t had been a month since Alon returned from the Blue Tower.
"Hoo—"
With the Insignia of the Impure in hand, Alon could now use magic three times a day—four times if he rationed his mana carefully. Today, he discovered yet another new rule regarding his phrases.
Even if the same phrase doesn't overlap, a similar phrase can generate an effect that resembles overlapping.
However, he still hadn't grasped the key principle—that overlapping phrases required specific phrases to be spoken in a certain order.
So it's related to arrangement…Alon pondered for a moment.
"Your magic keeps getting stronger, my lord."
Before he could settle his thoughts, Evan's voice broke through them.
"Is that so?"
"It's not just 'is that so.' Look over there."
Following Evan's gesture, Alon looked toward the center of the training ground—where a deep, wide depression had formed.
"A second-tier spell shouldn't do this. Well, you've always used second-tier spells that didn't feel like second-tier, but this is a noticeable leap from a few months ago."
Alon looked down at the sunken earth.
Indeed… My spells have felt strangely powerful lately.
The spell he'd been testing was Gravity, a second-tier gravity spell. Yet, second-tier gravity magic should never be able to crush a person outright—let alone carve a crater into the ground.
Such a result was impossible.
This isn't just proficiency…
Of course, Alon had grown more skilled through constant training, but proficiency improved precision, not raw output.
And this increase isn't from the phrases either.
For months he had recited similar phrases; the last two weeks, nearly identical ones. Compared to earlier tests, his spells were undoubtedly growing stronger—steadily, like a gentle upward-sloping graph.
It can't be that becoming more familiar with phrases increases their raw power…
Phrases acted more like incantations, triggers that altered special properties of spells—not a direct amplifier of strength.
Then the only possibilities left were the two known causes of sudden growth:
Divine favor—or compensation from a curse. Definitely not the first.
Alon might be a count, but he was from a small kingdom and even ignored by the underworld at present. No deity would choose him.
That leaves… compensation from a curse, gained through sacrifice or loss.
His expression stiffened, but he soon dismissed the idea.
Curses belonged to the distant East, and no one tied to him had any connection there.
Meaning: neither applied.
In the end, the conclusion he reached was—
"I guess I'm just in good condition today."
"…Is that really it?"
"That's it. There's no reason for my magic to suddenly grow stronger."
A conclusion born of denial.
"I heard a letter from Yutia arrived today. I should go read it."
Ending his magic training abruptly, Alon headed toward his office.
The Holy Kingdom of Rosario
Unlike the sun-worshipping Holy Empire of Bartiakan, Rosario revered Sironia—the goddess of the moon and peace.
In the eastern district of the capital, the White City, a holy knight stood before a convent. His armor—pure platinum—gleamed faintly in the morning light.
His name was Roque.
After cautiously opening the door and stepping inside, he soon caught sight of a nun with white hair standing before the statue of Sironia.
Her habit was clean and neatly arranged; she wore no sash of divine grace. In Rosario, higher-rank clergy always bore that sash.
Meaning: she was of lower rank than the holy knight.
Yet the moment Roque saw her, he bowed deeply.
"Greetings, Sister."
"Hello, Sir Roque. Have you been well?"
The nun accepted his greeting with a soft smile.
It was a strange sight.
But neither of them questioned it.
For them, it was natural.
"Yes. Thanks to you, I was able to save eight children and twenty-five people in a small eastern village."
"That is wonderful."
"It was all thanks to you, Sister."
"No, Sir Roque. You are the one who saved them."
Her voice was soft and gentle, but Roque continued with unwavering conviction.
"Yes, I was the one who acted—but you were the one who showed me the way when I had nothing."
Roque had not always been a holy knight.
Devout as he was, he had never been able to wield divine power—an essential ability for a holy knight. He could not sense it at all.
While all his peers mastered divine power and earned their titles, Roque failed year after year.
More than eight years passed.
Just when he was about to abandon his dream, he met her.
The nun with a serene smile—eyes burning like crimson embers.
She told the despairing Roque:
"Believe in the moon."
At first, he didn't understand.
What difference was there between believing in the goddess Sironia and believing in the moon herself?
But he was desperate.
And in his desperation, he clung to those words.
He believed in the moon—because he had nothing else left to believe in.
And after days of relentless prayer, Roque—who had failed for twenty years—felt divine power for the first time.
He became a holy knight that very day.
His joy soon turned to doubt.
Had he become a heretic?
He had received divine power not because he worshipped Sironia, but because he believed in the "moon."
But strangely, his divine power functioned exactly like Sironia's divine protection.
Sacred relics responded to him without flaw.
Eventually, Roque confronted the nun about it.
Her answer was not about theology, heresy, or doctrine.
"Faith is invisible, and invisible things take time to believe in. But the moon… the moon is always there, always visible. It helps people believe more easily."
Then she added:
"The goddess may not always be seen, but the moon is always beside us. And the goddess Sironia is the moon."
It was simply guidance.
A way to help someone with a heart full of doubt find faith.
Roque's doubts vanished.
He bowed deeply and thanked her.
"If you wish to express gratitude," she said, "would you join the prayer session? It's almost time, and many are already gathered."
"I would be honored."
With his nod, she smiled softly and opened the door.
Inside, people of all kinds were already assembled.
Believers. Children. Trainees. Pilgrims. Holy knights.
Some stood.Some sat.Some knelt.Some simply bowed their heads.
All were silent.All prayed.
And when the nun walked to the front—
No.
When she walked to the front—
A gentle smile bloomed on her lips.
"Now then—"
The moonlight streamed through the stained glass behind her, forming a halo around her silhouette. Her crimson eyes glowed faintly.
"Let us all pray."
Yutia Bludia raised her voice softly.
"To the great moon."