The room was damp, the humid air almost palpable. Amidst the ingredients stacked high, waiting for their time to see the light, an old man entered.
In one hand, he held a carving knife, and in the other, what appeared to be the shell of a giant insect. The old man’s appearance was disheveled.
His sagging white hair fell limp to his neck, and his face bore an undeniable aura of belligerence and madness.
Though lined with wrinkles, his face did not appear merely aged but carried a strange youthful energy due to some indefinable fervor.
Towering in stature with a well-trained physique, perched on his shoulder was a cat.
Beneath this calm demeanor coexisted a suppressed madness and cantankerousness, making the old man truly a bizarre character.
And those who knew him would unanimously agree that this barely contained madness was, in fact, his most composed side.
The true essence of the old man lay in his obsession.
As witnesses would attest, carefully observing his work revealed peculiarities.
Indeed, as the sun’s rays filtered through blue-tinted glass windows casting a bluish hue, the old man glanced up briefly, lips curling into a twisted smile as he dragged out a chair.
“Hmph.”
With a smirk, he began crafting a scroll using the carving knife and the insect shell.
A grotesquely twisted blend of human skin and insect material formed the bizarre substance.
From it, the old man crafted a type of scroll.
Using a magic-infused blue iron carving knife, he shaved the shell to create the scroll.
The quality of a scroll is typically determined by the material used—parchment—and the intricacy of the inscribed spells.
Superior materials yield more potent effects, while meticulously inscribed spells ensure precise functionality.
Thus, the scrolls crafted by the old man were unparalleled masterpieces unavailable elsewhere.
By infusing the shells of martial monks who had assimilated divine power into their bodies with spells learned through near-obsessive dedication, the old man created his scrolls.
His magic was powerful by necessity.
He minimized the use of spells he could cast himself to conceal their number, while mastering the theory behind spells beyond his aptitude to incorporate them into scrolls.
This combat method, inspired by an extreme warrior, established him as a master of magic even in an era teeming with mages, making him a coveted target for the Supreme Divinity.
The old man’s name was Anton.
A man without surname or homeland, he had devoted himself entirely to magic for the sake of vengeance.
Jangling sounds echoed.
Anton’s mage tower was, in itself, a massive trap.
A trap designed to hunt the minions of the Supreme Divinity, it was akin to “a dark place beneath the lamp.”
Under this darkness, hundreds of deaths awaited.
Throughout the tower, deadly and potent magical traps were laid, and dozens of surveillance spells activated upon approach.
Spanning all schools of magic, they focused solely on locating and annihilating enemies, giving Anton an expansive radius of destruction.
Even if intruders managed to bypass the surveillance, there was no escaping Anton’s keen gaze.
Jangle, jangle.
Even if all surveillance was evaded, Anton had a way of detecting intrusions.
A product of illusion and mutation magic audible only to him: the sound of bells.
At the oddly nostalgic chime, Anton paused his work, glancing toward its source with an expressionless face tinged with eccentricity.
A shadowy corner of the tower caught his attention, and he gestured to the cat perched on his shoulder.
Silently descending, the cat allowed Anton to rise and grasp something.
A peculiar flail, at once ornate yet crude, was his son’s final gift before death—a keepsake.
Though unrecognizable after countless modifications, it remained imbued with Anton’s vengeful fervor and madness.
Thus, Anton departed the tower, vanishing silently.
—
Aslan and his traveling party moved swiftly.
Given the proximity of Olpasbet and Worpol Countship, now nearly under the control of the Supreme Divinity, hesitation was not an option.
Hiring a carriage in Olpasbet, they journeyed northward into the Conwy Forest, avoiding any pursuit.
Passing through the desolate stretch between Worpol and Scherlukunde Countships, they emerged onto a wasteland.
A grayish-white expanse, barren rather than pure, devoid of nearby villages, stretched before them—a forsaken land where all attempts at cultivation had failed, leaving only compost for the soil.
Always shrouded in ash-like hues, the plain bore traces of unerasable filth despite being covered in snow. Further north lay a land inhospitable to any form of life—permafrost.
There, Anton lived, dreaming of vengeance amidst civilization’s end.
Upon revisiting this desolation after two years, Aslan sighed involuntarily.
The sled’s rhythmic movement and the subtle trembling of the reins offered him solace alone.
“Ch-ch-cold…”
On the sled, a dragonborn curled up.
“Kill… me…”
“Not now!”
An oddly foolish exchange drew Aslan’s gaze back to the group.
Most striking among them was Tiamat.
Clad head-to-toe in layers against the cold, Tiamat huddled close to the warmth of an elf’s feet, shedding tears.
“The dragon’s breath feels bad!”
“But I’m not a lizard…”
“Lizard!”
Too exhausted to respond, Tiamat retreated further. Aslan watched sympathetically, surveying the rest of the group.
Ereta.
The woman seemed unchanged since her time in Olpasbet, perhaps due to her acquisition of regeneration or divine power. With an axe in hand, she could ignite flames with sacred energy, rendering the cold irrelevant.
Similarly unaffected, Angie wore relatively light clothing despite having thrown tantrums for new outfits. She stared blankly at the endless wasteland, unmoved by the biting chill.
Phey, being an elf, felt no cold, and Aslan, draped in a cloak over his armor, required no special attire. Thus, Lumel was the only one needing attention.
And Lumel was currently struggling.
A sniffle—perhaps a sneeze—drew everyone’s gaze, prompting Lumel to widen his brown eyes.
“…It’s just a bit cold.”
Embarrassedly grinning and shielding his face with braided hair, Lumel’s discomfort became evident when the group noticed the state of his shirt.
During battles with priests, Lumel’s shirt had been torn, and no suitable replacements were available.
Attempts to find substitutes or purchase winter gear proved futile; either the length or fit was wrong, hindering combat readiness.
Thus, upon departure, Lumel declined the young lord’s offer to mend his clothes, citing the group’s urgency.
Consequently, Lumel now wore a shirt with visible holes over his chest, exposing dotted flesh.
Efforts in town had been fruitless.
Sleeves fitting the arms left the chest exposed, and shirts fitting the chest were overly long.
Ultimately, with no recourse, Lumel could only cover his chest as best as possible while enduring the cold and embarrassment aboard the moving sled.
No spare clothes were available to borrow, as most extras were bundled around Tiamat, who, as a cold-blooded creature, suffered greatly from the temperature.
Understanding and shame mingled heavily in the air as Angie glanced at Lumel’s attempt to shield himself and clicked her tongue.
“It’s because your chest is too big. You should’ve stopped growing at a reasonable size.”
Blushing deeply, Lumel muttered indignantly.
“I didn’t choose to grow this way…”
“Then share.”
“How can I share?”
While Lumel’s muttering continued, Tiamat chimed in.
“This elder is also cold… Share some of that meat… Ow!”
Lying prone, Tiamat’s comment earned him a boot to the back, eliciting a pained groan.
Watching his companions, Aslan turned away with a faint smile, adjusting the reins.
The deer pulling the sled halted abruptly, drawing everyone’s attention to Aslan.
“We’re here. Everyone, get off.”
Examining the surroundings, Aslan removed snow from Steamfalos’ wings, while the group exchanged puzzled looks.
“Here? Is this it?”
“Are we really here? There’s nothing here…”
Only Phey peeked out curiously, tilting their head in confusion. The others remained clueless.
Accepting their perplexed stares, Aslan plucked a feather from Steamfalos’ wing, holding it lightly.
He tossed it casually, as one might pass a half-finished drink to a friend.
The feather traced a black arc before disappearing into thin air, revealing a storm of spikes.
Gasping collectively, the group witnessed numerous spikes resembling ribs of some monstrous creature.
Each spike descended densely enough to reduce a human to pulp instantly.
Yet, Steamfalos’ durable wings remained unscathed.
Catching the returning feather, Aslan smiled softly at his companions.
“To be honest, I wasn’t sure either, but seeing these traps confirms we’re in the right place.”
