All Areas. It was an ambiguous expression. It was also hard for the listener to immediately believe it.
Thus, the attitude the traveling party displayed was consistently close to distrust. Even if Anton had suddenly said it, no one could imagine that hand gesture producing such destructive power.
While the traveling party didn’t lower a single weapon and looked at Anton with suspicious eyes, Anton smiled from behind his mask and lightly waved his hand.
A fleeting glance went toward Aslan, and Aslan understood Anton’s intention.
Anton had realized the party didn’t believe him and was now urging Aslan, who knew the truth.
It was a calculated move, knowing full well that Aslan was trusted by the group and they would follow his word.
Though he seemed like a man who had gone mad, he hadn’t lost his mind—rather, he was overly rational.
Aslan clicked his tongue and sighed.
“Everyone, put your weapons away. And do as Anton says.”
“…Are you sure about this?”
The question came from Tiamat. Already stripped of her outer shirt, she shivered in the cold while still aiming her bow at Anton.
Even though the string wasn’t drawn and there was no arrow nocked, an archer of Tiamat’s caliber could fire within a single breath.
Perhaps she might even manage to shoot before Anton could detonate anything, but Aslan didn’t want mutual destruction between Anton and everyone else.
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll guarantee your safety.”
In truth, he couldn’t guarantee much safety. Given Anton’s genuine mental instability, predicting any sudden changes in his behavior was impossible.
What remained was nothing more than an empty promise. With Aslan’s words, Tiamat clicked her tongue and flipped her bow around, slinging it onto her back.
The other members of the party either lowered their weapons or holstered them at their waists. In the midst of this, Tiamat picked up the discarded clothing she had earlier thrown aside, shook it out, and draped it over herself while speaking.
“Well then, I’ll go first, old man. I feel like I’m freezing to death. Let’s hurry up so we can warm ourselves by the fire or something.”
“Very well, Lizard.”
“…Both you and him are irritating.”
Tiamat growled under her breath. Her tail swiped irritably against the ground. Keeping her gaze on the approaching Anton, she watched his every move.
The first thing Anton did was grab Tiamat’s jaw.
Suddenly gripping it tightly, he forced her jaw open. After inspecting the opened mouth, Anton chuckled lowly with apparent interest.
“Hmm… Judging by the oral tissues… seventy years old? You’ve just barely left adolescence. But your size is significantly larger than the average dragonkin. Are you a hybrid?”
“No, I’m pure-blood…”
Though Tiamat responded, Anton appeared uninterested. He simply continued rotating her jaw, examining it closely.
At the conclusion of his observation, he smirked oddly and spoke.
“You use an interesting first-person pronoun: ‘this elder.’ Is it deliberately authoritative? Or perhaps an expression of arrogance? Maybe it’s some form of defense mechanism. A dull attempt to cling to lost faith, wouldn’t you say…?”
“Let go, you damn son of a bitch.”
The remarks were incredibly rude, dissecting aspects of her demeanor piece by piece.
Finally, when Tiamat growled and pushed him away, Anton chuckled and released her jaw.
“Good. Receiving insults based on species triggers a typical reaction of discomfort. Therefore, you’re not a priest. You pass.”
The tone clearly intended to provoke irritation. As Tiamat scowled, Anton chuckled again and stepped back from her, turning around.
This was Anton’s peculiar method of testing.
There was no scientific basis or verification—it was entirely arbitrary, purely Anton’s whim.
Just as the group began to frown, anticipating an unpleasant outcome, Anton turned to face them all.
One by one. He slowly scanned each of them, as if contemplating how to interrogate them next.
As his gaze touched and moved on, each member expressed various forms of discomfort.
Suddenly, Anton’s head stopped mid-motion.
And he visibly flinched.
The group reacted instantly, turning their heads in the direction Anton was staring.
There stood a woman.
Her blouse was torn wide open, exposing an enormous cleavage.
The woman, noticing the collective stares directed at her, adopted a puzzled expression tinged with a hint of shame, covering her chest with her hands.
But covering it only made her look more provocative.
“…What? Did someone suddenly get lustful?”
Tiamat’s comment. Though Aslan didn’t agree with it, he too wore a perplexed expression, even more so than the rest of the group.
Because Aslan couldn’t understand why Anton was reacting this way.
Anton was in his seventies. His physical prime had long passed, and he had long abandoned human purity to create a body optimized for survival through explosions.
So it was unlikely that he’d feel lust upon seeing Lumel’s figure.
Then what caused this reaction? Aslan couldn’t figure it out.
He merely wondered whether he should intervene or let it play out.
Was he planning to harm her? It was impossible to tell due to the mask obscuring his face.
At least, he needed to stop him momentarily and draw attention. Aslan thought this and placed his hand on the wing of Steamfalos, purposefully drawing out a loud sound as he unsheathed a dagger.
A sharp noise that would normally have elicited an immediate reaction from Anton, enough for Aslan to counterattack.
But Anton didn’t react. He simply kept walking toward Lumel, removing his mask along the way.
