Chapter 40

“Job... Advancement?”

Repeating the term he had never heard before in his life, Turan immediately turned past the title page. The next sheet was filled with rambling notes, perhaps written to organize the writer’s thoughts.

[Night Hunter = Hunter + Pursuer + Shadow + Alchemist]

[Job Advancement requirement: Clear the Labyrinth of Evil]

[Must it be cleared alone? Or can a group do it?]

[Will reproducing the dungeon and monsters as closely as possible count as fulfilling the requirement?]

[Design it to open upon detecting a subject who meets the requirements]

[Add a function that lures only the subject inside]

[Deny entry to anyone other than the subject? X]

The sentence at the top probably meant that four bloodlines had been passed down to the Night Hunter’s descendants. He still did not understand “Job Advancement requirement”... but from the context, perhaps Job Advancement meant becoming the Night Hunter. The lure function would presumably be the mysterious impulse that had drawn Turan inside.

This book was clearly something like a notebook left by the labyrinth’s creator. Judging by the circumstances, that would be the same person who had built the Tomb of the Gods. If so, did that not mean these words had been written by the limping goddess herself, or another of the divine people, a Freyan of equal standing...?

Turan swallowed nervously and turned the page. On the back were a few more notes like those on the previous page, along with a drawing of the creatures that had swarmed through the labyrinth.

[Monster: Rotten Angler. Use giants’ blood and flesh as materials. For the dungeon boss, the Giant Angler, use a Queen Giant.]

[Mana as a power source? Handle the lifespan issue through hibernation.]

[How to reproduce acidic blood and fire-breathing skills? X]

[Far too low-level compared to the actual dungeon. How to raise the limit?]

“Monster” seemed to be the term for the creatures that had filled this labyrinth. It was truly shocking to learn that someone had created them, using the giants said to have died out in ancient times as their raw material. Yet in a way, it made sense. Would it not be stranger for such hideous creatures to exist naturally? More than anything, he felt awe at the godlike power capable of shaping even living beings.

He turned another three or four pages, but found little he could understand. Phrases such as “Apply to the Earth Mother Job Advancement experiment” and “Apply lessons from the previous failed experiment” merely allowed him to infer that this was not the only place where such “experiments” had taken place.

Folding the papers and putting them in his pouch, Turan recalled what the eye on the door had said.

‘It called my entry an error.’

Having read the whole book, he could roughly piece together what had happened. The labyrinth’s creator had wanted to create the Night Hunter, a Freyan god. To do so, the creator needed a wizard possessing all four bloodlines derived from that god, believing that such a wizard could become a god by defeating the labyrinth’s chief—the dungeon boss, as the book called it.

But for some reason, the labyrinth had mistaken Turan, whom the Holy Relic caused it to recognize as possessing four bloodlines, for that “Night Hunter candidate” and opened. He was less certain about Perga’s party, but they had probably been caught up in it while sightseeing or something.

Since he had defeated the chief, he checked his body again just in case, but felt no sign of any divine power dwelling within him. All he sensed was his mana, grown mighty from consuming the creatures and nobles outside.

To begin with, there was almost no chance that Turan had two locked bloodlines, much less that they were Shadow and Alchemist. Both had died out so long ago that even the histories he had read in Orem’s library made no mention of them. Comparing that with the legends passed down in the Enril Desert, perhaps they had been wiped out in a clash with their brother house, Zahar, in the distant past, during the old empire or sometime afterward.

As he spent some time sorting through his thoughts, Turan suddenly felt a strong sense of déjà vu. Orville the Burner, whom he had killed far to the northwest, near the lands ruled by House Karmine... The method used by that strange man, who claimed that burning people and coating himself in their ashes would grant him the Pyromaniac bloodline, somehow resembled this labyrinth’s. Especially in its claim that power could be gained through seemingly meaningless methods.

‘Could that method of artificially acquiring a bloodline have been real too?’

