Chapter 530 - Knot
He dreamed of a strange kind of magical computation, one he had never seen before.
A new answer derived by inserting a specific formula into an existing spell.
It was hard to describe in words, yet vivid enough that, had he any skill with his hands, he could have drawn it immediately.
He could not tell if it was a nightmare, or a dream of good fortune.
Even though he had clearly slept soundly, the man felt his head unbearably weary, unconsciously recognizing it as someone's teaching.
Creak—
He rose from bed.
The man was a middle-aged Mage, living alone in a secluded house somewhat apart from the nearby village, with a small, modest garden.
His limit tier was 2nd-tier high, his realm also 2nd-tier high.
Reaching the very peak of one's personal capacity was not unheard of, but it was still a talent far too ordinary to be called remarkable.
He had long since discarded any ambition for advancement.
The peaceful life he had sustained for years was a blessing, a daily routine where he would always soothe his heart with warm tea in the morning.
But today was different.
Still in his nightclothes, he opened the door and stepped outside. It was winter, naturally without snow, and bitterly cold.
It would have been proper to at least drape a cloak over himself, but he had no such leisure. His mind was far too hazy, his body drawn along, chasing after the dream.
Muttering to himself, he repeated the voice that had imprinted itself in his memory.
He passed through the garden and stopped at a distance before a single lonely tree.
As though guided by instinct, he fumbled within his robe and drew out a staff, one worth several hundred thousand Elk, obtainable in the city.
He was not poor, but neither wealthy, and for a Mage of his means, it was the best he could afford.
Naturally, he closed his eyes and began computing a single spell in his mind.
How complex could a mere 2nd-tier spell be? Normally, it would not take much time at all.
Yet he stood rooted to the spot, focusing for over ten minutes. He had studied it before, but this was his first time attempting to compute it…
As heat rose and sweat streamed down, at last, a glow of heat gathered at the tip of his staff.
Kwaaaang!
The blazing sphere shot forth, exploding, shattering and incinerating the tree. In the dead of winter, a burning life flared within his sight.
Drip… drip…
Perhaps a blood vessel had burst, for his eye was streaked red, and blood dripping from his nose stained the front of his nightclothes, yet such things no longer mattered.
His hands shook as he stared at the staff, his eyes filled with disbelief.
"H-How, how did I just cast a 3rd-tier low spell…?"
By all magical common sense, the spell should have failed. It was a domain beyond his talent, unreachable no matter the effort.
And yet, it had succeeded.
It was thanks to the voice in his dream, the teaching of an old man with ash-gray hair and beard.
His head throbbed violently.
As though hammered, the pain drove him to clutch at his temple… and suddenly, a single word surfaced within his consciousness.
The old man's name.
"Dahit, Wethroel."
Like someone else's memory etched into him, the Mage had dreamt vividly, and with it, succeeded in casting a spell beyond his limit tier.
He was not the first.
Such strange changes were already occurring across the continent.
***
"…What in the world is going on here."
The investigator, Lambert, could not make sense of this incomprehensible magical phenomenon, presumed to have begun a few weeks prior.
That a Mage might dream, and then cast magic beyond their tier?
It was an absurd rumor, laughable at best… and yet, having traced the truth of the tale and confirmed it himself, there was nothing amusing about it.
'The cause is obvious.'
All those Mages spoke of the same name—Dahit Wethroel.
The very Archcriminal of the magical world, who, two years ago, destroyed the power source of the Bohemirn magic tower during the Magic Festival.
The one called Amwol had done something.
The reason was unknown.
How could anyone guess the designs of a Transcendent who commanded the cult of death-Mages?
But one thing was certain—this matter was dire.
'Looking back through history, the magical world has undergone drastic upheavals many times, eventually returning to stability… but this is on another level.'
The ability to cast beyond one's limit tier was not only a matter of realms—it was a problem of grave consequence.
The truly fatal issue was the side effects.
There were two major cases.
First.
If a Mage with a limit of 3rd-tier low, and a realm of 2nd-tier high, were to cast a 3rd-tier low spell, the additional physical strain would accumulate.
Though manageable at first, without proper time for recovery, the damage would build, gradually breaking down the body, including the mana circuits.
Second.
If a Mage with a limit and realm of 2nd-tier high cast a 3rd-tier spell, not only would there be strain, but also direct backlash.
Most often, in the form of hemorrhage.
No fatalities had yet been reported… but compared to the first case, the chance of death was far higher.
In short, they seemed to be paying the price for grasping at a realm beyond their reach.
'From the cases I've investigated, this phenomenon mostly affects lower-tier Mages, at most up to 3rd-tier mid.'
And indeed, as a 4th-tier Mage, Lambert had never had such a dream. Nor had his colleagues.
But if it spread further, reaching higher tiers as well… the situation would spiral out of control.
Like a snowball rolling down a sheer mountain slope.
'No matter what, this won't end quietly.'
Since the source had already been revealed to be the Transcendent Dahit Wethroel, it would not be long before the higher powers began to act.
This was no mere private affair like the fall of the Ailan Kingdom, nor the Bohemirn tower's power source explosion.
Soon, the Transcendents of magic would gather.
"Haa."
Lambert, just a single Mage, felt as though he were being swept into a maelstrom far beyond his means. Thoughts of his parents, living peacefully back in their hometown, rose unbidden.
He had wished for a life with a little more excitement, but never like this.
Having finished his investigation at the frontier, Lambert returned to the Magocracy.
