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The three who had followed the Sword God—their beloved ‘oppa,’ their ‘master’ (in the sense of “the one responsible for feeding them”), and their ‘Master’ (in the sense of “the one whose orders flood them with dopamine”)—were sitting in a corner of the parlor, blankly staring with their mouths half-open so they wouldn’t get in the way of the fight.
After watching the Sword God beat down every Aura Knight with nothing but his sheathed sword, then knock out a Seventh-Circle mage and toss him into the corner like a rag doll, Illeia muttered under her breath.
“…Do we even need to be here? Why did we come along again?”
Selan scratched her head and grinned awkwardly.
“Well… maybe we’re like, cheerleaders? Or just, uh… accessories?”
Then Scala scolded them in a composed tone.
“Hmm. Accessories to the Sword God—how could there be a greater honor? …The Sword God’s accessory. Heheh… heheheh…”
As if aroused by her own words, Scala twisted her body in an oddly ecstatic way.
Illeia flinched.
“She’s lost it. She used to just be smug and snappy, but now? She’s honestly pitiful.”
Selan circled her finger next to her temple and smirked.
“Pi-pitiful? She’s just getting what she deserves. Honestly, I wanted to kill her too. If she’d taken my side—just once—when that bastard Hank beat me up, she wouldn’t have suffered half as much. But she did nothing. Nothing at all. If Lady Shia hadn’t broken her like that, I might’ve snapped first.”
Because the Sword God had ordered them to drop formal speech, the three spoke more candidly than ever before.
Scala snorted.
“Pathetic. This isn’t madness—it’s being chosen. You should know that. Honestly, I pity you. You’ll never know the joy of devotion—the joy of giving everything and serving your two masters with all your heart.”
“……”
“……”
“And you’ll never know it, ever. Because that joy belongs only to the chosen one—to me.”
“……”
Illeia gave up trying to reason with her. Yeah, she was definitely broken. But better broken than dead. And the Sword God had said that he might release them later, depending on how things went.
Still… for some reason, Selan looked faintly tempted by Scala’s madness.
“S-so… it’s really that good?”
“It’s bliss. No worries, no choices to make. No conflict at the crossroads. My masters decide everything for me. My life is theirs to guide.”
“Uh…”
“And that’s not all. Whenever I obey a command, my head just fills up with w-with warmth and h-happiness, and… heehee… heheh…”
They say that even nonsense gains conviction when spoken with confidence.
Startled by the dazed look in Selan’s eyes, Illeia smacked her on the back.
Slap!
“Ow!”
“Hey! Snap out of it! What the hell are you thinking!?”
“N-no, it’s not— it’s not like that! It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“Well, it doesn’t sound entirely bad, does it? I mean, if you think about it, she doesn’t have to worry about anything. The Master handles everything—food, shelter, clothing, everything. It’s scary, sure, but Lady Shia and the Sword God don’t seem like the cruel type. They’d probably care a little, maybe even show affection, maybe take care of the family too… I dunno, it sounds like the kind of life I’ve always wanted.”
“……”
“Honestly… I’ve never had dreams or hopes. Never even had the chance. But the Sword God—he just feels like someone destined for greatness, doesn’t he? If I don’t have a dream of my own, then maybe living inside someone else’s isn’t so bad…”
“……”
“And look at her. Doesn’t she look… genuinely happy? I’m jealous. Happiness has always been the furthest thing from me.”
At that point, Illeia realized she herself was starting to feel slightly swayed by the nonsense—and shuddered.
“…Stop talking nonsense.”
“B-but, Illeia, you’re the same.”
“Me? You’re saying I’m like her? How?”
“You’re a priestess.”
“…What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Try replacing everything I just said—but swap out the Sword God’s name for Earth Mother Kanan’s. Doesn’t it sound exactly like what a devout priestess would say? Dedicating your life to your god, serving your god, putting your god’s will above your own, seeking your god’s guidance in times of doubt, living for your god’s glory instead of your own ambition. See? It’s the same.”
“……”
“So maybe… this isn’t such a wrong choice after all. Just like you serve your deity, Scala serves the Sword God.”