Come to think of it, had Orville not said as much—that a god had taught him how? But if so, could the labyrinth’s creator not simply have made someone with those bloodlines, rather than waiting for an unknown bearer of the Night Hunter’s bloodlines to enter?

After pondering the matter for a long while, Turan sighed and walked toward the vortex. Thinking about it here would yield no answers, and above all, nothing would be worse than lingering so long that the exit vortex disappeared.

* * *

Stepping through the vortex, Turan realized he was standing in the middle of the desert outside Banipel. The Tomb of the Gods, displaying its immense grandeur in the distance, confirmed it.

He moved to relatively high ground, released his stealth, and called the black eagle through their soul bond. It must have been some distance away, for it took nearly half an hour to appear. It gave his head a hard peck before scratching words into the ground.

[Too late! One day, second day, anyway late! Scared!]

“Ha ha, sorry...”

Had it been about three days since he became trapped in the labyrinth? Having felt the eagle’s anxiety through their soul bond during that time, Turan stroked its head over and over to comfort it. Then the eagle shook its head and took a step back.

[Smell.]

“Oh.”

Not only had he been stuck in the labyrinth for three days, he had even fought hand to hand at the end, leaving his clothes and body a mess of rotten flesh and blood. He had tidied himself somewhat while erasing his traces, but nowhere near enough to remove the smell.

With the black eagle refusing to carry him because he was too filthy, he had to run to Banipel’s oasis on his own two feet. Naturally, knights guarded it, as it was the city’s most important water source.

“Hey, hasn’t the mood in the house been pretty bad lately? It’s been ages since we’ve seen the House Head or the fellows attending him.”

“What could possibly be wrong? Let’s not worry about what our betters are doing. I’m sure they have their reasons. Anyway, how about a drink tomorrow?”

“Honestly, I’m trying to have a serious conversation here.”

Turan passed between the two chatting knights and, out of their sight, magically scooped up enough water for a couple of people to bathe in. Thanks to his stealth, the knights failed to notice him stealing water from the oasis right beside them.

He carried the water to a deserted rocky area, reshaped the ground into a pit, and filled it with water, which he heated. After stripping and climbing in to wash himself, he lifted the water into the air, removed all the impurities, and washed his clothes as well. Only after putting them back on did he finally look human again.

“Whew, now I feel alive again...”

How had he ever managed to go weeks without washing?

Once his bath was finished, Turan made sure to erase every trace of it. He flattened the ground he had altered, lifted the water into the air and evaporated it, and burned away all the impurities.

[Clean now?]

“Yes, I’m clean. Will you carry me now?”

[Yes!]

Turan grabbed the black eagle’s leg and soared into the sky. The vagrants Banipel continued to send inside would soon reveal that the labyrinth had opened. He needed to get far away before then, if possible.

Zahar would be looking for whoever had absorbed the ten nobles’ mana. Since he had left no traces of himself inside, he hoped they would attribute the missing mana to some peculiar property of the labyrinth. But with things like this, one always had to assume the worst.

‘I should leave the Enril Desert altogether for a few months, until things settle down.’

The deaths of ten nobles would be a matter of grave concern even to a house as large as Zahar. During the war with Arabion, each side had lost twenty-five or twenty-six nobles. This was nearly half the casualties one might expect in a war between great houses. Since one of the dead had even been a candidate for next House Head, there was bound to be an extensive investigation.

What if, during that investigation, they happened entirely by chance to discover evidence that a fallen noble named Turan Brahms had suddenly gained tremendous power? Needless to say, he would be their prime suspect.

Of course, leaving the desert would mean putting his original goal of finding traces of his parents on hold... But surely his mother would not want her son to die far from home while following in her footsteps. With the black eagle, returning would not take very long, either.

While he was lost in thought, a chirp came from above. The black eagle looked down at him, sending a feeling of confusion as though asking where they were going.

“Oh, right. Let’s head that way for now.”

