This… I did not foresee at all.
Was this always meant to happen?
Or had some butterfly effect beyond Fernan's awareness altered the future?
There had been no mention of this in the Prophecy, which made it troublesome.
Of course, for Aint—and for Fernan, who wished for his growth—it was by no means a bad development.
No, this happened because of my actions.
In the original course, Aint would encounter monsters—aberrants—on the battlefield.
There, he would endure fierce combat, gain experience, and earn renown for slaying a true aberrant.
That was when he would begin to be recognized as a "hero," as the "heir of the first Emperor."
The desert tribes were never part of that story.
But once Fernan saved them, the tale changed.
Those who should have died as sacrifices now lived—and had witnessed Aint's feats with their own eyes.
This won't alter the future too drastically, will it?
The greatest advantage of possessing the Prophecy was knowing the future and preparing accordingly.
That was why, aside from altering his relationship with Ruina, Fernan had avoided changing the grand design—only tweaking small details when necessary.
What's done cannot be undone. I should be grateful it turned out at least somewhat positive…
"…Are you meditating?"
Fernan opened his eyes at the voice beside him.
"What did you say?"
"I asked why you were sitting with your eyes closed alone."
It was Ruina. She handed him a well-cooked piece of meat.
Though it was a festival, her expression showed no trace of mirth.
"I had things to ponder. And you—aren't you drinking?"
"Alcohol makes one careless."
"It's a festival."
Fernan took a cup from a tribesman pouring liquor and pushed it toward her.
"…It's bitter. I dislike it."
"It is strong."
The desert warriors drank distilled liquor.
They milked their camels, fermented the milk into a rough brew, then distilled it into a spirit.
Finally, they aged it in crude underground stills.
In a desert where water is so precious, it's almost wasteful to pour it into distillation…
To the tribes, though, it wasn't about business—just their desire for something strong.
But that wasn't the point now.
"There must be fermented brew too."
"It tastes… unbearable."
Camel's milk fermented had such a peculiar tang and odor it was infamous for splitting opinions.
Fernan pulled chocolate from his subspace, crumbling it in his fist.
A gentle forest fragrance rose as it broke apart. He sprinkled the fragments into her cup.
"That should help."
"..."
Ruina glanced at him sidelong.
"I washed my hands."
"No—that's not it. That chocolate… from Fridien…"
"It's World Tree bark chocolate."
"That's far too precious! Why waste it in alcohol?"
"So, are you going to drink it or not?"
"…I'll drink it. Only because the chocolate would be wasted otherwise."
Ruina sipped.
The oaken aroma of the aged spirit and the subtle woodland fragrance of the chocolate melded perfectly.
The harsh bitterness of the first sip was cloaked in sweetness, leaving a surprisingly fine taste.
"…It's good."
"That chocolate is worth more than the liquor."
"…Then I've profited."
"Profited?"
"It wasn't mine to begin with, but in exchange for drinking unpleasant liquor, I gained fine chocolate."
"…You sound like a merchant."
"Perhaps I've picked up the habit traveling with one."
Fernan's eyes widened—he hadn't expected such words from Ruina.
It wasn't unpleasant.
Just then—
Waaaaah!
"Berry…!"
From afar, a loud cheer rose. He wanted to see, but the crowd was too thick.
"What's happening?"
"Perhaps some other event."
At that moment, a tribesman's body came flying out of the throng.
Bloodied and battered—and beyond him, a familiar voice cried out:
"Next!"
"A duel."
"It's a duel."
"Berryan?"
"It's Berryan."
Fernan and Ruina exchanged glances.
A brief silence—then whoosh! Ruina summoned aura, burning the alcohol haze from her body in an instant.
"This will be entertaining. I've been curious about their strength—men who cannot wield mana, yet possess such monstrous physiques."
Without waiting for Fernan's reply, she strode toward the arena.
—Kkung? Kekeke!
Wooden, having returned at some point, clutched its belly in laughter beside Fernan.
"Rejected? Don't spout nonsense."
They had never been like that to begin with.
Fernan flicked Wooden on the head.
—Kkiiing!
It squealed dramatically, twisting as if in agony, though he had barely tapped it.
So then… this means the desert tribes will join Aint's faction…
How many tribes were there again?
"Vulgar."
The desert folk were filthy, every one of them. Their liquor was crude, their so-called festival devoid of true entertainment.
"You don't enjoy the celebration, Your Highness?"
"How could I?"
Whole roasted meat, poor-quality liquor, and fistfights dressed up as sacred duels.
They called this a festival? Rudger felt the urge to lecture these savages on what the word truly meant.
This is why you're scorned as barbarians. This is why the Empire abandoned you.
No—the real reason for Rudger's ire was different.
Despite his efforts, the desert shouted only Aint's name.
Holy Light? Bah.
They revered Aint. They exalted him.
That damned Aint, who seemed to have regained the lost Armian swordsmanship.
The question of how was brief.
If he really had regained it, that was no small matter.
Perhaps not in times of peace—but now, with aberrants rampaging, it was as if heaven itself had paved a golden road for Aint Armian.
"Your Highness, are you well?"
Rudger's thoughts broke at Almon's voice. He steadied his breath, suppressing his rage.
"…I'm fine."
"I worried you might have been hurt in the battle with the aberrant."
"I only cast one spell. There was no chance to be injured."
