Chapter 60: Kingdom of Bers (37)

“What a mess over there.”

Boromir held the freshly severed head in one hand and gazed far beyond the horizon.

What exactly is he looking at?

Mike, Boromir’s aide, a war mage who graduated top of the Violet Magic Tower, and a magician bestowed the title of “High Master” by the emperor of the Human Empire.

Mike extended threads of mana to confirm the direction his superior was facing.

West.

Ah, of course… Boromir was seeing beyond what eyes could perceive.

West.

The place called the “Black Lands.” Mike confirmed that his superior was looking toward the distant Kingdom of Bers.

He couldn’t truly know what was happening in Bers. Yet the wind blowing from the west was undeniably ominous.

A clash of forces far greater than the petty uprising of a few “rebels” in Mosul.

Still, inference is possible… Could they really have dragged a god down to earth?

It was nothing short of madness.

“Huff, huff…” Hearing the gasps below, Mike remembered he hadn’t yet finished off the witch. Medeya. He needed to end the half-sister of Bers’ king.

“How… how could you… so easily… my spells and black magic…”

Even as she died, Medeya didn’t relinquish her curiosity.

The demonic spell array she had etched across Mosul with beastman blood lost all meaning before an imperial High Master.

She asked how he had nullified her spells and black magic, but Mike offered no answer.

The witch would die. But demons might try to glean their power and secrets through her flesh. He had no intention of handing over weaknesses.

“Nothing to tell a demon’s lackey, witch.”

Mosul’s king and Medeya had hidden more tricks and advanced spells than expected—but that was all.

To Mike, one of only three High Masters in the empire, Medeya was merely a low-grade witch and black magician, no different from a roadside pebble.

An invisible blade of mana grazed Medeya’s neck, and she crumpled like a marionette with cut strings. A pitiful end for a traitor guilty of high treason against the “emperor.”

The former Margrave of Mosul had met no different fate.

Even borrowing Hokhma’s blessing to forcibly cross realms and become a swordmaster—he was no match for a “true” swordmaster.

Mike saw the world through mana in place of invisible eyes and served his superior. It was a direct order from His Majesty.

The great three High Masters and three swordmasters who protected the Human Empire. Among those three swordmasters, Boromir was the greatest, strongest, and of the noblest bloodline.

Crown Prince.

Next emperor.

The strongest swordmaster on the Armenial Continent.

Legitimate heir of the emperor who founded the Human Empire and led it to prosperity upon prosperity.

All these titles pointed to Boromir.

None were false.

Serving as Boromir’s aide meant becoming the closest confidant of the future emperor. Yet Mike had never desired such honor or glory.

He had even wanted to refuse the High Master title, but his “master,” the emperor, would not permit such disloyalty.

Young age. After his “uncontrollable talent” turned the empire’s orphanage to ashes, Mike had no path but to obey the emperor.

The emperor of the Human Empire had taken a pitiful orphan boy who burned his own eyes, unable to bear his overwhelming talent, and made him a great High Master guarding the empire.

Extending a hand of salvation to one whose sins were unforgivable. Grace far too great for a sinner who should have fallen to the deepest hell.

For that reason, Mike served Boromir.

It was the only way to repay even a fraction of the grace received from the emperor, his master.

“Mike. No separate message from His Majesty?”

“None.”

“Understood.”

Though he couldn’t see, Mike sensed the crown prince’s sullen expression.

His magical talent was extraordinary enough to astonish others, more than compensating for the flaw of being “blind.”

Boromir had told the emperor there was no need for him to personally handle this minor “rebellion,” but soon changed his mind and moved himself.

Other swordmasters or High Masters could have resolved it smoothly. Yet the crown prince had another reason to come to Mosul.

“…It’s hard to see clearly. Mike, could you help?”

Naturally, it was to observe events unfolding in the Kingdom of Bers. Mike shook his head.

“My apologies, Lord Boromir. His Majesty instructed me not to interfere.”

“Are you my aide, or His Majesty’s loyal hound? Isn’t it time to choose one?”

“I have long been His Majesty’s loyal hound, and will remain so. Please forgive my inability to obey.”

“Damn it. You High Masters are too arrogant. It’d be nice if you listened once in a while!”

“I merely avoid what His Majesty forbids. Isn’t the problem that most things you ask of me concern His Majesty?”

“Enough.”

Tsk. The tongue click was loud enough to hear.

Boromir openly showed displeasure this way, but Mike didn’t bother soothing or humoring the crown prince’s mood.

Boromir was a crown prince before swordmaster or battlefield commander. Raised with strict education from youth, his self-control was masterful.

He wasn’t a child who couldn’t distinguish public and private enough to behead one of only three High Masters protecting the empire over a bad mood.