For a moment, Illeia was speechless—because the blasphemous logic actually sounded disturbingly reasonable.
‘No, no, no. Absolutely not. That’s insane.’
She was about to retort, formulating all the proper theological rebuttals when—
“Illeia!”
The Sword God’s voice rang out from across the room, where he was still toying with the terrified Baron. Illeia jumped to her feet on instinct.
“Yes!”
“Help me out a bit. I beat him too much; the minion’s busted.”
“Ah, yes!”
She looked down at Selan and Scala, who’d been sitting there blankly, surprised that she—not Scala or Selan—had been called. Selan wore a slightly disappointed face. Scala looked openly sulky. A little pleased by their expressions, she dashed over to the Sword God.
Clang.
“One hundred billion sel.”
Clang.
“One hundred billion sel.”
Clang.
“One hundred billion sel. Wait, how much have I made so far? Two thousand? Two thousand-one hundred?”
Humming the Super Mario 1UP sound in my head, I’d shoved that turtle-like creature into the crack of the sofa like a bonus target and squeezed money out of him. Baron Alphonse—the guy who was simultaneously helmet crab, minion, and turtle—was starting to look worse for wear.
I was tapping his rolling helmet gently so he wouldn’t die; I even used minor healing miracles between hits. If he couldn’t take about twenty hits, then—ugh—what a weakling. Tsk tsk.
Accepting the limit of my healing, I called for the priestess.
“Illeia!”
“Yes!”
“Help me out a bit. I beat him too much; the minion’s busted. To reach one trillion sel I still need to whack him like eighty more times, so he can’t break down on me now.”
Illeia glanced between the dented helmet and the baron’s mashed head, then scratched her cheek.
“…Is this really okay?”
“Hm? What did you say?”
“Nothing. I just figured you know what you’re doing.”
With a vacant look like she’d stopped thinking, Illeia cast a miracle on the baron.
“Heal.”
A flash.
As a proper priestess’s miracle, the baron’s wild, rolling eyes snapped back into place like a chameleon settling down.
“Wh-where…? Wh-what…? Wh-where am I?”
“We’re making money. This is my house. Now that you’re sane, let’s continue. I’ll stop at one trillion sel, so show me some guts.”
“Gah! Hrrg!!”
Seeing the dented helmet in my hand, the baron’s memory snapped back and he screamed at the beastkin mage.
“Grandfather! Please save me! I’m going to die! This lunatic’s actually going to kill me! Grandfather! No—Grandpa Talos! This Jimmy Alphonse your cute grandpa loves is going to die!”
At that pitiful cry, the beastkin mage, who had been examining the lingering spatial rift, sighed and turned his head.
“Ugh. That persistence is disgusting. So—Con-shin, was it? Are you planning to bludgeon the baron to death with that?”
I shrugged.
“No. If I wanted that, I would’ve just slit his throat at the start.”
“Then maybe you should show mercy. He’s had enough. He’ll reflect on his actions now.”
“Y-yeah! I’m reflecting! I admit it! The mansion is yours! I won’t pull nonsense like this again!!”
Instead of answering, I raised the helmet and whacked the baron’s dome.
Clang!
“Gah!”
“For a thief, you’re pretty cheeky to speak informally still.”
Seeing how much more of his head the helmet could dent, the baron hurriedly changed his tone.
“I—I’m sorry! The mansion is yours!”
Clang!
“I’m sorry! Please take the mansion!”
Clang!
“Gah… Wh-why…?”
“I’m reclaiming my house. What, are you bragging like I gave it to you? Pay compensation. Give me the one trillion sel you used to value my life.”
The baron flinched as if he hadn’t expected me to require that much. The beastkin mage offered a hand of salvation.
“Even the emperor of the Baran Empire couldn’t pay that. Don’t dance around it—just ask for what you want. If it’s reasonable, I’ll strong-arm the baron into paying.”
Nice. The old man talks sense.
I didn’t drag it out and immediately held up three fingers.
“Alright. Thirty million sel.”
For reference, thirty million sel was about ten times what I’d sold the angel feather for.
