The world had darkened and grown murky, and Aslan soon realized that he was dreaming.
He couldn’t recall when he had fallen asleep.
But he knew why he had fallen asleep.
Aslan’s life was flickering on the verge of extinction. Losing consciousness was part of that context.
Though Aslan hadn’t been this exhausted often, this time was an exception.
Exhausting battles. The reckless use of techniques to protect Ereta in a pool of poison. The loss of his arm, the toxins seeping into his body from his ankle onward.
Had Aslan not possessed wild magic or obtained dragon blood, these injuries would have been fatal long ago.
Thus, while accepting his unconsciousness, Aslan glared at the darkness with a conflicted heart.
He strained to sense the Divine Power lurking beyond the darkness and remained calm, trying not to rage excessively at the situation that awaited him.
No matter what appeared, he would respond calmly, buy time for recovery, and escape the dream. That was all Aslan hoped for and expected.
Indeed, something soon filled the darkness as Aslan had anticipated.
What he hadn’t expected was that what appeared wasn’t ordinary.
There were no whispers or forms of any evil deity, nor any temptation.
What emerged was a memory-like flashback—not his own.
It was a recollection akin to something he’d seen somewhere before, though he couldn’t pinpoint exactly when or where.
Confused yet focused, Aslan observed the scene.
In the vision, there was a man.
His well-trained limbs were solid, and his hair, cut so short it was almost shaved, gleamed.
The robes he wore couldn’t hide his firm muscles, revealing that he was no ordinary monk. Yet the compassionate expression on his face proved he was a person of great character.
This man walked through what could only be called hell, carrying a staff in one hand.
It was a place where demons swarmed, and the innocent prayed for salvation, bowing their heads.
In this hell, devoid of hope, the monk walked tirelessly.
The man was exactly what he seemed—a man who sought to save others from hell.
Sometimes he fought demons, other times preached to evildoers. Occasionally, he accepted those who tried to harm him as disciples, and sometimes even demons became his students.
He preached, wielded his fists, and continued walking. His steps never faltered.
He wished for salvation, hoping that his meager strength might help bring about salvation eventually.
Gradually gaining strength, he pursued it relentlessly, even becoming tainted by the power of demons.
His life was brilliant.
Only then did Aslan realize that the way he viewed this memory was similar to how he saw things during encounters with formless entities.
This memory was being shown to him by the formless entity.
Though Aslan didn’t know the reason or cause for showing it, he felt an inexplicable sense of déjà vu as he watched.
When confusion arose from not finding the origin of this feeling, Aslan witnessed the end of the monk.
The monk finally achieved salvation after a long journey, triumphing in a world he knew well but had never experienced.
Just as he was reveling in and rejoicing over his victory, some being approached him.
Amidst the collapsing world, the monk faced an entity radiating immense malevolence.
It had always watched the monk and now drew near.
Even the king of demons feared it, and though the whole world knew of its existence, they ignored it.
Its overwhelming presence, its form dyed black, embodied ominousness not in words but in essence. It looked at the monk.
Before such greatness, any power seemed useless.
Like reaching out to the moon reflected on water without ever touching it.
Aslan instinctively knew the name of this entity.
‘Dark Ram Herd.’
As if hearing the name, the monk turned his head, meeting Aslan’s gaze.
“…Ah.”
With the monk’s journey ending, Aslan woke up from the dream.
The lingering dream clung heavily to Aslan’s eyelids, and he blinked slowly due to the overwhelming sense of relaxation throughout his body.
Soon, his senses returned. Aslan felt the light blanket pressing against his body, the pressure of bandages tightly wrapped around him, and the slight weight pressing down on him atop the bandages.
As his vision gradually returned, he saw someone’s face with his right eye.
A fairy girl with indigo eyes, blinking, her deep crimson hair braided and hanging on either side.
It was Phey. Lacking her usual innocence, she stared solemnly at Aslan, lying across his chest.
Aslan met her gaze, exhaled slowly, and rolled his eyes.
Beside him were Angie and Richard, frozen mid-bite with sliced fruit, staring at Aslan as if they hadn’t expected him to awaken.
This indicated both the length of the memory shown by the formless entity and the severity of Aslan’s injuries.
“Hello.”
At this greeting, Angie’s pupils narrowed in shock. Richard, too, struggled with the fruit he was chewing, clearly flustered.
After observing their reactions, Aslan slightly turned his head to the opposite side.
There sat Lumel, holding a small knife in one hand and a neatly peeled fruit in the other. A woman dressed casually in linen shirts and leather corsets, whose bust stood out prominently.
Aslan glanced at her and returned his gaze to the front, where Phey still sat above him, devoid of her usual cheerfulness, wearing an emotionless mask.
Her honest anxiety about possibly losing something precious was evident.