And though he pretended otherwise, Mike knew Boromir quietly considered him a “friend.”

He wouldn’t take offense or treat him roughly over something like this. The crown prince’s caliber was greater than imagined.

That was precisely why the Violet Magic Tower’s High Master could always remain composed.

“What about the soldiers? We must deal with the former Margrave’s vassals too… Shall we execute them?”

“We’ve seen enough blood. No need to drag them out one by one for execution. And since when do you handle things so thoroughly that you ask this? Just do as usual.”

“Doesn’t the weight of ‘treason’ matter? By crime alone, hanging every citizen of Mosul on the walls wouldn’t suffice.”

“Don’t talk like someone starved for blood. Especially you—it’s hard to tell if you’re joking or serious. Execute this one and a few others as examples; the rest will behave. Blood feels good now, but it causes trouble later. Just scare them enough and end it. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Mike decided to wrap up the matter as his “superior” ordered.

For a city committing “rebellion” or “treason,” the punishment was remarkably lenient. The imperial guards brought for such trivial tasks handled the cleanup more thoroughly than Boromir desired.

People saw the severed heads of Mosul’s former Margrave and the witch Medeya who seduced him. They watched those who voluntarily joined the treason—not merely coerced rebels—strung up on ropes.

Mosul returned to the embrace of the “Human Empire.”

Swift, rapid, and with the “least blood” shed, as the crown prince wished.

Mike thought that even when Boromir eventually ascended the throne, the empire would not decline.

He had sensed it before, but this incident confirmed it further. Boromir was a man who would make the legacy of expansion left by his predecessor even more valuable.

The crown prince resembled the “emperor” yet did not.

“This should suffice? Quite a few who deliberately ‘supported’ the treason are still alive…”

“This is enough. This is enough.”

Sitting on the well-ventilated terrace favored by the former Margrave, Boromir picked his nose with his little finger.

I’ve told him countless times to mind his behavior since people might see…

“It’s fine. No one’s here.”

“I am.”

“An aide is his superior’s shadow. Not a nag.”

“His Majesty told me to be your nag. As His Majesty’s loyal hound, I’ll obey that order until death. So please act befitting your station.”

“Fuck off and eat shit.”

“Good heavens, gods!”

Ping. Watching Boromir show off with “Look, Mike. A huge one came out,” Mike felt despair over how to handle this mess of a crown prince.

“Ah, I knew he’d do that. I warned him. I warned him!”

Elon slammed the round table with a bang! and erupted in anger.

At the deer god’s outburst, the other heavenly gods seated at the table—and other attendees—offered no reply.

It wasn’t a pretty sight, but Elon was right.

On “earth” below, events unfolded exactly as Elon had warned—in a “bad” direction.

Even twisting the vow against direct earthly interference, confining a mere mortal eternally in the “Elon Garden” had ultimately been the correct “rule violation.”

Paramir must die.

If he couldn’t be killed, he should be excluded to a place beyond his destined role—an actor unaware of his script—where no one else could interfere.

That method was the “Elon Garden,” yet it failed in the end.

Though dead, the mortal power to interfere not only with his own fate but others’ had forced Paramir back to earth.

Elon looked at the other gods gathered at the table (some not gods) and insisted he was right—before it was too late, they should banish the “mere mortal” to heaven, hell, or another world entirely.

“Elon. You’re utterly pathetic right now. Too late? It’s already too late.”

Watching Elon, Barhan kept reaching into an endless bag of potato chips and spoke. She brought chips to her mouth as she talked.

“…Damn it, Barhan. If you hadn’t interfered, Moriah couldn’t have reached Paramir.”

“Oh my, really? I had no idea!”

“You fucking bitch.”

Elon flushed staring at Barhan seated opposite, farthest across the round table.

If not for that damn fucking bitch, things wouldn’t have gone this fucked up… It’s all because of you, you goddamn bitch!

“Calm yourself, Elon. Mercy’s name is weeping. And this is a round table for discussion, not an outdoor stage to watch you two bite and suck. Though if you want to, I won’t stop you.”

“Who’d do that with such a lewd bitch!”

“Ah, right. That was our ‘secret.’ My apologies. I’ll forget.”

“Damn it…” Unable to contain rising rage, Elon slumped into his chair.

Heavenly gods acted lofty and holy on the surface, dripping every hypocrisy, yet behind the scenes schemed all manner of vile plots.

Someone honest with desires like Barhan would be easier to deal with.

…If not for their innate predator-prey relationship—deer and tiger—he wouldn’t need to mind Barhan’s mood.

Elon felt nauseated by the other gods and non-gods smiling at him for some reason.

“Don’t get so worked up. Oh, it’s just starting. The climax. My favorite part. Everyone quiet, please?”

Spoke the one seated at the table yet hiding true form in darkness (god or not).