“…!”
“I knocked it down to one thirty-three thousand three hundred thirty-third of the original price. Major bargain, huh?”
Perhaps roused by a new courage, the baron twisted his face and spoke.
“Th-that’s too—”
“Hand it over.”
“Sir—!”
“Better than dying, right? It’s the same amount your caravan makes in two years. Why sting over it?”
The baron glanced between the beastkin mage and me, then bit his lip.
“Fine. No—fine. But I can’t give it all at once. I’ll pay in three years.”
“Then with interest, that’s thirty-two million sel.”
“…You bastard.”
“Thirty-four million sel.”
“Wh-what!?”
“Thirty-six million sel.”
“……”
“Good. Deal. Ten million within a month, then thirteen million each this time next year and the year after.”
“…Understood.”
“Even then, that’s only a third of the price you put on your own life. Wow. What a steal. You should be grateful, right? So touched you could cry, yeah? Don’t forget—you now owe me your life ninety-nine point six-six times over.”
“…Tch. F-fine.”
“Good. People should know gratitude.”
Crack!
Hey. Don’t grind your teeth like that. Pretty sure this world doesn’t have dental implants—what’ll you do if they fall out?
Unable to suppress his anger any longer, Baron Alphonse’s face twisted red. The beastkin mage sighed and finally turned toward the young man called Con-shin Go-something-whatever—a name not easy to pronounce.
“Mind if I have a word with this one in the next room?”
The young man, apparently content now that he’d gotten what he wanted, nodded without hesitation.
“Sure. I’ll patch up the wounded and clean up here in the meantime.”
“Much obliged.”
Click.
Dragged unwillingly into the adjoining room without his attendants, the baron immediately snapped,
“What is it, Professor Talos?”
“You little wretch. When you need me, I’m ‘grandfather’ and ‘sir,’ but the moment you’re done, I’m back to ‘professor,’ am I?”
“…Damn it. My apologies.”
“Forget it. Just think of today as sheer luck.”
At that, the baron scowled bitterly.
“Are you here to pour salt on my wounds?”
“Baron—no, Jimmy Alphonse—you really don’t see, do you? Tell me. Who am I?”
“What kind of answer do you want to hear?”
“Never mind that. Speak. Who am I!?”
“…A Seventh-Circle mage of the Purple Tower. Though unmarried, a hereditary baronet of the Empire.”
“Good. So you do know.”
“And what of it?”
“I stand one wall short of being called an Archmage. Granted, it’s a damn thick wall—I’ve been hammering at it for thirty years. Still, I’m no study mage rotting away with books. I’m a war mage—no, a battle mage, one who wields blade and spell alike. And someone like me was overwhelmed by a man with a single sword. Do you still not grasp what that means?”
The baron fell silent for a while before letting out a low sigh.
“…Ah.”
“He’s not a Steel-Body practitioner, but at the very least, he’s Master-class. By adventurer rank, that’s Mithril tier. Nine times out of ten, such people are Vocated—and his vocation, I’d bet, is Spatial. The fact that he can’t imbue transcendent power into his sword is probably just a penalty for that attribute’s high mysticism.”
“……”
“The strong have the right to live freely. If he decided to cut off your head, your family’s heads, and then went to Viscount Seol claiming, ‘That baron tried to steal my home,’ do you think Seol would punish him? Not a chance.”
“……”
“Even if Seol did order his capture, what would it matter? If I were him, I’d cut Seol’s head off too and leave. And that would be the end of it.”
“……”
“Yet he didn’t. Instead, he restrained you, threatened you, and went through the trouble of extorting you—without killing a single soul. That’s why I said you were lucky.”
“……”
“……”
“…I see your point.”
“It’s not a point—it’s a fact.”
“Then why did he spare me? He didn’t strike me as particularly merciful.”
“Nor did I think so. He didn’t kill, but he wasn’t gentle either. The way he swung his hand—it was as if he saw people as tools. In any case, my guess is… he has reasons not to reveal his identity.”
“…A criminal, perhaps? From another nation?”
“Could be. But does that matter? What’s a little stain to someone that strong? