Chapter 158: The Academy’s Great Sage (4)
‘A human… and a mage.’
The Last Dragon, Lar-Prasriti, pondered.
Guarding the silence, he devoted himself to parsing Märchen. She was nothing more than a mortal smiling while standing upon empty air—yet human, and no longer human; a mage, and no longer a mage. Before long, Lar-Prasriti reached a conclusion. That translucent mortal, like an illusion, did not exist here to begin with.
She did not belong to this world.
By contrast, Märchen lifted a hand and waved.
There was not a trace of wariness in her deanor. Only pure curiosity shimred in her golden eyes.
Lar-Prasriti did not answer Märchen’s question.
Instead, he addressed Abel. Old and young, female and male—countless voices overlapped as they echoed at Abel’s ear.
“I rember.”
Abel shrugged.
In an indifferent tone, he addressed Lar-Prasriti.
“I, too, hoped I would never again behold a supre being. However, soone who seeks your aid has appeared.”
Märchen Blackmore.
Abel supplied the na, leaning his back against the stone wall with arms crossed.
“She is my colleague. Rude, and a wastrel who chases pleasure. I ask that you bear with her.”
So tell , Märchen whispered toward Lar-Prasriti.
Märchen nodded.
What a ss.
Abel sighed inwardly.
Dragon and mage could never harmonize. Epezaria was a world where dragons had waned, yet Abel had seen countless worlds where dragons and mages had clashed.
Dragons sought stable identity; mages pursued chaotic progress. Where dragons secluded themselves as primordial beings among ancient hoards, mages sought advancent through spirits—products of the primordial. Conflict was inevitable.
Yet Lar-Prasriti must have perceived it: that Märchen was not rely a mortal—
A being dwelling in isolation, sothing closer to a dragon.
Märchen grinned, rubbing her chin.
She was right.
Between worlds lay a distance no mortal lifespan could bridge. Thus the “Left Hand of the Mother God” departed for other worlds through reincarnation—everyone except Märchen Blackmore.
Märchen scratched her temple.
Even so, this was only an illusion. The real Märchen Blackmore did not exist in Epezaria.
In the world where she had lived her first life, she remained confined—unable even to die.
Unable to commit suicide.
She spoke through communication spells, observed through identification spells, and manifested through illusion spells.
On the surface, it was a simple thod—but Märchen was exercising magic across the gulf between worlds, a realm unreachable even to the Empire’s Tower Lords, or to dragons, creatures closest to the Creator among all beings. Realizing this, Lar-Prasriti fell silent for a mont, then—
He soon laughed.
Märchen agreed readily.
What do you wish to ask?
Lar-Prasriti asked Märchen.
‘He seems to like her.’
Abel thought, expression unchanged.
Naturally so. A dragon who willingly confines himself to his nest, and Märchen, thoroughly imprisoned as she was—their existences were equivalent. Among all humans, perhaps only Märchen could converse smoothly with a dragon.
Märchen spoke, erasing the smile she had worn.
“The Phantasmic Faith.”
Abel spoke up, standing beside Märchen.
“Forr cardinals who beca apostates reside there, along with their followers. They seem to have settled in long ago. You must have noticed already, Lord Lar-Prasriti.”
Lar-Prasriti answered without hesitation.
You wish to see it, then, he whispered.
“Yes.”
Abel nodded once.
It was not easy to guess.
How the Phantasmic Faith had survived on the far side of history.
A clergyman elevated to a cardinal’s throne who then fell into apostasy would wield imnse power. Even so, to amass strength beyond the tides of history for nearly a thousand years was impossible. Soone should have noticed. Soone should have opposed them.
Lar-Prasriti said.
Therefore, I cannot help you.
That is how it must be, he murmured—then,
After a mont’s silence, he intoned:
“Of course.”
Abel replied.
He knew the price. To trade with a dragon, one must offer the oldest and most precious thing one possessed—whatever would furnish the dragon’s nest. An object, a mory, or existence itself. Abel knew what was oldest and most precious to him.
He reached for the hilt of his beloved sword—
Märchen swung her arm without hesitation.
Clack.
An ornant fell onto the stone floor.
It had been summoned from her pocket dinsion. At a glance, it was nothing more than a crude necklace, bearing no power whatsoever.
Probably…, Märchen added softly.
“Can you really give that away so casually?”
Abel whispered to her.
Märchen tilted her head, utterly puzzled.
Lar-Prasriti perceived it easily.
He probed the object’s essence and felt the mories nested within. And he acknowledged it.
It’s completely useless to .
Märchen whispered.
Suddenly, radiance engulfed Abel and Märchen.
Lar-Prasriti’s draconic gaze spread, enclosing them. The cavern walls, once re stone, began to flood with crimson hues.
GROOOOM—
Abel’s ears rang.
Sound dulled; his vision blurred and wavered. A normal mortal would not have endured it.
It feels like passing through a warp gate, Abel thought, frowning.
As though his soul were instantly disassembled, then reassembled far away.
At last, Lar-Prasriti’s voice faded,
Abel’s vision was swallowed by complete darkness.
.
.
.
Swipe, swipe—
A translucent hand brushed past Abel’s cheek.
He stared blankly ahead.
The first thing he saw was Märchen’s face.
My stomach’s churning, Abel thought, stepping forward. He passed straight through Märchen’s form and pressed a hand to his own forehead.
‘This place is….’
Abel narrowed his eyes.
The scenery of a remote city spread out before him.
It was not an architectural style used by the Empire. The clothing of passersby around him was the sa—garnts fashioned in foreign styles.
A voice ca from behind him.
Abel turned toward Märchen.
Märchen shrugged.
So vividly.
She murmured.
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