Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 11 Following the return of the subjugation squad, the Baltas family threw a grand banquet to broadcast their victory to the world.
Food and wine flowed freely through the city streets, while inside the castle, a lavish feast was laid out so the knights could indulge to their hearts' content.
Turan, however, found the revelry premature and far too loud. There was still a slim chance that other magical beasts, besides that monkey, were lurking along the trade routes between cities.
When he attended the banquet and tentatively voiced his concerns, Izella burst into laughter, dismissing his caution as paranoia.
"Surely not? It's not as if those things pop up two or three at a time. And honestly, even if they did, it wouldn't matter much."
Her reasoning was simple: optics came first. Reopening the trade routes was the priority. If another attack occurred, they could simply claim ignorance and dispatch the subjugation squad again.
Would a ruler's authority crumble over a single mistake or a change of word? Hardly.
To a mage-lord, the support and trust of the common folk were merely nice to have—pleasant, but ultimately disposable. They reigned over humanity not through intangible sentiment, but through the overwhelming power to incinerate anyone who dared to rebel.
"What are the stars of the hour doing tucked away in a corner like this?"
As they spoke, a voice cut through their conversation. Lug, the Family Head, looked between Turan and Izella with narrowed, bloodshot eyes.
"Oh, Father. Don't even get me started. Our guest is so riddled with worry, it's a problem."
Upon hearing Izella's words, Lug let out a hearty laugh, dismissing Turan's concerns as excessive. He claimed that creatures of such strength appeared once or twice a year at most.
Come to think of it, he wasn't entirely wrong. Magical beasts naturally appeared more frequently in fertile regions. If monsters capable of slaughtering knights in an instant were roaming this frontier—a remote wasteland by continental standards—how could Keorn have ever traveled alone? How could any ordinary traveler survive?
As the conversation lulled, Izella excused herself under the pretext of getting food. Left alone with Turan, Lug offered the cup he was holding.
"More importantly, have a drink. It would wound my pride as a host if I didn't share at least one glass with my guest."
The spirits of Orem were incomparably more intense than the ale Turan had sampled at the inn in Murei. The liquid felt like liquid fire scorching his throat, and the pungent aroma stinging his nose made him cough involuntarily.
"Haha! You're acting like a man who's never touched a drop in his life."
"I've never had liquor this strong before," Turan admitted.
Fortunately, a noble's resilient constitution wouldn't be felled by a glass or two of spirits, allowing Turan to keep Lug company without losing his wits. By the time he had finished his fourth glass, provided by a passing servant, Lug spoke with half-closed eyes.
"So, tell me. What do you think of Izella?"
It was a question strikingly similar to the one Marvin had asked earlier that day. Turan replied calmly, his expression unreadable.
"I see her as the lady of the house that is hosting me."
"You have no romantic interest in her?"
"To be honest, no."
Lug frowned slightly at the blunt, almost rude answer, but Turan offered no apology. He hadn't been particularly fond of Izella to begin with, and his opinion of her had only soured after seeing her behavior during the subjugation. He judged it better to be direct rather than offer false hope out of politeness.
Instead of taking offense at the rejection of his daughter, Lug let out a deep, weary sigh.
"I suppose it can't be helped. I was hoping you'd take a liking to her."
"I'm sure she will find a better match."
"Where in this backwater would she find a match like you? Izella told me that you didn't even seem strained while absorbing mana during the hunt."
"I still have a long way to go."
"She said your mana capacity isn't much different from hers. If you're lacking, then my daughter must be truly deficient."
Unsure how to respond to such a self-deprecating comment about his own kin, Turan remained silent. Then, Lug's tone shifted into a lament.
"Well, it's not entirely wrong. Izella has talent, but she hit her growth limit much sooner than expected. She isn't fit to hold the position of the Baltas Family Head. At this rate, I'll have to name Gillon—my other nephew, whom you haven't met—as the next head. If Izella were to unite with you, that wouldn't be necessary, but..."
Hearing that, Turan finally understood why Marvin had been so relieved to hear he wasn't interested in Izella. If Turan were to marry her, he would become a massive obstacle to Marvin's older brother's succession.
What Turan couldn't understand was Lug's transparency. Could a man of his status truly be this drunk?
But then, catching the cold, calculating glint in the man's eyes, Turan realized the game. Lug wanted Turan to be swayed by the circumstances. Whether it was guilt for costing Izella her succession rights, or the ambition of gaining the city through marriage, Lug was casting a wide net. He didn't care which bait Turan took, as long as he bit.
"I trust that you, the Family Head, will make a wise decision."
Realizing Turan had seen through the ploy and rejected him outright, Lug let out a sigh even deeper than the last.
"I see. Well, fine... Enjoy the banquet. And let me know before you leave the city."
Turan let out a hollow laugh at the blatant shift in attitude. The moment the marriage prospect died, Lug immediately pressured him about his departure. It was so overtly mercenary that it felt more ridiculous than offensive.
As Lug turned to leave, Turan decided to ask one last thing. He phrased it indirectly.
"Ah, Lord Lug. There is one thing I'm curious about."
"What is it?" Lug asked, his annoyance plain.
"While using the library, I wondered—do you not check if anyone steals the books? Regardless of whether anyone looks for them, they are all quite expensive, aren't they?"
