Sitting beside the campfire, Logos raised his head as Jeanne spoke. The sheer complexity of emotion swirling in his gaze was laid bare before her—a heavy, tangled knot of doubt and quiet conflict.
He was waiting for his enemies, hoping they would show themselves. Yet there was a tragic absurdity to it all: if those enemies failed to materialize, it meant his vigilance was entirely pointless.
Part of him desperately wished nothing would happen, hoping his dark premonitions were merely a paranoid delusion, that he was simply painting those lords as worse than they actually were and troubling himself over phantom fears.
Yet another part of him knew better. Idealistic hopes were nothing more than fragile fantasies. He had to stay prepared for the inevitable, ready to face whatever opposition emerged from the shadows.
"No need to worry on my account. It's only a few days' journey to Laterano," Logos said with a brief nod of thanks. He retained utter faith in his own resolve, especially when he had spent so long steeling himself for what was to come. "Maintaining vigilance over a stretch this short is nothing. Back on the battlefields, I could go a full week without a wink of sleep."
"Enduring it and staying at peak form are two entirely different things," Jeanne countered, shaking her head. "Besides, you can lower your guard for now. They won't move against you out here."
"Is that your intuition talking again?" Logos asked, looking at her with genuine curiosity.
He knew the young woman possessed a remarkable gift—one that felt less like raw instinct and far more like a window into what lay ahead. He wondered if she had sensed something specific about their route.
"A little of both," Jeanne replied with a slight shrug. "Common sense tells me they won't waste effort scouring every corner of the vast wilderness to track you down. It makes far more sense to corner you right outside Laterano's doorstep. On top of that, my gut says no one will bother us over the next two days."
Her reassuring tone allowed the tension in Logos's shoulders to ease. If Jeanne was confident in her assessment, it meant the opposition wouldn't waste their numbers on the initial stretch of the journey. In hindsight, his overwhelming vigilance had been driven by an restless mind, causing him to lose his usual composure and overlook the obvious.
"If something is weighing on you, it helps to talk about it," Jeanne added softly, watching his solemn expression. "I can't promise I'll have all the answers, but I can certainly be a decent listener."
She knew she couldn't shoulder his burdens, nor did he necessarily need her intervention. But offering a listening ear for his internal struggles was a simple enough favor.
"Burdens? I have no burdens," Logos replied, instinctively deflecting the notion. In his view, his brooding was simply necessary contemplation regarding the future.
"You know how things stand in Kazdel," he continued after a brief pause. "Frankly, even with Her Highness Theresa taking the reins, progress remains agonizingly slow. The ones constantly shackling our advancement are those ancient lords in the Royal Court."
He was referring to the ancient lords whose lifespans stretched back through centuries, breeding a stubbornness that ran deep into their bones.
Those archaic figures, consumed by hatred for the outside world, fiercely resisted every attempt Kazdel made toward diplomacy and progress. Some were so blinded by nostalgia for a long-lost golden age that they actively derailed national growth, clinging to the absurd dream of reclaiming their ancient dominion over Terra. Theresa spent three-quarters of every day simply trying to reason with those stubborn old fools, fighting for their reluctant cooperation.
"It's a tragic farce, really," Logos scoffed, a bitter undertone in his voice. "The vast majority of our people are pushed to the brink of starvation, yet those old lords remain obsessed with the ghost of Teekaz. They would happily freeze our entire nation in time, clinging to the laughable hope that they might one day resurrect a fallen era."
Logos didn't despise his heritage—who wouldn't feel a surge of pride for the historic glory of the Sarkaz? But to him, the reality of the present mattered far more than the ashes of the past.
"And now, I suppose I am the ultimate apostate in their eyes," Logos remarked with a self-deprecating laugh. "Even as the Lord of the Banshees, those old lords won't show an ounce of mercy."
That was the bitterest irony of all: when you poured your heart into fighting for a better tomorrow for your homeland, only to turn around and find yourself branded a traitor by the very people you sought to uplift.