***
After successfully completing the succession ceremony, the tasks awaiting Verden were piled like a mountain, far too many for him to personally manage the Black Hour in every detail.
Thus, any matters that could be delegated were dispersed and entrusted to others.
Verden focused only on the matters that only he could handle. A private audience with Melard Tastienne was one of those.
"Y-Your Holiness… that black flame you just showed, what in the world was it…?"
The
It was rare enough to see cases where someone pioneered a similar Demonic Way… but for one to manifest the exact same Demonic Way as another? Such a thing was unheard of.
For Melard, who had once been Dahit's teacher, the question was unavoidable.
How could that even be possible?
When she asked, Verden answered without hesitation.
"The foundation is still the Demonic Way I pioneered, but the key factor that made it possible lies elsewhere. Memory."
"Memory…?"
Verden nodded.
"That day, Dahit Wethroel entrusted me with everything."
He summarized much, explaining concisely.
What had happened at the end of the magical duel that decided the leader of the Black Hour, and what Dahit's ideal truly was…
Listening in silence, she clenched her frail hand.
"I see…"
Melard lowered her gaze, staring blankly at the floor of the Grand Hall.
At last, after decades, she understood why Dahit Wethroel had been able to pioneer a Demonic Way.
'Back then, he only said that by reflecting upon his life, one might reach enlightenment…'
Suddenly, she recalled Carindin Lerhar and Maybel Risonia Siller.
At the brink of death, Carindin confessed that he had wished the Black Hour to hold rightful power as a faction.
Maybel, at the very end, left words of apology. Words that, in Melard's memory, she never would have spoken.
Selfishness.
Like Dahit, refusing to be forgotten even in death, she had cast aside cold reason and revealed emotions she had once so despised.
The more Melard thought, the more her feelings surged.
Now, of the eight who had founded the Black Hour, only two remained. Even then, Cayman Vermont was absent.
The last message had been that he would be unreachable for some time.
Within the Grand Hall, the only original member left was Melard Tastienne.
'If only… back then, I had understood everyone, and mediated between them…'
Regret shimmered before her eyes.
"Do not dwell on it. Each bore the responsibility for their own actions. And, there are too many matters requiring attention to waste time on regrets. Don't you think?"
At Verden's words of comfort, Melard raised her head and drew in a quiet breath.
Then, she smiled faintly.
"Yes… you're right. Truly."
She was not alone.
She still had many by her side: the Transcendent before her, dear companions who shared her cherished past, and disciples who were like her own children.
There was no time for regret.
"Still, it is hard to believe. That incantations were not the only limiter, but that mana circuits themselves restricted tiers… and that Dahit removed that. I don't feel anything yet, though."
"That too is only a matter of time. The change begins at the lower tiers and will climb toward the higher ones. I don't know how long it will take, but it will encompass the entire continent, that much is certain."
This was based on Dahit's memories.
"An age has already passed into the next."
As Verden and Melard turned their gaze forward, Dahit Wethroel lay upon the stone coffin. Serene in appearance, in stark contrast to the chaos that would soon engulf the world.
It was the moment to tie a knot on a bygone era.
Verden extended his hand.
Pitch-black flames consumed Dahit. The inheritance he carried had already passed to Verden, the next leader.
Dahit's body met its final end clad only in his robe.
"..."
Melard silently observed the funeral of her former disciple.
Her heart surged with mixed love and hate, and with the reality that at last, the Black Hour had been reclaimed. Without realizing it, tears quietly fell.
Only after such a long time could Melard finally bury the past within her heart.
Verden spoke.
"As planned, the Black Hour will return to being a magical research group. Those who refuse that will fall under my command."
Those who survived the purge would either remain in the Black Hour, walking the path of researchers, or directly join Verden's faction.
The Mage whose mana circuits had been destroyed by Isabella's Corruption, now rendered an ordinary person, belonged to the former.
"Yes. But before that, keeping our remaining promise comes first."
Before restoring the Black Hour, they had to assault the Bohemirn magic tower. That had been the agreement between the Society and Verden.
There was no longer any unease.
Even if the opponent was Bohemirn, the second greatest military power, Verden was the Transcendent who had faced Dahit Wethroel head-on and triumphed—and who had inherited all of Dahit's memories.
"But can we truly achieve this within five months? Even without their power source, their strongest forces remain. And unlike Dahit, it will be difficult to force a one-on-one magical duel."
"It will not be easy in many ways. Most of all, Balrog Bessias is a man utterly unlike Dahit Wethroel in character. Still, it is possible. I intend to prepare thoroughly."
Verden spoke with confidence.
"Just as I once destroyed Bohemirn's power source."
"The power… source? What did you just… say?"
Melard's eyes trembled.
"What… what did you just say?"
"Well then, I leave the internal affairs of the Black Hour to you in my absence."
"W-Wait, Your Holiness!"
Verden strode forward. Melard's voice called after him, demanding a full explanation, but he gave no answer.
Far more urgent matters were at hand.
'By now, the influence of Ignacia's super-tier magic should have surfaced.'
There was little time before the Transcendents of magic, after grasping the situation, would convene and resolve to eliminate Amwol, Dahit Wethroel.
'I must buy time, at all costs.'
That was why, upon confirming all of Dahit's memories, Verden had immediately requested from Isabella and consumed a potion made from the maximum concentration of Lysandro fruit—to restore his strength more quickly.
[Departure ready.]
Alpha perched on his shoulder.
Verden stepped toward the great city, Gargant.
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