119 - A Certain Elf’s Perspective (3)

I exhaled deeply.

Whether it was a sigh of weariness or relief, no one could tell.

By poor fortune, a representative of the Zesat Clan attended the Council of Sages that day.

Normally, his clan rarely appeared at such meetings.

Only when the topic bore urgency or great importance did most clans gather, ensuring that he and I would cross paths.

But for him to attend such a minor session as this was unexpected.

And, as expected, he read my intent and moved to obstruct it.

The result: the “Forshna Clan’s exclusive negotiation rights with Argos.”

Somehow, Kashial Zesat had learned of the matter involving the forbidden art.

I wanted to admonish my clan leader for poor information control, but now wasn’t the time.

Negotiating with Argos itself wasn’t impossible.

The problem lay in the price.

The monster’s power was far too great for us to force our own terms upon him.

Had things gone well, we might have secured the village’s support—but the Zesat faction’s maneuvering prevented that, twisting the outcome toward “eliminating the monster dwelling in the ruins to erase the forbidden art.”

A masterful manipulation indeed.

I had to admit—we had been outplayed.

Thus, came the decision for a solo negotiation.

“It may fail, but there’s no harm in trying first. Depending on our approach, even failure will cost us nothing. It’s worth doing,” I’d argued, and managed to steer things back on course.

Now, all that remained was to wait for Argos to appear.

When, or if, he would come—no one knew.

All I could do was wait in the quiet rhythm of returned routine.

But the reunion came sooner than expected.

Our encounter by the river had been an unexpected boon—I couldn’t help but smile.

And yet, a concern also arose.

Simply put, “Argos leaned too closely toward the lost Empire.”

It brought both reassurance—that dialogue was possible—and anxiety—that conflict could just as easily arise.

The prediction “Negotiations will be possible but difficult” had been an entirely reasonable one.

At the time, as I watched Argos treat the children gently, I searched for an opening to begin negotiations.

But such deliberation felt almost absurd before a monster this humanized.

His behavior could be rationalized, but even if his knowledge came from imperial texts, his obsession was excessive.

Some suggested “he’s simply impressionable,” or “he just wants to show off what he’s learned,” but whether that was true was unclear.

At least our initial belief—that he was someone we could reason with—proved accurate.

So, instead of resorting to deceit, I chose a direct approach.

Whether that was wise or not, I said all that needed saying.

Then, silence reigned.

Argos’s answer—“I accept, under certain conditions”—was within the realm of what I’d expected.

Yet those conditions were strange: “Inform me if you find any similar facilities,” and “Allow me to accompany you during their destruction.”

For one who was giving up his home, those demands seemed… too light.

Still, questioning them risked failure.

Rejecting those terms would mean failed negotiations—and likely a violent clash with Argos during the purging of the forbidden art.

So I agreed, and asked him to remain in our territory for a time.

That was when I discovered he apparently didn’t sleep—spending nights reading endlessly.

Was it a trait of his kind, or simple hunger for knowledge?

Whatever the reason, his intellect far surpassed what I had imagined.

I never expected what came next.

The Sword Saint Shuvard visited—obviously, concerning Argos.

He wouldn’t have moved at the words of a Zesat envoy; this had to be a direct order from Chief Corner.

But to summon the old master despite his unhealed wounds—it meant our prior proposal had been ignored.

“Worry not. I have Tostalite’s consent,” said the Forshna clan leader, confirming authorization.

I couldn’t help but glance up at the sky in exasperation—we’d been outmaneuvered again.

“Relax. I just want to test him a little,” the old Sword Saint chuckled.

And he did exactly that.

I was unfit to describe the result myself, but according to the guards, “Neither fought seriously; it was more like a friendly spar.”

I sighed in relief.

Once the forbidden art was purged, peace would return—and perhaps we’d gain Argos as an ally.

Clearing every obstacle, I pressed preparations forward.

Meanwhile, Argos continued his training, seemingly enamored with the magic he’d learned.

Anyone watching might feel threatened, yet he remained a being who could converse and negotiate.

As a solitary monster, he bore no territorial ambition; when he wanted something, he preferred exchange to theft.

Some called him “a human imitator,” but for us, that was only to our benefit.

Everything was going smoothly—until Shuvard’s latest report made my head spin:

“That monster may gain the abilities of those it devours.”

At that line, everything clicked.

Why had Argos fixated on those ruins, and on others like them?

Because he had already obtained something from the relic there—and was seeking more.

If only I could have dismissed it as impossible.

But we elves knew of precedents.

Perhaps this was already beyond my control.

Still, the decision had been made.

Even if we were being used, we had to confirm the truth.

Sensing my urgency, everyone pushed themselves harder, completing preparations sooner than expected.

We set out for the ruins.

The lack of any trouble along the way was surprising—until one escort raised his hand: “Maybe monsters avoid this area because of Argos?”

I’d completely overlooked that. Regardless, we needed our fighting force ready for anything.

The next day, we arrived, fully prepared.

Then, Argos stopped us.

He said, “I want to see for myself what’s inside.”

My fears began to take shape.

Still, I had to confirm the truth.

I accepted his request—and unveiled the forbidden art before all.

Its very sight was agony: a grotesque fusion of man and spider, its desiccated remains causing several to gag.

“This is the forbidden art,” I declared.

I spoke fervently—how such an existence must never be allowed again—and hoped that my conviction reached them.

Then Argos approached the husk, studied it silently, and snapped off one of its legs—placing it in his mouth.

Reality struck.

But the next instant, he spat it out.

When I asked what he was doing, his answer was absurdly casual: “It’s rare. I figured if I didn’t try it now, I might never get another chance to taste it.”

Was that truly the reason?

Or could he steal abilities just by consuming?

As I wondered, he began talking about his dietary habits.

His attempt to deflect only deepened my anger—beyond the point of relief.

I vented a bit of that anger, but his reaction was strangely un-monsterlike.

One thing became clear.

Argos likely had no desire to become an enemy of the elves.

What was this newly born species thinking, wishing, and seeking in walking among us?

Would the day come when we learned the answer?

When the destruction of the forbidden art was over, we returned without understanding anything.

If you called it naïve, I could only agree.

Whether human or elf, nothing in this world is more terrifying than resentment—and I had forgotten that.