Chapter 3: Survival  

“What the—! What’s happening all of a sudden…!”

“Magic! He’s using magic…!”

Heat brushed against Zion’s cheek.

From the towering pillar of light that seemed to pierce the sky, a snake made of flames burst forth, dancing through the air.  

The assassins, unable to process the sudden turn of events, stared blankly for a moment—only to have the whip-like tail of the fiery serpent melt one assassin’s head without even shaking it.  

“You damn bastards…!”

A fierce voice echoed from within the pillar.

Soon, the light dimmed.

No, it converged into a single point.

There stood the man Zion had seen inside his mind—the same figure, holding a bead of light compressed to the size of a fist in his right hand, glaring coldly at the assassins desperately throwing their bodies aside to dodge the flame snake.  

“Not just anyone, but you dare try to kill his bloodline?”

The moment the assassins recognized the man, they scattered in all directions.

It wasn’t an attempt to flee.

It was a calculated move to bring down the new enemy with minimal casualties.

The man curled his lips into a sneer.  

“You think I’d lose you if you scatter like cockroaches?”

He tossed the bead of light into the air.

Hovering midair, it began to emit heat—a fierce heat far beyond what the snake had exhaled.

Even Zion, watching the scene with blurred vision from behind the man, felt his throat tighten under the intense heat.  

“[Burn their bones to ash, devour their souls.]”

With a snap of his fingers, the man spoke.

Zion immediately recognized the phrase as a magical incantation laced with immense power.  

Twelve pillars of pale blue flame shot up.  

Exactly twelve—the number of surviving assassins.

The flames rose without scorching the surrounding forest, precisely burning only the assassins.

To Zion’s eyes, it was an astonishing display of refined magic, almost beautiful in its precision.  

“Are you holding up? No, that was a stupid question. You’re still alive, right? Not dead?”

The man hurriedly approached Zion, who had watched the assassins’ demise.

The nervousness he now displayed was in stark contrast to the merciless killer he had been moments ago.

Zion managed a weak smile.  

“I don’t know who you are, but… thank you, cough… very much.”

“Don’t speak. You’ll just strain yourself. Just stay still. Blink your eyes if you have to. For now, drink this.”

The man spoke in a clipped tone, pulling a suspicious glass bottle from his waist.

Without hesitation, he uncorked it and offered it to Zion.

Though a flicker of doubt crossed his mind—could it be poison?

—Zion quietly drank the contents.  

“Take this one too. And this one. Oh, and this as well.”

After forcing three glass bottles’ contents down Zion’s throat, the man wiped his forehead with relief.

Zion, who had been staring blankly, suddenly realized his body felt noticeably lighter.

The sharp pain in his abdomen had eased considerably.

It must have been the effect of the potions.  

Zion tried to force his still-weak body upright.  

“No! Don’t get up—stay still!”

The man snapped, pushing him back down.

Zion’s face twisted with guilt.  

“But… I can’t just lie here in front of the person who saved me…”

“Fool, you’re not healed yet. I only gave you emergency treatment. Enough. Just shut up and stay still.”

The man flipped back Zion’s tattered clothes to inspect his wounds, groaning.

The damage was worse than expected.

With only the potions on hand, a full recovery was impossible.

Leaving the wounds unattended risked infection and necrosis.  

“I’m useless at White Magic… damn it, I don’t know either. But it’s better than leaving it be.”

The man muttered anxiously and pressed both hands over Zion’s abdomen.

Then he began to chant low and fast in an unfamiliar tongue.

Warm light flowed from his hands, enveloping Zion’s wounds.  

“Divine Art?”

Zion whispered in disbelief.

Healing humans with holy power—Divine Art—was a miraculous technique mastered by only a rare few.

Moreover, by common sense, no one could learn both magic and Divine Art simultaneously.  

“Well, somehow it worked.”

The man sighed, wiping the cold sweat off his face.  

“How are you feeling now?”

“Much… better…”

Zion tried to answer but suddenly felt overwhelming drowsiness.

He struggled to stay conscious, refusing to fall asleep in front of the man who saved his life.

But his vision blurred rapidly.  

“If you’re sleepy, then sleep. I’m bad at White Magic, so I used your MP along with mine. It’s natural to feel this way. If you resist, you’ll only get worse. Sleep when you can.”

“S-sorry… t-thank… you…”

The drowsiness crushed Zion’s consciousness.

Just before falling asleep, he thought he heard the man’s soft laughter.  

“…Huff.”

Swallowing hard, Zion suddenly opened his eyes.  

The memories before sleep flashed like a slideshow.

Zion sprang up, scanning his surroundings.

The wrecked carriage lay overturned, dead guards and servants scattered everywhere, and twelve scorch marks burned into the earth.

Narrowing his eyes, he began to piece together the situation.  

‘It wasn’t a dream.’

The exile under the guise of “recovery,” the ambush by assassins disguised as thieves, the conversation with the man—probably through the Pendant—in his mind just before death, and that man suddenly appearing to kill the assassins and heal him.  

All of it had happened just hours ago.

Yet the man who saved him was nowhere to be seen.  

“How long have I been out…?”

[Not long. About two hours.]

The voice echoed in his mind, making Zion flinch.

He soon realized it was the same man’s voice from earlier.

Zion blinked and looked around, but the man was nowhere in sight.

Instead, a strange vision unfolded in his mind: the man, now clean and neat, sitting on a lavish bed in a large room.  

“…Where are you? Why do I see this strange image inside my head?”

