Chapter 147

CHAPTER 147. Is This Supposed to Be My Gravesite?

Once everything was concluded, I headed to Mount Flick, gathered my group, and made my way back to Rortel.

For the record, Shine and Parun had been holed up in one of Rortel’s subterranean passages.

“…What possessed you two to go in there?”

“Hmph-hmph. Even if you were on the brink of death, didn’t we still need to locate the Sword God’s Tomb?”

“Don’t listen to him. He was shrieking and losing his mind, insisting the place was lethal. I couldn’t even restrain him—khk!”

“Pipe down. When did I ever—!”

Shine swiftly covered Parun’s mouth with his hand.

Kang! The distinct sound of metal hitting teeth echoed as the gauntlet struck. It was the precise moment Parun’s resentment toward Shine hit a new peak.

Watching this, I looked at Shine with a new perspective.

‘Losing his mind?’

This guy, honestly…

‘Is he even more of a headache than I realized?’

While his comrade was teetering on the edge of life and death, he was throwing a tantrum about finding the Sword God’s Tomb?

Still, I couldn’t claim I didn’t grasp his reasoning.

If we let this chance slip, who knows if we’d ever get another opportunity to visit the Sword God’s Tomb.

From Shine’s viewpoint, it was certainly a situation he deemed hazardous.

Even so—regardless…

“Tch.”

They say you shouldn’t adopt a dark-haired beast. Regardless, setting aside my frustration with Shine, I escorted the beast and the others back to Rortel.

Personally, it had been a nerve-wracking affair.

‘If I had arrived a moment later, it would have been a catastrophe.’

When I’d instructed them to head for the secret tunnel earlier, that had been our designated meeting spot.

If we were forced to escape Rortel, Mount Flick offered the most straightforward path—and given our familiarity with the terrain of Mount Flick, the secret tunnel was our only viable option.

However—

‘I specifically told you not to wait and to just run if things went south. And you decide to crawl into that secret tunnel instead?’

If they had been captured, their necks would be on the line—Infinite Chain or not.

If Shine hadn’t failed to spot the small opening halfway through the secret passage, we might have been dragged into another pursuit across Rortel.

For the record, there wasn’t a hint of that small hole remaining in the secret tunnel—as if someone had intentionally patched it. That was the reason they had lost their way, which, for me, was a stroke of luck.

Later, Parun explained to me—

[They had obscured it with a mechanism.]

[A mechanism?]

[Correct. I noticed it, but I didn’t see the need to mention it.]

An excellent decision.

Regardless, we decided to remain in Rortel for the time being. This was thanks to the thoughtfulness of Young Lord Sion.

Since the previous night’s chaos would have drawn everyone’s eyes to Rortel, he secured a location where we could remain hidden from public view.

Oh—by the way, the situation involving the Impirga would be managed gradually over time.

I asked whether the internal mole would notice, but the elder—whether he was a wyvern or Paharen or whatever—was already being held in the underground prison.

But the way they handled it—how to put it—

“He’s already locked in the underground Thunder Prison. They apparently apprehended him right when you caused that stir.”

“…Already?”

“That’s correct. We were unaware of the details regarding the Impirga, but it seems Father had been monitoring the situation closely as well. In a way, the intel you provided served as the catalyst.”

Listening in silence, my irritation flared.

‘You crafty…’

So you intended to do it my way all along(?)—yet you still tried to cheat a simple mage by talking about disappointment and such!

Why is it that every Head of House from a prestigious family is a crook at heart?

And so, after that turbulent night drew to a close—

The following morning.

Upon the request of the First Sword, Hamellan, I made my way to the private garden connected to the So-geomjeon.

“What brings you here?”

Hamellan was far from easy to deal with, even from his opening remark.

“You’re being awfully informal.”

“……”

“I believe I’m an elder senior of some sort, yet your tone is very casual.”

“I’m a mage. So knights are my seniors—”

“Do mages claim that blades don’t cut them?”

“…Calling you ‘senior’ feels like a stretch. How about ‘older brother’?”

“I don’t think we are at an age where we should be calling each other that.”

Ultimately, the mode of address was settled as Sir Hamellan.

Normally, I might have tried to leverage his age, but if I did that, it felt like he might sever my head—so I humbly bowed to his strength.

But putting that aside—

“What brings you here, sir?”

“For now, walk with me.”

