Chapter 69 - Attack on the Royal Capital (3)

The enormous saw blade descended toward Maphel’tan’s head. He did not move, merely watching the approaching blade with a calm expression.

A flicker of puzzlement crossed Azval’s face. Just as he sensed something was wrong, blue mana spread around Ilea. A biting chill engulfed their surroundings, and the falling Azval froze solid in an instant.

He looked like a statue carved from ice. Beautiful though it was, the work of art did not last. Cracks appeared across its surface before it shattered with a crash, scattering shards of ice across the night sky.

The enormous bird swooped in and caught Azval. Keeping his distance from Ilea, he asked, "Are you a mage?"

He seemed a little surprised, but still wore an easy smile. His face naturally had a smiling cast.

Ilea replied, "Something like that."

"Did you open the spatial transport gate too?"

"That’s right."

"What’s your name? I reckon I’ve heard it before."

Most accomplished mages had already been reported to the Church. Practicing magic was itself a crime, and a skilled mage was a disaster simply by existing. A great mage could reduce an entire city to dust if they so wished. The Church remained constantly on guard against them.

Ilea said, "That’s an awkward question."

Azval’s narrow eyes swept over her. With both a black hood and a face covering on, she was difficult to identify by sight. She had probably altered her voice as well. Mages were that meticulous.

Azval scratched his headscarf. "Well, now. And here I went and boasted I’d find out who you were."

Confirming that White Horn was behind this incident was a major achievement in itself. Yet somehow, it felt insufficient.

Ilea nudged Maphel’tan and whispered, "... I’m at my limit."

Her mana had run completely dry. The spatial transport array would close soon, too. They had to leave the capital.

Maphel’tan nodded. "You’ve done well. This is enough."

The fear of countless people below had accumulated as nourishment, and he had gained another evil deed: attacking the royal capital. The attack would also draw some of the attention away from the south. The gains were considerable.

The Dark Elf asked, "Are you going back?"

"It’s about time I left."

"Do not forget our contract."

"How could I? My life depends on it."

As he turned away, Azval spoke. "You’re not going anywhere. We’re settling this."

Maphel’tan looked at him and chuckled. "We’ll have another chance to meet. Hold on to this until then."

A pitch-black fairy emerged from Maphel’tan’s hand and flew toward Azval.

"What’s this?"

"A way to speak with me."

"Already told you. I don’t do that with Demons."

No sooner had he finished speaking than Azval kicked off the bird and leaped into the air. He raised Vizard straight up, its enormous saw blade flashing blue in the reflected moonlight.

The Dark Elf immediately leaped up as well, a pitch-black dagger in each hand. Azval brought the saw down, and the Dark Elf crossed his daggers to meet it.

Their blades met. Holy power and demonic energy collided. An enormous shock wave spread in every direction, whipping Ilea’s hood wildly. A sharp cracking sound rang through the night sky.

Azval pressed harder with his arms. "You’re really getting on my nerves. Out of the way, lackey."

The Dark Elf shouted desperately, "Go! I cannot hold him for long!"

The saw blade was steadily chewing through the daggers, forcing the Dark Elf farther and farther down.

Maphel’tan said in a low, solemn voice, "I will keep my promise."

Then he slowly disappeared into the spatial transport array with Ilea. He maintained the pretense of composure to the very end. If he had to live as an Apostle, he had to act like one.

As soon as Maphel’tan and Ilea left, the spell array lost its light. Darkness once more filled the night sky.

The Dark Elf plummeted toward the ground, a trail of white radiance streaming behind him. His body was burning away in holy power.

Atop the enormous bird, Azval gazed silently at the remnants of the spell array. "... They got away."

The pitch-black fairy alighted on his shoulder. After a moment’s deliberation, he seized it in a tight grip.

"No talking to Demons. Next time we meet, I’m cutting you in half."

He flicked the fairy on the forehead. A heavy thud sounded, and its body burst apart, dispersing into black smoke.

* * *

Alone in the Gorge of Death, Raguel looked around as though savoring everything he saw. His eyes sparkled with life.

The very fact that light entered his eyes and objects formed images on his retinas thrilled him. The simple act of seeing was happiness itself.

He no longer had to live blind. Nor was he lame. Strength surged through his entire body. His new body filled him with elation.

Raguel began to run. He did not stop until he was gasping for breath, running until he collapsed from exhaustion. The moment he fell facedown, tears began to flow.

"... Thank you."

Yohan had truly kept his promise. He had kindled light in a life that had known only darkness. It had been a transaction with a price on both sides, but Raguel was grateful simply to have been given the opportunity.

God had turned away from his prayers. Yohan had answered them. The Great Saint had already been erased from the boy’s heart, and Yohan had taken his place.

Yohan had given him a reason to live. Now the path Yohan laid before him would become Raguel’s life. Raguel steeled his resolve.

Just as he was about to wipe away his tears, a familiar voice came from behind him. "I wondered where you’d gone. Putting on a one-man tearjerker, were you?"

Raguel immediately looked back. Maphel’tan was approaching with a chuckle.

