Chapter 106

Chapter 106

Before the darkness was complete, Alon came back to the camp with Celaime Mikardo, who had lost his purpose for further study now that the Hermit’s Hideout was accessible.

“…You are inquiring about progression to the next rank?”

“Yes. I thought there might be some clues there.”

Walking back together, Alon considered Celaime’s answer.

“It is likely nothing exists beyond the 8th rank.”

Based on Alon’s knowledge of the Psychedelia system, a mage who could wield Origin magic would achieve the highest level at the 8th rank.

“I understand.”

“Precisely. While the site was less remarkable than I had anticipated, the trip was not fruitless. Examining the gateway’s magic circle was very instructive.”

Alon gave a silent nod to Celaime’s bright laughter. He had no desire to crush Celaime’s zeal for magical discovery, even if he personally saw no point in it.

‘Then again, the system’s silence on matters beyond the 8th rank does not definitively prove a 9th rank is impossible.’

The idea occurred to him.

‘Incidentally, what became of Celaime Mikardo in the original narrative?’

The Celaime Mikardo from Alon’s memories was entirely absent from the original work. Even in the original story’s exchanges with the frantic Penia, subjects concerning the Tower Lord never came up.

‘Has my memory failed? It has been a long time, and the details grow hazy unless I consult my notes.’

Alon thought of the notebook he maintained, where he recorded useful information about this world in his free moments to ensure he did not lose vital knowledge.

‘Nevertheless, I am sure Celaime was not in the original Psychedelia tale.’

His assurance solidified as he mentally reviewed every pertinent scene.

“Might I ask you a question?”

“What is it?”

When Celaime tentatively asked how Alon had discovered the true key for the second gateway, Alon gave a firm refusal.

“I cannot disclose that.”

In the culture of mages, it was a breach of decorum to inquire about another’s personally developed magic outside the formal structure. Alon used this convention to deny the request with confidence.

‘Not that it is important. My magic is largely insubstantial theatrics.’

While Alon wondered why his small deception had been effective, Celaime maintained his smile.

“Haha, my apologies. My curiosity simply got the better of me.”

“It is alright.”

“Perhaps, in time, as we become better acquainted, you might teach me the fundamentals.”

“…?”

Celaime laughed warmly, and Alon briefly pondered the meaning of ‘better acquainted’.

“I should take my leave now.”

“You are departing?”

“Yes, my schedule is full. Even having two bodies would not be sufficient.”

The moment they reached the camp, Celaime made his excuses, which Alon found somewhat of a relief. There was an indefinable, unsettling atmosphere around Celaime.

“Until we meet again.”

“Certainly.”

Alon offered a perfunctory response to Celaime’s courteous goodbye and observed him disappear into the distance.

“Whew.”

He released a deep breath.

“That is the second task completed.”

Walking to the inn, Alon considered his subsequent moves.

“Now, only the last task remains.”

He reflected on the primary motive for his jungle expedition: to prepare for the Forgotten One. A certain presence—more crucial than any object—was fundamental to his designs.

“All the preparations are made.”

With that, he adjusted the ring he had gotten from Heinkel and went inside the inn.

“You have returned, my lord.”

“Deus?”

“Yes, I am back.”

As Alon entered, Deus welcomed him with a formal bow. Another person, however, looked at Alon with a combination of scorn and annoyance.

“Hmm, so you are the Marquis?”

The man was intimidatingly large and tall. Alon knew him at once. Reinhardt, reputed to be Caliban’s finest swordsman, had finally arrived.

‘Enormous. I knew he was tall, but he must be over two meters.’

Unthinkingly, Alon leaned his head back to see Reinhardt’s face. Despite Alon’s own significant stature, Reinhardt’s height was overwhelming.

The man’s coarse and threatening features clashed starkly with the aristocratic name Reinhardt, intensifying the strain in the room.

Compounding the general disorder, Reinhardt’s clothing was little better than tatters after a prolonged stay in the jungle before Deus located him. In his present condition, Reinhardt looked exactly like a bandit—nothing more, nothing less.

‘In Psychedelia, despite his rugged looks, he carried himself with a clean, knightly bearing that suited a respectable warrior.’

As Alon stared at the drastic difference between the Reinhardt he knew and the man present, Reinhardt scowled and spoke.

“What are you looking at? I gave my name, so you should—”

A sharp smack cut him off, jerking his head forward.

“Mind your conduct,” Deus stated.

“You idiot!” Reinhardt snarled, shooting a vicious glare at Deus for hitting him.