Silently acknowledging this, Aslan asked,
“How long have I been asleep?”
Lumel answered first.
“About a week… you were asleep.”
“Exactly a week and a half. It’s night now.”
Hearing this, Aslan thought it was enough. Nodding slightly, he rested his head on the pillow and checked his body’s condition.
His right arm was gone, cleanly amputated, likely due to acid poisoning.
Likewise, his left ankle was missing, crushed and poisoned, leaving no choice but to cut it off.
Both areas were neatly wrapped in clean bandages, with no risk of infection.
Thus, Aslan smiled faintly.
“Ankle… cut off. Walking will be tough.”
It was a joke no one could laugh at. But none of the group responded, respecting his nonchalant attitude.
So, the silence was broken by another factor.
Clang.
An unexpected metallic sound drew everyone’s attention to the entrance of the room, where several people stood.
Herbs lay scattered on the floor, the tray that held them overturned.
The black man who had been holding the tray, presumably a mage, stood with his mouth agape, stunned. Behind him, Tiamat and Ereta expressed their surprise in different ways.
Tiamat’s face was filled with pure astonishment and alarm, while Ereta’s showed a mix of guilt, sin, and relief.
Aslan deduced the situation from their expressions and subtly turned to Lumel.
“Lumel, help me up.”
“…Ah, yes.”
Lumel, who roughly stuck the knife into the fruit Richard was eating, draped her arm around Aslan and helped him sit up on the bed.
Barely sitting upright, Aslan looked toward Ereta, who was moving closer behind Tiamat.
Ereta, seemingly on the verge of tears, wanted to rush in and embrace him but restrained herself due to overwhelming guilt. She blamed herself for Aslan’s condition.
Aslan noticed this and guessed that the herbs brought were meant to awaken him.
They must have gone through quite some trouble to procure them.
Thinking about this, Aslan glanced at Tiamat, who was trying to force a smile despite her dragon-like expressive features.
Thus, Aslan said,
“I’m sorry for troubling you.”
These were not words one would expect from a patient who had just awakened after nearly dying for a week.
Showing neither pain nor exhaustion, he acted as if his current state didn’t bother him at all.
Not a typical stance for a patient, so Tiamat let out a bitter laugh and shook her head.
“Crazy bastard…”
It was a very sorrowful chuckle.
*
The figure who entered the room after Tiamat and Ereta was a restoration mage from the southern continent.
Not just any mage who dabbled in restoration magic and failed at proper treatment, but an expert who mastered both advanced magic and medical knowledge, thoroughly understanding human anatomy.
One of those rare “specialists” hard to find across both northern and southern continents, this expert examined Aslan’s condition.
First, they checked his vision. The right eye still functioned, though with slight deterioration, while the left was completely blind, unable to distinguish light.
Next, they examined his body: whether he could feel touch, hear well, and smell properly. They also checked for pain or mobility issues.
In this case, there were no problems.
His sense of taste had been lost long ago, and his sense of touch had issues for quite some time already.
Thus, most of his senses remained intact.
Then, the wounds were inspected: checking for infections or other complications at the amputation sites.
There were none.
The problem came with the conclusion.
The results were already known to the group, received with grave expressions.
The “specialist” declared that Aslan should stop fighting.
“To be honest… it’s miraculous that you’ve continued fighting with this body. Even if you rest now, your lifespan won’t be long.”
It wasn’t surprising news.
Aslan accepted it stoically and countered,
“If I don’t rest, how much longer do you think I’ll live?”
The doctor didn’t express surprise or try to dissuade him, as if already aware of Aslan’s nature or having heard about it.
Instead, they sighed somberly and replied,
“At most, five years. At least, one year.”
Again, unsurprising news.
“Is that so?”
Thus, the reaction was equally stoic. After Aslan accepted it, the atmosphere grew heavier.
The doctor paused amidst the gloomy responses, then spoke.
“…While everyone is feeling disheartened, forgive me, but if there are no further tests or prescriptions requested, I need you to follow me briefly.”
It wasn’t a request typically made to a newly risen patient, but Aslan didn’t care.
Geladridion had never accommodated Aslan’s conditions despite his injuries and fatigue.
Moreover, Aslan had a good idea of what was happening.
The chances of such a rare doctor visiting Olpasbet by coincidence were slim. Even if they did, it was uncertain if they’d offer treatment.
That led naturally to the presence of a powerful authority figure—someone wealthy and influential enough to retain a personal physician.
This authority likely wished to see Aslan, and considering the location, Aslan had a pretty good guess who it might be.
The purpose of the visit was unclear, but he’d learn soon enough.
Resting more wouldn’t improve his condition anyway, so Aslan didn’t hesitate. He simply nodded and grabbed the cane placed neatly beside the bed.
“Let’s go.”
At Aslan’s words, the doctor rose with a troubled expression.
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