Sir Hamellan led me on a stroll through the small garden.

It was a lazy morning.

Brilliant sunlight flooded the area, as if last night’s mayhem had been a mere illusion.

In the meticulously kept garden, mountain birds were singing, and a breeze—refreshing for a summer day—brushed against my hair.

“A beautiful garden, isn’t it?”

“Ah, yes.”

“It goes without saying, the Head of House used to live here as well.”

As Sir Hamellan paced through the garden, he savored distant memories.

“Let’s see… one day, an assassin snuck in, you know. Right here. The Head of House was slumped over, and over there the assassins were lying dead.”

“……”

“Maybe it was around here? The lead assassin’s head was rolling on the ground. And over there…”

He recounted what the Head of House was like at seven.

How at ten he had cut down several intruders.

What transpired on that side of the garden, what happened on this side…

These were tales from when the current Head of House was still the Young Lord, and most of them were blood-soaked, beautiful stories.

And while Sir Hamellan was describing the seventh ambush beneath a massive tree—

I couldn’t help but ask.

“Is this supposed to be my burial site?”

“…?”

“If it is, then rather than here, somewhere with a bit more sunshine—”

“……”

Was I out of line?

Sir Hamellan, who had been staring at me as if I were utterly baffling, questioned in a weary voice,

“What in the world do you think Rortel is?”

“0.5 Deculan?”

Meaning it was half as gloomy as Deculan.

“…If the Head of House had heard that, he would’ve cut off your head.”

“Ah, I see.”

Even I had to admit it was far too candid a response.

‘I should have compromised at around 0.25 Deculan.’

As the conversation stalled, a thin silence settled between us. Sasa-sak— blades of grass rustled in the wind.

It was then that Sir Hamellan, his eyes filled with melancholy while he touched the giant tree, spoke.

“The Head of House has endured that kind of existence. Even after being named the Young Lord, he battled in power struggles against his own siblings. Can you fathom that? That it all took place under the banner of Rortel.”

I couldn’t help but be taken aback.

Because the Rortel of that era, as described by Sir Hamellan, felt vastly different from the Rortel I recognized.

At the very least, the Rortel I knew was, as befits a prestigious house, stained, corrupt, and petty—yet it still respected certain boundaries.

But—

“The Head of House said this. It was after he claimed the throne.”

Honor and pride are merely a whip and a carrot.

“Once he occupied that position, the honor and pride we once revered as knights began to look like instruments used to manipulate them.”

In Rortel… the romance the knights imagined simply didn’t exist.

The image of a “house of knights” was nothing more than a facade the leadership wore because it was necessary to maintain control over the knights.

But then.

As I listened to Sir Hamellan, I found myself thinking this.

“So… are you asking me to understand the Head of House? To forgive him? Is that your point?”

To me, every word from Sir Hamellan felt like an attempt to polish and present the Head of House in a better light.

However, Sir Hamellan tilted his head at my inquiry.

“Why would you do that?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why would you understand the Head of House? And forgive? Who is forgiving whom? Do you believe you are above the Master of Rortel? Forgiveness is a privilege of the strong.”

It was a strange, unpleasant thing to hear from a knight, but it held truth.

Forgiveness is an act only the powerful can truly perform.

No—those without power can forgive too, but that only becomes feasible when their hearts are incredibly vast.

So then—

“Then what exactly are you driving at?”

In other words: you’ve summoned someone who isn’t busy—so what are we doing here?

Sir Hamellan’s gaze shifted in that moment.

“I must soon depart for Baidun Village.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.”

Even if the trade was to be annulled, if they intended to notify them on the scheduled day, they would need to leave around now.

But why bring it up?

As I tilted my head, confused, Sir Hamellan spoke.

And to me, his statement was quite a shocking piece of news.

“There, I intend to announce that I have transferred the Infinite Chain to the Mage Tower and the Sword Garden.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Hear me out.”

Sir Hamellan’s message was simple.

“I will protect the Mage Tower and the Sword Garden in the name of Rortel.”

“…Do you have any idea what that implies?”

“Because of the Thousand Origin Art? Puh-huh-huh, that isn’t even amusing. We simply handed the Infinite Chain to the Mage Tower and the Sword Garden. Thousand Origin Art? I have no clue what you are referring to.”

“But to Deculan, that—”

Then Sir Hamellan’s tone cut my words short.