Deus, unperturbed, repeated, “Mind your conduct.”

“I’m not the one being rude! Are you blind? He’s the one who—”

“Were you not the first to speak discourteously?”

“I have the right to!”

“No, you do not.”

“Yes, I do!”

“You may, provided you can best me in a fight.”

“Grrk—”

Deus’s remark found its mark. When he alluded to a seeming pact between them—one Alon knew nothing about—Reinhardt released a frustrated, guttural cry.

“Fine! I apologize for my rudeness, Marquis Palatio,” Reinhardt said, his tone dripping with insincerity and exasperation.

“It is fine,” Alon answered indifferently.

Reinhardt, annoyed by the casual reply, muttered as he sat down, giving Alon a peculiar feeling of discomfort.

‘He was meant to be an impulsive man who would never submit to anyone… seeing him like this is strange.’

Alon briefly dismissed the recollection of the promise Deus had offhandedly mentioned before and changed the subject.

“Let us postpone further talk and retire for the night.”

That evening, despite the clinging, oppressive mugginess, Alon fell asleep swiftly, as if he had become inured to the unease.

***

The next morning, a soft rain fell as Alon gazed out the inn window. Soon after, Deus provided some context regarding Reinhardt.

“…He journeyed to the jungle for training?”

“Yes. He said he had been in the Selvanus region and the northern zone.”

“The northern zone?”

“That is correct.”

This was uncommon. The Selvanus region was not typically chosen for training, as it was populated by potent mutated beasts. While a newly ascended sword master of exceptional talent, like Fillian, could endure there, it would be a harsh ordeal.

‘Training in a place like that… it is feasible only for someone like Reinhardt, but even for him, the northern zone seems excessive.’

The northern zone, also called the Territory of the Hundred Ghosts, was an area where even Deus would face difficulties. The mutated creatures there were marginally more powerful than those in Selvanus, but the true danger came from a different source—the minions of the Hundred Ghosts.

“Based on what he said, however, it seems he did not stay long in the northern zone.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. It appears the majority of his time was spent in the Selvanus region.”

Alon nodded at the helpful clarification, unable to help but admire Reinhardt’s power. Yet his eyes returned to Deus.

‘And Deus overpowered someone of Reinhardt’s caliber…’

“Is something the matter, Marquis?” Deus asked, noticing Alon’s prolonged look.

Weighing his words, Alon eventually spoke in a level tone.

“It is good to see.”

The feeling was one of almost paternal satisfaction, like seeing a son succeed. But stating it directly felt uncomfortable, so Alon phrased it with care.

“…Is that so?”

“Yes, you are performing admirably.”

“Understood.”

Deus, perhaps feeling a flicker of pride at Alon’s comment, showed a rare, faintly pleased expression. After some time spent talking, they concluded a plain breakfast with Evan and Reinhardt, who had come down to the first floor. Then Alon posed a significant question.

“Deus, will you be returning now?”

“I will. …Will you not be coming back with me, my lord?”

“I have another destination to visit.”

“Then I will go with you.”

“…Has your objective not been met? Should you not return?”

“A delay of a few days is insignificant.”

“To be honest, I intended to request your company if you were willing. Thank you for offering.”

“It is no trouble.”

Deus’s direct answer caused Reinhardt to break in.

“So, am I expected to just wait here?”

“You will come with us.”

“Why would I do that?”

Reinhardt shot back, his voice challenging.

“To ensure you do not abscond again.”

“What? Me? That is ridiculous!”

“Did you believe I would not discover you ran to the jungle to avoid addressing me as brother?”

Reinhardt fell silent at Deus’s direct charge, his motive for fleeing to the jungle—a reason Alon had not bothered to learn—now exposed.

Observing the exchange, Alon, who had been quietly appreciating the uncommon scene, cleared his throat. Evan, watching beside him, moved closer to ask quietly.

“So, where are we going?”

“To the Thunder Serpent tribe.”

“The Thunder Serpent tribe? …You mean the eastern one?”

“Yes.”

At Alon’s confirmation, Reinhardt’s frown deepened.

“What? You are going there? Marquis Palatio, do you have any idea what that place is?”

“Of course.”

The territory of the Thunder Serpent tribe was in the eastern zone, one of the three areas charted by the jungle camp. It was the least developed region due to the tribe’s firm policy of barring outsiders.

“…You know they are there and still plan to go?”

“Yes.”

“Hah—”

Reinhardt could not conceal his incredulity, which resulted in another sharp smack.

“Ow! You fool!”

“Mind your conduct.”

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?!”