"Time will be the ultimate judge," Jeanne said, patting the Sarkaz's shoulder in quiet reassurance. She knew words of comfort meant little to a man like him; what he truly needed was to see his conviction through to the end. "As long as you believe in the path you've chosen, keep marching forward. When the dust settles, the truth will speak for itself."
"Indeed. I look forward to that day," Logos murmured before rising to bid her goodnight. He truly did need to rest, ensuring he reached peak condition before the real storm hit.
Jeanne stared into the crackling fire, her mind drifting to Fafnir. She was about to check on the dragon before remembering she had sent the child back to Chernobog ahead of time.
"Ah..." Jeanne let out a soft sigh, looking up at the sky. "I've gotten way too used to taking care of children."
Above, twin moons hung in the night sky—ancient, silent observers that had watched over the triumphs and tragedies of this land since time immemorial.
Two nights later, deep in the wilderness.
"I knew those old lords wanted me dead," Logos muttered, standing tall upon the barren earth. "But seeing this with my own eyes, I can't help but feel you people must be hopelessly bored. Wouldn't this effort be better spent rebuilding Kazdel?"
Under the silver glow of the twin moons, Logos faced a contingent of opponents clad in mismatched, battle-worn armor. Their weapons bore the chips and scars of countless bloody skirmishes—a ragtag band of Sarkaz mercenaries, driven to attempt a Lord's assassination.
"The high lords oppose this path, and so do you?" Logos asked, his voice steady despite the surrounding threat. "Does making this country—making your own lives—better truly offend you that much?"
Even as he posed the question, his bone pen hovered in midair, tracing intricate characters through the night air. In the blink of an eye, the floating characters ignited into potent Arts, sweeping through the mercenary vanguard and neutralizing them in an instant.
"We don't give a damn about any of that!" a one-eyed mercenary spat, lunging forward with a rusty blade. "We work for whoever pays! That's what a better life means to us! As for your grand vision—who gives a damn?!"
Greed gleamed in the mercenary's single eye. The reward offered for the Banshee Lord's head was a mountain of originium ingots—a fortune worth risking death for!
Yet before his blade could descend, the mercenary's limbs locked up. A cold stiffness crept through his veins, robbing him of all movement.
"Forgive me, but I need to know who is pulling the strings from the shadows," Logos said quietly, a flicker of pained reluctance crossing his face. Striking down his own kin brought him no joy, but as a warrior, he had to uncover the mastermind driving this ambush.
Drawing upon his Arts, Logos peered directly into the mercenary's mind. The captive warrior's veins bulged wildly as an immense pressure weighed upon his psyche.
Logos navigated the dark corridors of the man's memory until a speck of light emerged. Deep within a dilapidated room, a masked figure was handing over a heavy pouch of coins to assemble this hit squad.
The figure wore a ram-skull mask—the distinct mark of the Confessarii's agents. They were still operating covertly within Kazdel, engineering plots to eliminate any chance of peace.
Yet how many others were involved in this scheme? How many more mercenary bands had been dispatched into the wilderness? This tragic pawn had no answers; he was merely cannon fodder used to test the waters.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. Let's keep moving," Logos said comfortably as he climbed back into the vehicle, greeting Jeanne and Mostima as though he had merely stepped outside to stretch his legs.
"An extraordinary master of Arts," Mostima praised with a bright smile. "Just watching you work makes it glaringly obvious how foolish it is to stand against you."
The elegance of his spellcasting was a testament to his unmatched mastery over Arts—a level of skill where even a casual doodle etched into the air could carry lethal force.
Though given his stoic demeanor, he probably wasn't the type to draw exploding cartoon critters to blow up his enemies...
With the brief interruption resolved, the vehicle kicked up a trail of dust, speeding off into the distance. Behind them, the bodies of the fallen mercenaries lay scattered under the pale moonlight, as the twin moons bore witness once more to kin slaying kin.