“Getting back up in that dying state is admirable, but stop if you think you can face me. It’d be a shame to kill a mage of your caliber so easily,” Nekator said calmly.

He was always blunt, and he meant every word he said. He could kill Grania with one strike, and precisely for that reason, he didn’t want to. He wanted to savor a Grand Mage standing on the threshold of the eighth tier.

Even if Leon’s party were wiped out, Nekator would spare him, though only for now, so he could finish him properly once he’d recovered.

Grania muttered, “I put my fear of death down decades ago. What remains in this body is... an excess of useless knowledge and... eyes that cannot see through a single person.”

“Was that betrayal of your disciple really that shocking?” Nekator asked.

“Life, I think, is the work of leaving footprints before death comes. And my once-proud footprints have become a stain...”

Grania’s face had gone pale. Paler than many who had lain bedridden for years, not simply because of blood loss. The psychological shock of Edgar’s betrayal and the disappointment at not even being able to read the heart of the disciple he’d treated like a son must have hit him like a meteor.

Bodies weakened with time, and minds atrophied along with that aging. Unlike warriors, mages supported their bodies with mental strength. Put another way: no matter how healthy the body, if the mind was severely damaged, it was as if the body were mortally wounded.

“Nek...ator,” Grania called out weakly.

“What.”

“Are you... afraid of death?”

At the sudden question, Nekator blinked and answered, “Hm? I’ve never really been afraid of anything. If I died this moment, I’d regret not having fought you lot more, but fear? Nah.”

There was not a trace of the primal fear of death in Nekator’s answer. It wasn’t one of the humans. Leon, Karen, and Elahan shivered at that abnormality.

An Aura attribute reflected a person’s essence. If it were “fire,” it might show that the wielder possessed a hot temper or passionate drive. Nekator’s attribute was “destruction.”

—I see...

You figured something out? Leon asked internally.

El-Cid answered, —This guy was probably insane right from birth. Born with a collapsed ego, he surrendered himself to impulses he couldn’t control. Crossing life and death without restraint, whatever he devotes himself to, he becomes extraordinary in it.

People often talked about “desperate efforts.” However, to be literally desperate—to act with no thought for one’s life—was extremely rare. Such a domain required life-threatening stakes and indomitable conviction. Without those, the true realm of “desperation” could not be reached.

—But this guy can get there. His absurd strength is probably the result of a psyche that has already broken down and run wild, combined with that innate bodily talent of his.

But wasn’t reaching the realm of Master supposed to require balance among heart, spirit, and body? How can a lunatic like that...

—If the dividing line of the heart-spirit-body boundary doesn’t exist, then there’s nothing to balance in the first place.

The body moved as the heart willed, and the form the body took was the mind, fluid and unobstructed. What great masters reached through long training and experience was Nekator’s everyday state.

It was a bitter truth. People commonly assumed true morality and good teaching were prerequisites for martial achievement, but in reality, there was no correlation. In fact, men like Cedric or Nekator—those utterly obsessed in one direction—were precisely suited to martial mastery.

—Just think of Psychokinesis, the peak of self-righteousness, the extreme of unilateral will.

El-Cid’s analysis was accurate, but it wasn’t the reason Grania brought up death. Few on the continent could perceive Nekator with that same eye. So, Grania decided to strike exactly at his weakness.

Grania smiled wryly and said, “Is that so? Well, I expected as much. If I threaten you to back down, you’ll only get more excited and jump right in.”

“You know me quite well.”

“Very well... Stand down for today. Otherwise...”

“Otherwise?”

Nekator’s tone chilled as he seized on the words. The air tensed, as if to show that with just one wrong syllable, he would pounce. Leon’s group raised their weapons in unison.

Then, Grania said, “I swear on my life... I’ll make you bored.”

“Huh...?”

Even Nekator stood dumbfounded for a moment.

“You know that a mage can burn through their own circles... to exceed their limits, yes? If I pour all that power into a sealing spell, I could lock you away for... about a month.”

“A month? That’d be boring, sure, but... is that all?”

“Hardly.”

A knowing smirk spread across the old mage’s lips. He turned his gaze toward Leon’s party and spoke words Nekator couldn’t ignore.

“A Great War!” Grania exclaimed.

“What...?”

“Every person gathered here is one of those preparing to bring down Calelum. And there is more to come. In a few weeks—perhaps even days—they’ll arrive. Within a month at most, a dozen Masters will clash in the capital itself.”

It was impossible for Nekator, a creature driven by primal instinct, not to react. He found himself raptly listening.

“If you back down here, you’ll be free to enjoy that grand banquet to your heart’s content. You’ll fight and kill as many strong opponents as you like. But if you truly insist on ending it here and now...”

Grania slowly raised his staff and leveled it at him.

“Then I’ll make sure that you only get to clean up the aftermath after the festival is already over. So, what’ll it be?”

“Heh.”

Nekator laughed. His expression remained unreadable, but the way he relaxed his fists and took a step back made the answer clear. That absurd, backwards threat had worked perfectly.

“Fine. I’ll back off. I guess that’s enough for today.”

The pressure that had been crushing the space around them dissipated. Now fully at ease, Nekator turned to the others one by one.

“Good fight today. Next time, make it even more fun,” he said with a distasteful grin.

The furious Adela shouted, “Get the hell out of here!”