Looking somewhat bewildered, the group followed Aslan as he navigated through the traps.
Countless traps greeted them along the way.
Spikes rained like needles, floors split apart, flames erupted, rocks plummeted, ice froze surfaces, and chains attempted to tear them apart.
Occasionally, monsters attacked, and sometimes illusions of dozens of martial monks overwhelmed them.
Gradually, the sight of the looming tower ahead unified their thoughts:
“Is this… a master of magic?”
Rather, they thought, a master of traps.
Even Angie considered it absurdly peculiar.
“Aslan, will this person really be helpful?”
Ereta voiced her concern.
“This elder shares my thoughts. Perhaps Anna Helmenius would be a better choice,” Tiamat added, shivering.
Acknowledging their doubts, Aslan shook his head after a brief pause.
Thanks to his luck and mana, these traps were detected early, but in reality, they were incredibly powerful.
“They may seem simple, but they’re complex mixtures of at least two or three types of magic.”
Despite their bewilderment, Aslan knew the strength of Anton.
Aslan needed his cunning—an ability to wield magic unconstrained by convention.
Stopping before the tower, Aslan let out a sigh laden with nostalgia.
“Two years, huh.”
Returning to Anton’s mage tower after two years, Aslan tried recalling memories from this familiar yet unremarkable place.
Suddenly,
Thud.
The sound of something suppressed flying towards him triggered a surge of awareness down Aslan’s spine.
A bolt aimed precisely at his neck. Catching it mid-air, Aslan turned slightly to glance at its origin.
Standing there was a tall old man.
Wearing a mask resembling a plague doctor and a coat, his silver hair billowed in the wind as he pointed a finger at Aslan and intoned,
“INCENDENT.”
The captured bolt glowed red before exploding violently.
“…Huh?”
Engulfed by flames, the group’s eyes widened at the roaring fire.
“Damn it!”
Despite the sudden change, they quickly prepared for action.
Tiamat drew his bow, Ereta readied her flaming axe, Lumel pulled out his spear, and Phey prepared to charge.
“Anton, have you forgotten?”
Emerging unscathed from the inferno, Aslan brushed off embers from his shoulder.
Unburnt, he clearly demonstrated resistance to flames.
Anton realized belatedly that Aslan had chosen not to evade during the incantation.
Instantly, Anton aimed his flail at Aslan’s feet.
Recognizing the threat, Aslan grimaced.
The flail targeting the ground likely indicated a repulsion spell or a binding transformation magic.
Anton’s strategy to limit mobility and maintain distance confirmed his vivid memory of Aslan.
Thus, Aslan sighed again.
“Anton, must you pretend to be senile every time we meet?”
Anton chuckled, a sound similar to Tiamat’s but tinged with eccentricity.
“There’s no guarantee you haven’t betrayed me, is there?”
Another deep sigh filled with weariness followed.
Anton, master of magic, proficient in both mutation and manifestation schools, possessed nearly master-level skills in flail marksmanship and magical artifact creation.
His defining characteristic, however, was severe mental illness.
A sufferer of paranoid schizophrenia and delusional disorder, Anton was unpredictable.
“Damn…”
Noticing the absence of a cat on Anton’s shoulder or nearby, Aslan massaged his temples, exhaling irritably.
Reading Anton’s intentions, Aslan fixed him with an annoyed glare.
Knowing it wouldn’t deter Anton.
Indeed, Anton did not stop.
Raising his right hand, Anton slowly clenched it, extending only his thumb.
Then, bending the thumb, he mimicked holding a detonator.
And spoke.
“You will tell me everything—your names, what you’ve eaten recently—all of it.”
Shaking his raised hand for emphasis, his voice resonated through the mask with laughter.
“If anything displeases me, I’ll blow this entire area, including you lot, to smithereens.”
What would normally be dismissed as mere threats or intimidation rang true to Aslan.
He knew Anton was serious.
And capable.
Anton’s specialty was a highly destructive self-detonation attack using his body as shrapnel.
Chuckles escaped Anton as Aslan massaged his throbbing temples, sighing deeply.
