novelraw Chapter 169 : Chapter 169
Chapter 169 : Chapter 169
Chapter 169: Succession (1)
‘What is going on?’
Demian stared wide-eyed.
A flash of light passed through his trembling gray eyes. Sunlight was pouring into Christoph’s bedchamber. Warmth streamed in through the window Abel had flung open. That warmth should not have existed. Dawn should not have come, and the frigid air that had filled the bedchamber should not have vanished.
“It is the past.”
Suddenly, Abel spoke.
His arms were crossed as he gazed out the window.
“We have arrived in the past.”
The scenery of the capital looked distinctly different.
Perhaps it was a time before magestone vehicles had become widespread. The roads laid throughout the city were narrow. It looked like the capital from several years ago, at the very least.
‘The past…?’
Demian lowered his head.
It would be possible to peer into someone’s memories through a sensory stone, but this was different. He could speak. He could move his body. It felt as though they were truly traveling through time.
“There is no need to be so startled.”
Meanwhile, Christoph shrugged.
“Professor Argento, you are quite spiteful. Look at Demian—he is in shock.”
“Was anything I said incorrect?”
At Abel’s question, Christoph shook his head.
“Perhaps I should say that you are not wrong. As you said, we have arrived in the past. I have rewound time by several years.”
“I am curious about the principle.”
Abel turned away from the window and walked forward.
He sat down, facing Christoph across the table.
“No magic can govern time. Even apostles granted divine authority by the Primordial Gods are no exception. If someone truly could turn back time, then…”
“A Saint.”
Christoph cut Abel off.
“If it were a Saint, they might be able to govern time.”
“That may be so. If Saints truly existed, that is.”
Abel chose to feign ignorance.
It was true that Saints existed, and that there was room for them to manipulate time, but for now it was better to pretend otherwise.
More than anything, caution was warranted. The Cult of Transmigration had secured a Saint’s remains and possessed a connection to a Saint who would become one of the ‘Right Hands of the Earth Mother Goddess.’ For Christoph to invoke the existence of Saints under such circumstances was not an easy coincidence to overlook.
“I am skeptical as well.”
In contrast, Christoph spoke readily.
“About the existence of Saints, that is. Regardless of one’s faith, are not the records concerning Saints far too recent?”
Still, one can draw inspiration.
Christoph muttered as much.
“Some Saints are said to foresee the future, others to travel to the past. I wished to do the same. And so I devoted myself to it.”
But he failed.
According to Christoph, that was the truth.
It was impossible to rule time. What Christoph could govern was not time, but dreams.
“We are merely dreaming.”
“Look,” he said,
twirling his mustache.
“There is no pain at all. Unless one becomes a Saint, such things are only possible within dreams. To glimpse the future, to travel to the past…”
“Then we are asleep?”
“That is correct.”
At Abel’s question, Christoph nodded.
“I invited you and Demian into my dream. And so we are sharing the same dream—while fully aware that we are dreaming.”
Abel pinched the back of his hand.
He felt no pain. If this was a dream, then even the past could be rendered in detail. Even if memories were vague, they would still be etched into the unconscious. By becoming aware of them and giving them form, Christoph had reached into the past.
“However, Your Grace…”
Abel tilted his gaze.
He looked at the candle burning atop the table as he continued.
“You are not dreaming using only your own memories.”
“Exactly right.”
Christoph nodded.
“This candle is a type of magical device. I created it using sensory stones gathered from various places. With it as a catalyst, I drew the memories of others into my dream. The memories within a single unconscious mind are insufficient to recreate the world, but with the memories held by ten thousand unconscious minds, one can construct a city.”
Abel fell silent.
Was this unrelated to Saints?
That question crossed his mind as he stared at the magical device disguised as a candle.
Ten thousand unconscious minds. Christoph was not exaggerating. He had likely used even more. To govern a dream on this scale would require countless sensory stones. Not only the scenery of the past, but also the crowds moving within it had been recreated. Their forms, and even their sense of self. By what means had Christoph acquired so many sensory stones?
“Demian.”
Meanwhile, Christoph called Demian’s name.
“…Yes.”
Demian quietly looked at Christoph.
It was difficult to follow the exchange between Christoph and Abel. Was he truly asleep, sharing a dream with Christoph? Demian found it hard to grasp.
But it had to be true. He set his expression and thought. Duke Sharma was clearly someone who warranted caution. The problem lay elsewhere. This went far deeper than mere rumors. The desire Christoph harbored was—
“A curious coincidence.”
A deep smile etched itself onto Christoph’s lips.
He extended his hand toward the candle at the center of the table—more precisely, the magical device—and pointed to it.
