novelraw Chapter 158 : Chapter 158
Chapter 158 : Chapter 158
Chapter 158: The Academy’s Great Sage (4)
‘A human… and a mage.’
The Last Dragon, Lar-Prasriti, pondered.
Guarding the silence, he devoted himself to parsing Märchen. She was nothing more than a mortal smiling while standing upon empty air—yet human, and no longer human; a mage, and no longer a mage. Before long, Lar-Prasriti reached a conclusion. That translucent mortal, like an illusion, did not exist here to begin with.
She did not belong to this world.
By contrast, Märchen lifted a hand and waved.
There was not a trace of wariness in her demeanor. Only pure curiosity shimmered in her golden eyes.
Lar-Prasriti did not answer Märchen’s question.
Instead, he addressed Abel. Old and young, female and male—countless voices overlapped as they echoed at Abel’s ear.
“I remember.”
Abel shrugged.
In an indifferent tone, he addressed Lar-Prasriti.
“I, too, hoped I would never again behold a supreme being. However, someone who seeks your aid has appeared.”
Märchen Blackmore.
Abel supplied the name, leaning his back against the stone wall with arms crossed.
“She is my colleague. Rude, and a wastrel who chases pleasure. I ask that you bear with her.”
So tell me, Märchen whispered toward Lar-Prasriti.
Märchen nodded.
What a mess.
Abel sighed inwardly.
Dragon and mage could never harmonize. Epezaria was a world where dragons had waned, yet Abel had seen countless worlds where dragons and mages had clashed.
Dragons sought stable identity; mages pursued chaotic progress. Where dragons secluded themselves as primordial beings among ancient hoards, mages sought advancement through spirits—products of the primordial. Conflict was inevitable.
Yet Lar-Prasriti must have perceived it: that Märchen was not merely a mortal—
A being dwelling in isolation, something closer to a dragon.
Märchen grinned, rubbing her chin.
She was right.
Between worlds lay a distance no mortal lifespan could bridge. Thus the “Left Hand of the Mother God” departed for other worlds through reincarnation—everyone except Märchen Blackmore.
Märchen scratched her temple.
Even so, this was only an illusion. The real Märchen Blackmore did not exist in Epezaria.
In the world where she had lived her first life, she remained confined—unable even to die.
Unable to commit suicide.
She spoke through communication spells, observed through identification spells, and manifested through illusion spells.
On the surface, it was a simple method—but Märchen was exercising magic across the gulf between worlds, a realm unreachable even to the Empire’s Tower Lords, or to dragons, creatures closest to the Creator among all beings. Realizing this, Lar-Prasriti fell silent for a moment, then—
<…Intriguing.>
He soon laughed.
Märchen agreed readily.
What do you wish to ask?
Lar-Prasriti asked Märchen.
‘He seems to like her.’
Abel thought, expression unchanged.
Naturally so. A dragon who willingly confines himself to his nest, and Märchen, thoroughly imprisoned as she was—their existences were equivalent. Among all humans, perhaps only Märchen could converse smoothly with a dragon.
Märchen spoke, erasing the smile she had worn.
“The Phantasmic Faith.”
Abel spoke up, standing beside Märchen.
“Former cardinals who became apostates reside there, along with their followers. They seem to have settled in long ago. You must have noticed already, Lord Lar-Prasriti.”
Lar-Prasriti answered without hesitation.
You wish to see it, then, he whispered.
“Yes.”
Abel nodded once.
It was not easy to guess.
How the Phantasmic Faith had survived on the far side of history.
A clergyman elevated to a cardinal’s throne who then fell into apostasy would wield immense power. Even so, to amass strength beyond the tides of history for nearly a thousand years was impossible. Someone should have noticed. Someone should have opposed them.
Lar-Prasriti said.
Therefore, I cannot help you.
That is how it must be, he murmured—then,
<…But I will grant you the chance to bargain.>
After a moment’s silence, he intoned:
“Of course.”
Abel replied.
He knew the price. To trade with a dragon, one must offer the oldest and most precious thing one possessed—whatever would furnish the dragon’s nest. An object, a memory, or existence itself. Abel knew what was oldest and most precious to him.
He reached for the hilt of his beloved sword—
Märchen swung her arm without hesitation.
Clack.
An ornament fell onto the stone floor.
It had been summoned from her pocket dimension. At a glance, it was nothing more than a crude necklace, bearing no power whatsoever.
Probably…, Märchen added softly.
“Can you really give that away so casually?”
Abel whispered to her.
Märchen tilted her head, utterly puzzled.
<…Very well, mage.>
Lar-Prasriti perceived it easily.
He probed the object’s essence and felt the memories nested within. And he acknowledged it.
It’s completely useless to me.
Märchen whispered.
<──Then hear this.>
Suddenly, radiance engulfed Abel and Märchen.
Lar-Prasriti’s draconic gaze spread, enclosing them. The cavern walls, once mere stone, began to flood with crimson hues.
GROOOOM—
Abel’s ears rang.
Sound dulled; his vision blurred and wavered. A normal mortal would not have endured it.
It feels like passing through a warp gate, Abel thought, frowning.
As though his soul were instantly disassembled, then reassembled far away.
At last, Lar-Prasriti’s voice faded,
Abel’s vision was swallowed by complete darkness.
.
.
.
Swipe, swipe—
A translucent hand brushed past Abel’s cheek.
He stared blankly ahead.
The first thing he saw was Märchen’s face.
My stomach’s churning, Abel thought, stepping forward. He passed straight through Märchen’s form and pressed a hand to his own forehead.
‘This place is….’
Abel narrowed his eyes.
The scenery of a remote city spread out before him.
It was not an architectural style used by the Empire. The clothing of passersby around him was the same—garments fashioned in foreign styles.
A voice came from behind him.
Abel turned toward Märchen.
Märchen shrugged.
So vividly.
She murmured.