startled in his mother's embrace.

“What? You never told me that!”

“It's not something to boast about.”

In truth, a family that placed great importance on bloodline hierarchy might find Turan's origins somewhat distasteful. Power might be everything in the world of wizards, but to nobles, knights were watchdogs, and commoners were lower still.

As expected, however, the House Head and her husband merely exchanged slightly awkward looks. They showed no contempt for Turan. Having grown up under parents like these must have been why Asiz could mingle so freely with his inferiors. House Head Midella cleared her throat several times before speaking.

“So those are your circumstances. Very well, Turan of an unknown house. You saved a child our family treasures, and as the head of Berg, I shall see you duly rewarded. I am afraid, however, that we cannot offer you a room here. I shall make arrangements for you to stay at the city's finest inn rather than our family residence—”

“What are you saying? Mom—Mother! You won't even offer hospitality in our home to the man who saved me?”

At the sight of Asiz daring to interrupt the House Head, his father pressed a hand to his forehead, as though too weary even to scold him. Midella silenced her immature son with a stern look and continued.

“Ordinarily, there would be no problem. But we have a distinguished guest staying with us at present. Benefactor or not, we cannot readily admit a guest whose identity is unknown. I hope you understand.”

“If you mean me, there's no need for that, Aunt. Surely someone who saved Asiz wouldn't suddenly try to assassinate me.”

A woman whose appearance made her age difficult to guess abruptly joined the conversation. The instant Turan saw her, he thought of a skeleton. Her eyes and cheeks were sunken, as though a single layer of skin had been stretched over bare bone. Nor was it only her face. Her neck, arms, torso, and legs were so thin they looked liable to snap under her own weight. How long would someone have to starve to become that emaciated?

“Maysa? What are you doing here all of a sudden?”

At Asiz's words, Turan realized she was the princess of Arabion they had discussed not long ago. But...

‘She looks more like a corpse than a princess.’

Truly, if she had been lying down with her eyes closed, he would never even have suspected she was alive. While Turan entertained these rude thoughts, Maysa Arabion answered in a tone as casual as if she were remarking that the sun had risen that morning.

“Those Zahar sons of bitches nearly assassinated me a little while ago. So I came here for refuge.”