Though in truth he had strained himself—overexertion, inner injuries—but with fine potions, he had largely recovered.
"I want to ask you something, Almon."
"Yes, anything."
"How strong was the aberrant?"
"In what sense?"
"I mean—just how strong."
Almon hesitated. Strong? The aberrant had been immensely strong.
He had felt it in every clash of blade against its demonic aura.
He could never have withstood more than a few blows.
With one strike, his body had twisted, his insides felt torn apart. Even with aura protecting him, it felt as though it might shatter at any moment.
At least, Almon knew he could not have defeated that creature alone.
If not for Aint's power weakening it, Rudger's magic slowing it, and the combined assault of many together… they would never have brought the aberrant down.
"It was a monstrous being."
"And you think it was the only one?"
"Hardly. Even the Academy cannot measure how many aberrants there are—it's impossible to guess."
"Exactly. That's the problem."
"You're worried about Aint Armian, Your Highness?"
"Isn't it all too convenient? The aberrants begin to stir again, and at the same time Aint Armian seems to have regained the once-lost secret swordsmanship."
It was true. Yet even so, it was impossible to believe that Aint—or the Armian family—were behind the demons' movements. Surely it was only coincidence.
"Yes, coincidence."
But that coincidence favored Armian. Most would call that fortune.
"And I have no intention of letting Aint—of letting Armian—keep that fortune."
For it would bring no benefit to Schwaben.
"That's why proof is needed."
"Proof, that even without Armian, demons can be slain?"
"Yes. Proof that we can do it without them. Proof that Armian is no longer necessary."
A thousand years had passed since the first Emperor united the kingdoms, defeated King Kolomo, and founded the Empire.
In that time, humanity had advanced.
The Royal Knights, once five, had become ten. Ten Archmages had risen as well.
And more: the Seven Elector Dukes' forces, the might of the Empire itself, had grown far beyond what it had been a millennium ago.
With peace, the population had boomed, the Empire had grown rich, and countless strong men and women had been born.
Humanity—no, the Empire—no longer needed to depend on Armian.
It must not depend on them any longer.
"Yet, Your Highness once said you had no interest in the throne."
At Almon's question, Rudger nodded.
"My elder brother is far greater than I. He is truly suited to be Emperor of this land."
It was not that he lacked ambition. It was that he recognized a worthier candidate.
And so, all the more, he could not bear to see Schwaben lose the throne.
"When this mission ends, I'll return to the capital."
Rudger's cold gaze fixed on Aint, mingling with the desert tribes.
"…You're telling me Bairan is dead?"
A research chamber filled with apparatus and tools.
At the shadow's report, the man sitting at the desk let out a hollow chuckle.
"No, not dead. Captured alive."
"Ah. Then it's the same thing. No—worse, actually. That means his purpose was exposed, doesn't it?"
"No, it doesn't."
"Explain in detail."
"You know some Academy students were deployed. Among them was Aint Armian."
"So he disobeyed my order to lie low, chasing glory instead."
Foolish. Far too foolish.
"Did he really think that no matter the merit, I would continue to trust a dog that defied my orders? What's that thing on his neck for, if not to think?"
A mind too shallow, too narrow.
"Tell me the process."
"He gathered sacrifices to summon monsters, planning to kill Aint Armian."
"And why did he fail?"
"While raiding a tribe to collect sacrifices, he fell into a trap laid by Altliork."
"A trap?"
"Yes. They allied with a tribe and lay in wait for Bairan to come."
"And how did they know Bairan's plan?"
"That…"
The shadow fell silent. He did not know.
"You don't even know, and you dare call this a report? Disappointing."
"M-my apologies!"
"Lower your voice."
"Yes… yes."
"How strong was the trap?"
"The Ironblood Knights, the Blood Knights, and five hundred elite soldiers. And all the Academy students as well."
"So Aint Armian was there."
Now he understood why Bairan had not escaped.
A thousand years had passed, and yet they still had not overcome Armian's power. Without Aint, perhaps Bairan might have fled.
"But instead, he was captured… dragged away."
"Yes."
"Have Bairan self-destruct. A useless fool like that isn't worth saving."
"Yes, it will be done."
The man did not speak further, the scratch of his pen the only sound filling the chamber.
After some time, turning a page, he asked:
"What of the Bell of Fasa?"
"The plan is delayed, but not disrupted."
"Good. Then this is opportunity. While their eyes are on that insect, finish the task."
"Th-thank you!"
"Don't disappoint me like that worm did."
"Yes! I will give my utmost!"
The shadow pressed his head to the floor.
"Go."
At the dismissal, the shadow vanished. The man's gaze remained on the documents before him.
"It's close now."
The end was in sight. Very soon.
At that moment, the lab door opened.
"Aaron! You're holed up in here again? With Professor Rosalia away, you could at least rest. Didn't she say she was on holiday?"
"I can feel the end of the research drawing near. My hands itch if I sit idle."
Aaron smiled faintly.
"You know the other professors are after you because of that, right?"
"I like being under Professor Rosalia."
"Of course you do."
"But why are you here?"
"To drag you to lunch. You haven't eaten, have you? It's already one."
"Already?"
Aaron began to pack up.
"And leave the book here for once! Don't haul it along!"
"A mage should always have his grimoire at his side."
Aaron stepped out with a gentle smile, following the other assistant from the lab.
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