Underneath the mask, the elderly face revealed a deep mixture of sorrow and joy.
A complex array of emotions that made even Lumel, who had been prepared to strike, pause.
An expression heavily tilted toward happiness and sadness, devoid of any hostility. Tears streamed down the old man’s face as Lumel withdrew her hand from the hilt of her sword.
Lumel’s face was pressed into Anton’s bony, gaunt hands.
“A-…?”
Anton’s large yet frail, skeletal hands held Lumel’s small face.
Lumel’s pupils trembled violently, and a thick sense of confusion spread across the faces of Aslan and the others watching.
“Daughter…?”
Lumel’s voice, muffled as her face was pressed, sounded bewildered. The sight of Anton pressing her face between his hands while crying was utterly baffling.
Without understanding the reason or cause, everyone exchanged awkward glances.
Then Anton spoke.
“My child, where have you been until now…?”
And he pulled Lumel into an embrace.
An embrace free of malice or ill intent, akin to how one would hug family.
Aslan stiffened, trying to make sense of the situation, while Lumel felt genuine affection radiating from Anton, enough to let her imagination run wild.
Lumel took this cue and allowed her imagination to soar.
Especially toward what Aslan had already noticed.
Her imagination led her to conclude that Anton’s current attitude and tone were those of a father addressing his daughter.
Right now, Anton saw Lumel as his daughter.
Lumel understood this and empathized with the emotion.
Having lost her own family, she allowed her heightened sensitivity to moisten her eyes.
Tears flowed freely as she imagined everything Anton must have endured, feeling melancholic.
She believed that the pain had been so overwhelming that he had forgotten the fact that his daughter could never be here.
It was a sad story, but one she could understand.
Understanding everything that had been taken from her, Lumel cried for this unexpected reunion.
Meanwhile, Aslan watched the entire scene from a short distance, recalling something.
Specifically, Anton’s backstory.
As expected, Anton was a character created by a high-paying sponsor.
Hence, he possessed items that didn’t exist in this world, like a coat or plague doctor mask.
His repeating steel mace and unique magic were similarly granted.
Ordinarily, this would have branded him as a “self-insert daughter” and drawn criticism, but Anton was actually a character well-received within the community.
Mainly due to the depth of his background story.
The high-paying sponsor loved comics, especially a dark fantasy masterpiece.
Taking inspiration from this comic, Anton’s past was dark.
Anton had lost his entire family to martial monks.
Right in front of his eyes.
Though his past resembled Anna Helmenius’, Anton made a different choice from her.
Instead of regret and peace, he chose revenge.
Obsessing over vengeance and retribution rather than saving his family.
He hunted martial monks and fought tirelessly to humiliate the Supreme Divinity.
Through this fighting, he likely experienced countless trials and errors, possibly even more than Aslan.
His adoption of equalization fit into this context. Reflecting on this, Anton’s current experience was undoubtedly a manifestation of hope he had long neglected.
Clearly mistaking Lumel for his daughter, believing she had returned alive.
Dismissing the impossibility of such an event happening.
With these thoughts, Aslan pondered how to handle the situation.
Just as Aslan finished his contemplation and sighed, Angie quietly approached and asked,
“Is that really the old man’s daughter?”
Of course not. Their ages, origins, and appearances were vastly different. Aslan was about to shake his head when he abruptly stopped and grabbed Angie’s hand.
He suddenly remembered that the entire tower behind him might as well be Anton’s sensory organ. Speaking aloud could expose them and lead to immediate self-destruction.
“Yeah.”
Confused by Aslan’s response, Angie voiced her surprise.
Startled, Aslan quickly covered his mouth and whispered,
‘No.’
Feeling his lips against her palm, the message was delivered, and Angie widened her eyes in shock.
“Ugh.”
She then removed her hand, closed her mouth tightly, and stepped back. Aslan blinked in confusion, wondering why she reacted that way, but there was no time to ask. The “reunion” was ending.
“Didn’t know you had a daughter. Sorry about that.”
The tear-streaked old man, looking ten years older, smiled while hanging his mask at his waist. There was less of his usual eccentricity. As if Lumel truly were his daughter.
“Did I speak too harshly? Your friends can’t all be priests, right? Can you accept my apology?”
A side of him unseen during Aslan’s previous visits. Watching awkwardly, Aslan noted the old man forming a hand sign and flicking his fingers.
It was a type of magic cancellation.
A hand sign designed to deactivate specific types of spells he had set up.
As soon as Aslan recognized it, the oppressive mana presence behind him began to fade.
The traps throughout the tower were being dismantled one by one.
The old man, having nullified all the carefully laid magic, guided Lumel forward toward the tower entrance, smiling kindly.
“Come inside. If you’re a friend of my daughter, you’re practically my son or daughter. Please come in and rest awhile.”
A smile filled with goodwill. An expression entirely different from the usual Anton.
As Aslan turned his head, bewildered, he saw the rest of the group struggling to adjust to the sudden change in circumstances.
Relieved that he wasn’t alone in his confusion, Aslan entered the tower with them.