[It’s my house. The Pendant’s output limits summoning to about ten minutes at a time.]

The man answered nonchalantly, but Zion barely understood what he meant.

Deciding to postpone further conversation, Zion began stripping off his clothes right there.  

[What are you doing out here in the street?]

“I have to change. I’m going to disguise myself as one of these dead servants. That way, Lady Mione will think I’m dead.”

[Who’s Lady Mione?]

“She’s… my mother. Not my birth mother, but my stepmother, whom my father remarried after my real mother passed away.”

[I don’t quite get it, but you’ve had it rough… Wait, who did you say is dead?]

The man’s tone in Zion’s mind grew heavy.

Zion hesitated to answer.

Explaining all that would take too long, and it wasn’t the right moment—assassins might still be around.  

“Can we talk about that later? There might be more assassins.”

The man frowned fiercely and clicked his tongue.

Though he didn’t give a clear answer, it was likely a yes.  

Surveying the area, Zion stripped the clothes off a servant whose build matched his own, then dressed the corpse in his own tattered garments.

Fortunately, the servant’s clothes weren’t heavily bloodstained—he could pass it off as a wild beast attack.  

After changing, Zion examined himself in the broken mirror.

Then he looked down at the servant’s body.  

“They’ll recognize the face anyway.”

“That’s…”

Zion bit his lip.

To perfectly disguise the corpse, he needed to damage the face beyond recognition.

Though the servant was already dead, Zion couldn’t bring himself to decide.

The servant was innocent.

He had died because of Zion.

Was it right to defile that body just to survive?  

‘…I’m sorry.’

Zion closed his eyes tightly, then sat by the corpse’s head and carefully reached out.  

“[Flames, flicker.]”

Flames flickered in the palm of his hand.

Burning his own heart in anguish, Zion set fire to the servant’s face.

Once he confirmed the face was scorched beyond recognition, he slowly stood and stepped back several paces, then turned away to vomit.  

“Ugh… gag…”

After emptying his stomach and retching several more times, Zion sank to the ground weakly.

Wiping his dirty mouth, he began rubbing at his eyes.

No matter how much he wiped, tears streamed down uncontrollably, as if broken.  

“What did I do wrong…?”

[Exactly.]

“And what about them…? What did they do wrong…? Why am I… still alive?”

[I saved you.]

“Why?! Why did you save me?! What difference does it make if I survive alone now?! You should have just left me to die!”

[Try saying that to those who died because of you, you fool.]

The voice was ice-cold, choking the breath from Zion’s lungs.

He couldn’t breathe properly and sobbed uncontrollably.  

[It’s okay to cry. It’s normal to complain. I understand you’ve endured something terrible. But… no matter how hard it gets, there are lines you can’t cross. You have insulted the many who sacrificed their lives to save you. You made my rescue efforts meaningless without even understanding why I did it. Worse, you trampled on Naia’s will—the one who gave you the Pendant.]

“Sob…!”

Swallowing his tears, Zion shook his shoulders.

He knew how shameless he sounded.

But the strong will he inherited from his mother—the tender heart hidden beneath—had reached its limit.  

Silent sobbing stretched on for a long time.

The man said nothing, watching Zion with an uneasy expression.  

After some time, Zion slowly stood up.

Raising his tear-stained, grimy face.

[Feeling a bit better?]

Zion said nothing, simply starting to walk straight ahead without any direction.  

[Shall we talk about your mother?]

[Are you feeling better?]

“Well… I’m not sure. Whether it’s better or not, I can’t tell.”

Frey Alkoth scratched the bridge of his nose with a troubled look.

He seemed desperate to change the subject, even forcefully.  

[I thought I heard something strange earlier… Did you say Naia died?]

“My mother died when I was eight.”

[…That wasn’t a bad joke, was it?]

“Why would I joke about that? I still remember clearly—my mother’s last moments, eight years ago.”

[Eight years ago…]

Frey repeated quietly, his voice low.

Seeing his expression as the scene played in his mind, Zion felt a strange emotion.

The unfamiliar man, hearing of Naia’s death, hid a heart-wrenching sorrow beneath a calm exterior.  

[I… can’t believe it.]

Frey struggled to say, then covered his eyes with one hand and gave a faint, bitter smile.  

[Ha. She was the kind of girl who probably couldn’t be killed no matter how hard you tried.]

“…You’re family with my mother?”

He’s her twin brother.

Hard to believe, I know.

It was hardly believable.

Even though the Count had searched the entire continent for Naia’s identity in the past, he had found no trace.

Yet strangely, Zion never thought Frey was lying.  

“My mother had amnesia.”

[…What?]

Frey’s expression blanked at the news.

Zion explained to him the story from when the Count and Naia met, to their marriage.

After hearing the details, Frey laughed bitterly.  

[Ha… hahaha. So that’s how it was. Yeah, something always seemed off. If she hadn’t lost her memory, she wouldn’t have kept silent. At least she would’ve hinted to you what the Pendant was. Yeah, that’s how it went.]

Biting his lips hard, Frey buried his face in his hands and sighed deeply.  

[Naia… you foolish girl.]

“If it’s alright…”

Zion carefully spoke.  

“Could you tell me what kind of person my mother really was?”

At that, Frey suddenly lifted his head.

Now wasn’t the time to let emotions overflow.

He pulled himself together, forcing a composed expression.

Zion felt a strange kinship with him.  

[Of course, you deserve to know. As Naia’s son, you have that right. Now… where should I start?]

Frey began his story with a distant look in his eyes.