Turan pointed northwest.

* * *

As he flew with the black eagle, Turan did his best to avoid contact with other people. With his increased mana, he cast tracking magic over a range of nearly a dozen kilometers, changing course the moment he detected a human scent.

After a grueling day and a half of alternating flight and rest, he began to see the desert drawing to an end. Not only did the clothing of the people he observed from afar change, but the weather also grew somewhat damper and cooler. A distance that would take an ordinary person a month or two or more, and even a noble about a week of running, was nothing before this bird’s wings.

When white snow began falling from the sky, Turan had the black eagle descend to the ground.

“Good work. I’ll take it slow and walk from here, so have a rest. You must be tired.”

[Yes. Want to rest.]

The black eagle scratched out the words with a somewhat weary air, then climbed onto the rod attached to the side of his bag and closed its eyes. Turan stroked its feathers before looking at the white, rocky mountains spread before him.

‘So this is the Gray Zone.’

West of the Enril Desert and east of Maderi, where Turan had first met Asiz, this region was filled with rugged, rocky mountains. It was also where the armies of Arabion and Zahar had once fought a bitter war.

‘Didn’t the travelogue say there were Blind Dwarves hiding in the mountains, eating people?’

Of course, even if such creatures really existed, they would pose little threat to Turan. He was now stronger than the heads of most small and medium-sized houses, including the Head of House Valtas he had met before, and powerful enough to be considered elite even in a great house. A noble of his strength would be hard-pressed to get himself killed without taking on several other noble houses head-on. Unless, of course, he found himself in some absurd situation like Perga’s.

‘For now, I’ll take my time and find out where exactly I am.’

Turan’s new destination was Orem City, the seat of House Valtas, which he had visited before. He intended to return to its library, tell the librarian the various secrets he had learned in the labyrinth, and seek advice.

After about an hour of walking with the black eagle at his side, a road of the old empire came into view. Though everything around it was already blanketed in white, the falling snow melted away the moment it touched the road.

As Turan walked along it, a strange procession approached from the opposite direction.

“Mom, I’m tired.”

“Stop whining and walk faster. If you stop, I’m leaving you behind!”

“Waaah...”

It was a jumble of men and women, young and old, burdened with all manner of belongings. Every one of them looked exhausted. They gave Turan puzzled looks as they passed, but continued southeast as though they lacked even the energy to speak to him.

‘What’s going on?’

They looked as though they were fleeing something.

Walking in the direction they had come from, he soon reached a fairly large city. Perhaps because it lay in the midst of the mountains, its walls formed a semicircle against a great cliff. A policeman standing at the gate tilted his head at the sight of Turan.

“A traveler? But what’s that bird, and why are your clothes...”

His confusion was perfectly understandable. The white outer robe Turan had worn in the desert had been soiled with the creatures’ blood, so he had burned it while washing. Now he wore only the shirt, trousers, and cloak Asiz had given him.

Only two kinds of people traveled dressed like that in the middle of winter: madmen and wizards. Realizing this, the policeman went white.

“W-w-welcome! May I ask which esteemed personage you are...?”

If he wanted to pass himself off as a commoner again, Turan would apparently need to buy a thick padded outfit or some fur clothing.

“I’m merely a passing traveler. Might I ask the lord of this place for a day’s hospitality?”

It would have been different had he gone unrecognized, but slipping through once his identity as a wizard was known would violate custom. For some reason, however, the policeman hesitated at his question.

“What is it?”

“W-well, Kalamap has no lord at present.”

“What? How is that possible?”

A city without a ruler? It was plainly no small settlement. Even a little city like Murei had a noble living there in case of an emergency. Could the refugees he had just seen have something to do with this?

“I’m only a low-ranking officer, so I don’t know the details, but they say the lord was killed by Dark Elves who invaded from the west recently...”

And so, the policeman said with a distraught expression, there was not a single noble or knight left in the city.