“If you wish to determine who perishes first, feel free to try.”

Reinhardt exploded with rage after being struck again by Deus, but Alon stayed calm as he watched.

‘If he is aware of the Thunder Serpent tribe, that reaction is understandable.’

In the game and its background lore, the Thunder Serpent tribe was a formidably difficult enemy. Every tribesman was at least as powerful as a knight, and their combat effectiveness doubled within the jungle.

Further complicating matters was their expertise with curses. From the instant one earned the tribe’s hostility, more than ten different debilitating effects would begin to plague the intruder, remaining until they departed the eastern zone.

Even so, Alon was not excessively worried—Reinhardt and Deus were with him.

Still, one point warranted caution: the Thunder Serpent tribe worshipped an absolute being, a presence akin to a deity.

…And that being was Alon’s objective.

Keeping this in mind, Alon rose.

“We are finished here, so let us depart.”

“To meet the Thunder Serpent tribe.”

Once the rain ceased, Alon’s group started their trek toward the eastern zone—an area shunned by even the boldest adventurers and sell-swords.

Roughly an hour or two after entering the zone, Reinhardt looked ahead at Marquis Palatio with mild annoyance.

In truth, Reinhardt disliked the Marquis. Not due to any direct offense from Alon, but because Reinhardt often ended up suffering incidental “collateral damage” on his account.

‘What is so exceptional about him that Deus goes on with those lengthy speeches during assemblies?’

Reinhardt could not grasp why Deus consistently praised Alon so highly, as if it were the most natural thing.

Admittedly, he had heard from other knights about Alon’s major role in the northern campaign years prior, but surely that tale had been exhausted.

The Alon he saw in person did not appear especially remarkable, contrary to the stories. If not for the knights who ceaselessly commended the Marquis after the northern campaign, Reinhardt would have thought the reports were inflated.

Already irritated at being brought here instead of returning to Caliban, Reinhardt was complaining inwardly when he abruptly unsheathed his sword.

They had appeared.

Clad in white animal hides and wearing masks fashioned from bone, a group of unidentified figures materialized like illusions blocking their way.

Reinhardt frowned deeply at the sight.

“We are already under the effect of their curses.”

He could feel his senses blurring, as if he were underwater.

“Hear me, outsiders. This is the land of the Blue Serpent. Turn back.”

The speaker wore a mask with four horns, and their throaty growl held an unmistakable air of command. Reinhardt, unable to help himself, let out a soft, impressed whistle.

‘Not a Sword Master, but nearly there. To think an individual without formal martial training could attain such a level.’

His fascination with the masked figure’s unexpected skill was brief.

“We have come to meet your chieftain.”

“You disregard my command.”

What Reinhardt witnessed—or more accurately, was made to witness—was a staggering spectacle.

The instant Marquis Palatio finished speaking, a tribesman sprang forward, their single-edged sword cutting through the air with lethal intent.

Crack!

Abruptly, everything solidified.

Not only the blade.

Around Marquis Palatio, the very world started to turn to ice, as if nature itself was flinching from his aura. The light rain became frozen pellets. The nearby foliage glistened with a coat of frost.

Even the sword that had been thrust forward became a solid block of ice.

Then, the hand gripping the sword also froze, sheathed in a gleaming layer of ice.

Everything was frozen.

Reinhardt, astonished by the display, could only watch as his eyes widened involuntarily. But it was not just the frozen environment that shocked him—it was what he perceived behind Alon.

Two eyes shone in the emptiness behind the Marquis. They emitted a sinister aura, one that appeared to reject the very idea of being acknowledged.

The feeling scraped at Reinhardt’s thoughts, eroding his reason in a moment.

Yet, what truly stunned Reinhardt was not even that.

It was the vision before him: Alon, his fur-lined coat swaying, with the two luminous eyes floating menacingly at his back.

The picture was disturbingly familiar.

Somewhere deep in Reinhardt’s subconscious, it resonated—a scene he could not locate but which felt burned into his memory.

Driven by instinct, Reinhardt desperately combed his mind for the origin of this familiarity. And then, he found it.

One year ago.

When Reinhardt had boldly entered a place of murmured legends—only to run away in total defeat.

A single blow had ruthlessly shattered his sword, leaving him with a devastating sense of failure greater than anything even Deus had ever delivered.

…The statue?

Yes, it was the statue.

Behind the Hundred Ghosts, positioned atop a great rock, was an immense sculpture carved into a vertical cliff face.

And now, the likeness of that statue and the figure of Marquis Palatio before him were uncannily, frighteningly the same.