Elon sullenly watched the table. There, Paramir dragged the fused, grotesque entity—no longer callable “god”—that had been Hokhma and mortal Red Stone toward the carriage where Jasmine waited.

“Oh…”

The hidden one in darkness spoke. His voice brimmed with excitement.

Paramir held the unresisting Hokhma like grasping a dead chicken’s neck.

The silver owl, whether exhausted or surrendered, no longer resisted a “mere mortal.”

The bloodied sword returned to its sheath without cleaning.

The battle between mortal and immortal ended in mortal victory.

Swordmaster. Member of the Black Tail Mercenaries. Surabar’s subordinate. Jasmine’s friend. And, until now…

Paramir walked.

He had fought far to avoid harm reaching Jasmine, but the carriage wasn’t as distant as thought.

“P-please… spare…”

Paramir, covered in blood and divinity like a complete madman, was greeted outside the carriage by Annabella and Redron—utterly exhausted, leaning on wheels.

Everyone looked as if dragged through mud.

Redron had no energy left to be shocked; Annabella asked about Surabar.

Paramir didn’t answer. He merely shook his head quietly.

He’s dead… At the fact Surabar was dead, Annabella collapsed and burst into tears.

Without strength to comfort her grief, Paramir tried to enter the carriage. But Redron blocked his path—the path of a swordmaster, the one who felled a god, who made impossible possible.

“Don’t go in. The lowly tail-beast woman I loved… is already dead. No—she still lives, but is dying…”

“I know.” Paramir spoke, and Redron was weakly pushed aside by Paramir’s strengthless hand.

Creak… As the carriage door opened, Paramir saw Jasmine barely breathing.

“Jasmine.”

“…Para… mi…r…”

“It’s all over. All over… Jasmine, now we can go home. To Mosul. Or anywhere if you hate Mosul. Didn’t Surabar say to go there if things went wrong? You’d live well there. It’ll be fine. It’s all over now. Everything’s okay…”

Paramir’s voice was wet with tears.

He held Jasmine’s limp hand. As if pouring his soul, his life into her—praying she’d recover, grow healthy again.

“Surabar…?”

“…He’s dead.”

No lie would please Jasmine.

Paramir thought so, and Jasmine nodded as if reading his mind.

Blood from difficult labor decorated the carriage like a special layer of hell. Paramir was grateful Jasmine couldn’t see the world now, this sight, himself.

Not a sight to show anyone—especially a “loved” woman.

“Promise… Paramir… be… godfather… to my child… prom… ise…”

With her very last strength, Jasmine barely opened her eyes, looked at Paramir, and pleaded.

Asking him to care for her and Surabar’s child. They were going. In place of dead parents—protect their child, at least.

Paramir nodded. Yes, yes… I will. I’ll definitely protect… Sobbing, he cried.

The child, at least the child…

…Drop. It ended. Paramir knew Jasmine’s soul had fully departed—to the embrace of ancestral god Barhan, trusted by all beastmen, where pain, sorrow, separation, no evil ever occurred.

Paramir held her hand long, embraced her dead body, kissed her forehead and cheeks. But death cannot be reversed…

“I’ll take Jasmine’s child.”

Leaving dead Jasmine behind, Paramir exited the carriage and saw the siblings leaning on it like beggars, staring blankly at the sky.

At Paramir’s words, Redron startled; Annabella barely stood and faced him.

And.

「Paramir」

Anuata’s illusion blocked him.

「Please, I beg you. Turn back. To Mosul, or west to the Black Lands. There is no hope here for you. Nothing remains. Please…」

“What are you saying.”

「I beg you… Please don’t ask, don’t know. Turn back! This is not only for you—but for those you cherished and loved—」

“What happened to the child!”

「Para…」

Brushing aside Anuata’s illusion, Paramir grabbed Annabella’s collar.

The princess of Bers shut her mouth at Paramir’s near-pleading voice and fell silent.

But she wasn’t the only one here who knew the truth.

“It’s dead.”

“…What?”

Redron said.

He couldn’t comprehend those words.

For a moment, Paramir forgot the meaning of “dead”—a word he should know all too well.

Death. Life. Death. Life. Death. And more death death death…

“The child was dead. From before birth. The woman you cherished and loved, Jasmine—from the beginning, I too—”

“It’s a dream.”

Paramir said.

Dream? Neither Redron nor Annabella understood.

Dream. Dreams aren’t reality. Lies. Not words to utter now.

Paramir sobbed like a madman, then laughed ha ha, hee hee, wahahaha, twisting and shaking wildly. He wiped blood and divinity fragments from his face with bare hands, sweeping up disheveled hair.

And Annabella and Redron saw. Paramir’s blue eyes burning white like the sun.

「This is a nightmare.」

A god said.