"M-Maphel’tan!"

Zal’karin popped out from Maphel’tan’s chest and said, "Tsk! The End’s left hand, wallowing in sentiment!"

His appearance had changed considerably. The little ball of fur had become a small Demon with a clearly defined upper and lower body. His red fur now flickered as tiny flames, and his once-round body had grown quite long. He was considerably bigger, too, now about the size of a grown man’s forearm.

Raguel looked bewildered. "Zal’karin?"

Zal’karin put on an arrogant expression. "Well, brat? Do I still look insignificant?"

To be honest, he still did not look threatening.

"Yeah, you do. But you’ve grown a little."

Bright red flames erupted from Zal’karin’s mouth. "Even now? Even now?"

Ilea sighed and removed her hood. Ignoring Zal’karin, she said, "You’ve changed a great deal too, younger master."

Raguel looked almost like a different person. His skin was so fair it seemed translucent, and his hair shimmered with golden light. His eyes shone a clear jade green, with Maphel’tan’s emblem embedded in the left one.

Raguel’s eyes widened. "I-Ilea?"

He froze like a statue. Ilea tilted her head. "Yes, it’s Ilea. What’s wrong?"

He had seen her once or twice before losing his sight, but he had never realized she was this beautiful. She looked like a sculpture made by a god. It was enough to inspire awe.

With a High Elf’s distinctive aesthetic sensibility and keen vision, Raguel could now judge what he saw more objectively. Ilea was clearly a different species from humans altogether.

"I was a little startled. You look like a doll."

Ilea’s eyes curved in a gentle smile. "Really, young master, saying something like that so casually. Thank you, though."

Raguel turned to Maphel’tan. "You’re... still a little frightening, Maphel’tan."

Maphel’tan clicked his tongue. "For a Demon, I look fairly decent."

He might look ferocious, but at least he was not grotesque or repulsive.

Raguel smiled sheepishly. "D-do you? Well, thinking of the Demons in the mausoleum, I suppose you’re right."

They really had been unspeakably hideous.

Maphel’tan studied Raguel closely. "Never mind my face. You’re the problem, Raguel."

Ilea nodded. "It is quite a problem."

Raguel’s face grew tense. "D-do I look that bad?"

Maphel’tan said, "You’ve changed too much. You were always pale, so your skin might pass, but your eyes and hair are nothing like they used to be."

It was more serious than he had expected. Every servant in the lord’s castle who knew Raguel would find it strange.

Ilea spoke. "For now, we can cover his eyes and dye his hair, but that’s only a stopgap."

Maphel’tan hummed pensively. "We’ll need a permanent solution."

"Take your time thinking about it. I’ll give it some thought too."

"Very well."

Ilea approached Raguel. "Excuse me for a moment, young master."

She placed her palm on his head. Deep-blue mana immediately enveloped him, turning his hair a dull brown. He looked a little more like his old self.

Maphel’tan said, "You seem to have recovered some mana already."

"My familiar is nearby."

Mages “borrowed” demonic energy from Demons and converted it into mana, while witches received an automatic supply of demonic energy through their familiars.

"You mean the World Tree?"

Ilea smiled. "So you did know."

He had learned it from the original novel, not from her.

"Well, something like that. Go on, then. Don’t you have business with the World Tree?"

Ilea stared at him. After a brief silence, she spoke. "I’ve made up my mind."

"About what?"

"I’ll tell you when I get back."

Maphel’tan frowned slightly. "What are you talking about, out of nowhere—"

"Please wait a little while."

She immediately set off toward the World Tree.

* * *

A long time passed. The sun would rise soon, but Ilea had yet to return. Maphel’tan wanted to get back to the territory before sunrise if at all possible.

Just as he was growing anxious, he saw Ilea approaching in the distance. There was something lighter about her steps, and a broad smile rested on her lips.

She stopped before him. "There’s something I need to tell you."

Her manner was different from usual, and Maphel’tan could not help feeling a little nervous.

"If it isn’t important, why don’t we discuss it after we return?"

Ilea shook her head. "This is something we must discuss now."

Maphel’tan clicked his tongue. "Then stop drawing it out and tell me. The sun will rise soon."

Ilea’s expression grew serious. "I’ve given it some thought. How a thirteenth Apostle could exist."

"And?"

"If the twelve Apostles are the gods of the twelve forgotten races, then perhaps the thirteenth Apostle is the god of a race as well."

Maphel’tan’s expression settled too. "... What are you trying to say?"

"I think you can guess."

He had a fair idea. But he had never once said it aloud. He knew the unwritten rule of the witches all too well.

Maphel’tan said, "Witches do not believe in gods."

Ilea’s eyes curved in a gentle smile. Suddenly, she went down on one knee. Bewilderment spread across Maphel’tan’s face.

"Then shall I try believing in one, starting now?"

"What’s all this, all of a sudden—"

Ilea spoke solemnly. "Please devour my familiar, Maphel’tan. O thirteenth end."

She was asking him to absorb the World Tree. Maphel’tan was utterly bewildered.