“Pilgrimage.”
“I have named this device Pilgrimage,”
Christoph whispered playfully.
“You will soon be setting out on a long journey, will you not? To become a Holy Knight. A so-called pilgrimage. Am I wrong?”
“You are not.”
“I seem to have forgotten to congratulate you. It is rare to justify early graduation for a student. Though you are not sponsored by the Sharma family, as a trustee of CIAR, I should commend your achievement.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Demian replied succinctly, then added,
“…May I ask one question?”
He addressed Christoph in a cautious tone.
“Go on. As many as you like.”
“This candle…”
That is, this magical device…
Demian trailed off.
“You said its name is Pilgrimage?”
“That is correct.”
Christoph nodded.
“No other name came to mind.”
“Why did you name it Pilgrimage?”
“There is no particularly sacred reason.”
“A pilgrimage, you see,”
Christoph continued, stroking his mustache,
“Ultimately aims to reach a holy site. You will do the same. After visiting every cathedral within the Empire’s territory, your pilgrimage concludes when you reach the World Tree where the Holy See resides.”
However, my holy site is not there.
Christoph muttered.
“My holy site does not exist in my era. And so I came to covet the future and the past. For now, I am merely dreaming, but I will one day seize control of time.”
“Then Your Grace’s holy site is not the World Tree?”
“Correct.”
Christoph nodded once, then continued.
“Demian Fernando von Farenheit, you were wary of me because you were worried about your close friend. With Lady Brunhilde gone, Ernst has no trustworthy family at his side.”
Demian did not respond.
It was a tacit admission.
“Do you know the moment when that boy lost his parents?”
“…I do not.”
At the time, we were not acquainted,
Demian added quietly.
“Then let us go and see it.”
Christoph reached out.
With a soft brush, his wrinkled fingertips grazed the candle.
Abel turned his head toward the window.
“I possess dreams vast enough to make that possible.”
This time, it was unmistakable.
The rapid alternation of night and day. Outside the window, darkness and light repeated in quick succession. The only constant was Christoph’s ancient bedchamber. No matter how vividly the past was dreamed, the villa in which Christoph dwelled remained stubbornly decrepit.
“And this, as well…”
Meanwhile, Christoph whispered.
His sly smile vanished, replaced by a voice of solemn devotion.
“…If one insists on naming it, this too is my pilgrimage.”
---
“Young Master.”
The nanny spoke.
She shaded her eyes and looked out the window.
“The weather is warm. Shall I remove your cloak?”
“It is fine.”
Young Ernst shook his head.
An ash-gray cloak was wrapped around his small body. Clutching it tightly, Ernst curled in on himself. Clatter. The seat rocked incessantly, and he seemed intent on not being thrown off balance.
“It may be presumptuous of me to say this…”
The nanny whispered cautiously.
They were aboard the high-speed rail bound for the capital of Naflansee, seated in a first-class carriage. No matter how much money one paid for a better seat, the shaking remained the same. It felt like an unalterable law.
“I hope you are not afraid.”
And so, death too was an inevitability.
That was how Ernst understood it. Even after paying a fortune to sit in first class, the vibrations were merely lessened. Likewise, even the most illustrious nobles faced death less often, but they could not escape it entirely.
“Countess Tresckow is still in good health.”
“I know.”
Countess Tresckow—his grandmother—was still alive.
Ernst knew that well.
Though he was headed to the capital to confirm his parents’ bodies, his grandmother Brunhilde would stand in their place.
“I know all of that, so please be quiet.”
Ernst deliberately spoke in a flat tone.
He crossed his arms and jutted out his lips.
“I am exhausted. You are being noisy.”
As he spoke and tried to force his eyes shut,
“Er.”
Clatter.
The partition door was flung open.
“You have always spoken like that.”
Blond hair and gray eyes.
A tall boy entered the compartment.
“Good grief. Old trains are terribly uncomfortable.”
A mustache and a monocle.
An elderly man with a cane followed him.
“Allow me to assist you,”
Silver hair and dark blue eyes.
An indifferent-looking young man extended a hand toward the elder.
“Wait!”
The nanny’s eyes widened.
She sprang to her feet and stood in front of Ernst, addressing the three men.
“Who are you? This compartment was rented under the name of House Tresckow—”
As her words trailed off,
“A mere madman,”
“A true knight.”
The young man and the boy spoke at the same time.
“There is no need to worry.”
Between them,
the old man seated with his cane smiled.
“We are guests of House Tresckow as well.”
Indeed.
As for what I am…
The old man murmured, stroking his mustache.
“It will suffice to call me a regretful old man.”