“Hah! Don’t rush me. Next time, I’ll smash that tiny head of yours myself, Adela!”

“That’s my line, you tomato-headed bastard!”

Their childish shouting match went on a few beats longer, until Nekator’s feet began to sink into his own shadow. At a glance, it looked similar to the Pitch-Black Dance, but it was completely different. It was likely a form of Exolaw, one that allowed its user to teleport through darkness.

Even after the last strand of his crimson hair vanished into the void, the four remained on guard. Trusting the words of the Evil Order was the height of folly.

Leon lowered his sword at last, muttering under his breath, “Seems he’s really gone...”

Adela snorted, “Hah! Maniac bastard has got quite the flair for theatrics.”

“Cardinal Adela, your language...” Elahan quietly pleaded.

“What, can’t call a madman mad now? At my age, I’ve earned the right to cuss a little!”

While Elahan soothed the fuming Adela, Leon and Karen hurried to support Grania. His body should have collapsed long before, but driving Nekator off had exhausted what little strength he had left.

“I-I am truly sorry... I couldn’t think... of any other way...”

“Please, don’t say that,” Leon tried to put him at ease.

Even as his breath faltered, Grania kept apologizing. Leon said nothing more, only carried him back to the bed. The old man’s murmurs continued—a confession, half prayer, half penance.

“I... gave away your purpose... Can’t do an ambush... anymore... I... have misjudged... my person...”

He spoke of his final regret, failing to bring up Edgar properly, before his consciousness slipped away. Thus ended Leon’s party’s first encounter with the second bishop of the Evil Order, Nekator.

***

Only after another half day had passed was Grania finally able to open his eyelids. Of course, he had only regained consciousness; his body was still in terrible shape. When Grania awoke, only one person remained at his bedside.

“Are you all right?” Leon asked.

“I can’t exactly say I am.”

He gave a bitter smile at Leon’s question and sat up. Grania ran a few simple diagnostic spells over himself, then, as if remembering something, he spoke.

“How are things outside? The Marquis must’ve come by.”

“He has not.”

“Hm?”

The old man frowned at the baffling answer. Nekator hadn’t targeted only his residence. The thing had destroyed everything in its path—living or inanimate—during its approach. How many had died, how many buildings had collapsed? The Marquis of Portroi should have come looking for him, even if only to learn the extent of the disaster or to offer aid.

Grania’s thought was slow because of his condition, but the picture came into focus.

“I see,” he muttered as he came to the realization. “Everyone’s dead? The marquis, his household?”

“Yes.”

“Knights and soldiers either fled or were slain, I suppose. Nekator must have felt nothing more than stomping on some ants.”

Once a vanguard of the Empire’s conquest wars, Grania had fought out of fiery patriotism in his youth. He shut his eyes, burdened, then opened them again.

“I’ve shown a shameful sight. Whether from my shortcomings or my pupil’s corruption, I have no excuse.”

All the bravado he’d displayed at first had evaporated. Leon felt despair emanating from the old man and bit his lip. No words of consolation would fix this. What Grania needed was someone of similar age and outlook to commiserate with. And if he were to search for someone nearby who fit that description, there was... one.

“Wow, you old coot. The first thing you do after waking up is whining? Yeesh,” said Adela, who fit that description perfectly.

“You’ve got some nerve...”

“Hm? You’re gonna have to speak up. Can’t hear you, buddy! If you’re apologizing, do it a bit louder.”

Grania ground his teeth in silence. Adela laughed for a brief moment before growing serious.

“Whatever. This wasn’t your fault. Well, I guess not having an eye for good people could be a sin, but, oh, well.”

Grania, a bit displeased, asked, “Are you comforting me or mocking me?”

“Both, maybe.”

“Damned brat.”

“Old man who got rejected by an elf.”

“I asked you not to bring that up again! Nicely!”

Their bickering, absurd as it was, seemed to lift a bit of the old man’s gloom. The point was simple: the most dangerous people were those who said nothing and shut themselves up. Someone had to talk them out of it, even about trivial things, to help steady their emotions. Arguing with Adela restored some of Grania’s spirit.

Grania asked, “Edgar... What did you do with that fool’s body?”

Leon answered, “We confirmed there were no traces of death curses, then buried him in a corner of the yard.”

“I see.”

Though he had turned out to be a traitor, he was once his favored pupil, the very one he had intended to leave everything to. Years of shared experience still left a damp spot in Grania’s chest. He wanted to deny the present by conjuring kinder explanations: perhaps Edgar had only been brainwashed; perhaps aiming at the belly rather than the brain or heart meant he hadn’t intended to kill.

Yes. There’s no way that dummy would betray me...

Then, a streak of fresh blood trickled down his nose. Grania had slapped the back of his own hand hard against his nose. It was a self-scolding for indulging absurd fantasies—an admonition to himself, a mage who should not have allowed such thoughts.

“Let’s change the subject,” Grania said, looking at Leon, with his focus regained. “It seems I can’t accompany you. In this state, I’d be more of a burden than any aid.”

“Is your condition that bad?”

“I’ll need at least two years of convalescence. When I was young, a month would’ve done, but my life force is far too depleted now,” he explained. “I would have liked to go with you, but that’s impossible. I’ll provide you with anything of use.”

With that, Grania signaled the opening of the former Archmage’s inventory.