"Hmm? Do you not know? I thought you were only reading inside the library because you were aware."
When Turan shook his head in confusion, Lug's expression turned boastful. It seemed he wanted to reclaim some dignity by flaunting his knowledge.
"The Sky Library is a relic of the Old Empire. If someone takes a book without permission, a thunderous alarm sounds. Honestly, not telling people and letting them be humiliated was one of my little pleasures."
"How does one get permission?"
"Who knows! There haven't been detailed records about the library since before my family took over this city. Well, even if you take a book out, the alarm just rings for a bit and stops. The function that organizes the books on its own still works fine, though..."
Turan's eyes sparkled. His suspicions had just been confirmed.
*
The next day, Turan headed straight to the library after breakfast.
"Greetings, Noble One."
The knight at the door, now familiar with Turan's face, let him inside without even checking his pass. As he entered the first-floor lobby, the middle-aged librarian sitting at the desk greeted him as usual.
"Welcome, Lord Turan."
Turan let out a dejected laugh, realizing how unobservant he had been. The clues had been there from the start.
First, the title 'Lord Turan.' No knight or commoner in this city called him that; they only used 'Noble One.' Furthermore, the man had been watching him from behind the entire time he read. Turan would stay from breakfast until dinner, and in all that time, the librarian had never once moved for food, water, or even a break. He had simply... watched.
It was deeply alien, yet Turan had been too buried in his books to notice.
"How did you know my name?"
At Turan's question, the librarian's humble expression shifted into one of pure mischief.
"Good grief, you're terribly slow to notice, you dullard. Did you not even ask the people outside about me?"
"I haven't associated with many people in this city enough to have such a conversation."
"Quite the loner, aren't you? I could tell from the way you dig into books every day."
The hierarchy of the conversation flipped in an instant, but it didn't feel awkward. The librarian chuckled and tossed the book he was reading; it flew through the air and slotted itself perfectly back onto its shelf.
"I learned your name from your entry permit. My sight reaches as far as the library's perimeter."
"How should I address you, Elder?"
"I am the Librarian. I never had a name to begin with, so you can just call me that."
"I understand, Elder Librarian."
"Your polite act is awkward. You've been ordering me around for days, calling me 'hey' and 'you.'"
"I never called you 'hey' or 'you.' If anything, you're the one doing that now."
"The brat refuses to yield even a single word!"
Despite his huffing, the librarian's face was filled with delight, as if he thoroughly enjoyed the bickering. Turan sat across from him and asked the burning question.
"Are you a mage of the Old Empire, Elder?"
"I am not human to begin with. You could call me a type of spirit. The Spirit of the Library."
"A spirit...?"
None of the books Turan had read dealt with such beings in detail. He had heard stories in A Journey Around the World about forest-dwelling fairies using 'Spirit Arts' to handle nature spirits and wraiths, but that was the extent of it.
"When a soul dwells in a living thing, it is a living spirit; in a dead thing, a wraith; and in something neither dead nor alive, a nature spirit," the librarian explained. "In a sense, this library is my body. This form is merely a projection for the convenience of communicating with users. You could say it's like a shadow reflected in water."
Hearing this, Turan instinctively poked the back of the librarian's hand resting on the table. Sure enough, his finger passed through the hand as if it were mist and tapped the wood of the desk.
The librarian frowned. "Stop that. It's unpleasant."
"My apologies."
As Turan withdrew his hand, the librarian's expression softened.
"You have no idea how annoying it is to be unable to exercise direct force against intruders. If I could, I would have punished every single thief who tried to take books from this library..."
Turan realized why so many books had disappeared despite the spirit's presence; he was powerless to stop people. He was likely only capable of moving books or cleaning the interior.
"The Baltas Family Head didn't seem to know of your existence, Elder," Turan noted. "In fact, it seems no one who has used this library did."
"That's because there hasn't been anyone with the qualification to perceive me. It's been about three thousand years since I last spoke with someone. Even if you 'mages' live quite long, it's about time for even the records to have vanished... Mages, hah."
The librarian let out a hollow laugh, as if the word 'mage' was a joke. Turan stared at him blankly. This being had waited three thousand years for a conversation, yet he had spent the last few days playing pranks and pretending to be a servant?
"What if I had lost interest in the books and stopped coming?"
The librarian gave a dismissive snort. "Then that would have been the end of it. Unlike you lot, three thousand years isn't such a vast amount of time to me. If I wait another few thousand years, surely another one will come along."
Turan realized then that this spirit was a creature entirely removed from humanity. A stone or a river does not find the passage of millennia tedious.
"What is this 'qualification'?" Turan asked.
"My creator made it so that only those whose 'Form' has reached a certain level of completion can perceive me. And you have the highest level of completion among all the mages I've seen in the last three thousand years."
"The completion of my... Form?"
"What you people call 'Bloodline.'"
The completion of his bloodline was high?
As he pondered, a story he had heard from Keorn came to mind. Mages are descendants of the gods, and bloodline abilities are one of the characteristics possessed by their ancestors, the Frea Divine Clan...
In other words, the spirit was saying that Turan was the being closest to a god among all the mages he had seen in three millennia.
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