“Then what are we?”

“……”

That single sentence was enough.

Right. Because it’s Rortel.

Still, I couldn’t process it.

“Regardless of the reason, that is…”

“From Rortel’s viewpoint, wouldn’t it be a pointless confrontation? Either way, a clash is already an inevitability. The Impirga. Are you not aware of that as well?”

So, since we will fight anyway…

“You are saying you will protect the Mage Tower and the Sword Garden and force them to owe you?”

“Indeed.”

“Why?”

It was something I couldn’t grasp at all.

Clashing over the Impirga and clashing while simultaneously defending the Mage Tower and the Sword Garden—those carry very different implications.

From Rortel’s perspective, it’s an unnecessary sacrifice…

Sir Hamellan answered my question like this.

“The Rortel the Young Lord will forge will be a true house of knights.”

So.

“I hope the Mage Tower and the Sword Garden will become staunch allies to the Young Lord’s Rortel.”

I stared blankly at Sir Hamellan.

“Are you insane? What exactly are you putting your trust in?”

For us, it was an unfathomably beneficial condition.

But why on earth?

“I am not trusting you. I am trusting the Head of House’s ability to judge people. I don’t know in detail what kind of power the Mage Tower and the Sword Garden possess, but… in the future, you will grow even greater.”

So that was it.

‘Trust the Head of House’s judgment… and place a contrarian bet on slim odds?’

Of course—

I know.

This is the winning bet.

As long as I survive, the Mage Tower will dominate the world, and eventually, it will become the greatest library on the continent. Naturally, not just any library—it will be a library that fights with terrifying efficiency.

In other words, the world’s strongest library.

So, from Rortel’s perspective, with a single sentence(?) they gain the world’s strongest library as an ally.

But still.

I couldn’t comprehend it.

That was when—

“You traitorous bastard! Where are you hiding!”

Shine’s voice drifted from a distance.

“Think about it until around midday. I will send someone for you again then.”

With those words, Sir Hamellan walked away.

I appreciate the offer, but…

‘Is it because my own nature is twisted?’

A favor without a logical reason isn’t easy to accept.

For now, setting Sir Hamellan’s proposal aside—

I met up with Shine, who was searching for me like a colt that had been given a head start.

“Tch, you aren’t even occupied—where have you been wandering off to?”

“Ever consider that I’m wandering because I’m not busy? Never mind. Why were you hunting for me?”

“The Head of House sent word. He says he will open the Sword God’s Tomb for us.”

No wonder his mood seemed a bit improved. It was because he could finally enter the Sword God’s Tomb he had desired so much.

But wait.

“Did you, by any chance, meet the Head of House?”

“Are you talking about that brat who loves to act superior? Ah—so you didn’t know because you were passed out. It was around dawn, I think? The kid doesn’t believe in sleeping in, sending someone at the crack of dawn and—ugh, kids these days.”

Shine complained, annoyed at being summoned at dawn by the Head of House, and I had a thought just in case.

“Did the Head of House… say anything specific to you?”

Sir Hamellan’s sudden proposal.

No matter how I analyzed it, there hadn’t been any reason for such a move, so it felt strange—perhaps the reason had something to do with Shine?

And my suspicion was spot on.

“He didn’t say much, but… ah, he put on airs, flexed his eyes, and told me to demonstrate some swordplay.”

“…Swordplay?”

“That thing—what was it. ‘Can you pour everything into your blade?’ Just… full of pointless arrogance. You could just tell someone to swing with all their might.”

“And then?”

“What do you mean, and then? I showed him.”

“…And after that?”

“I have no idea. He just closed his eyes? I took the hint and left. What a brat… I’ve even clashed blades with his ancestor, you know. Tch.”

Shine muttered to himself in frustration.

I stood there, staring blankly at Shine’s retreating figure.

So he wasn’t investing in me—he was investing after seeing Shine?

No—right now, that wasn’t the point.

That voice still rang clearly in my ears.

Disappointing.

Someone is “disappointing,” and someone else is…

As that thought crossed my mind, Shine abruptly turned around.

“What are you doing? Aren’t you coming?”

“Go on without me.”

With slumped shoulders, I trudged away.

Behind me, Shine shouted something or other, but I couldn’t catch it.

If it was going to end like this, I should have sent Shine yesterday, too.

…It was a damn miserable day.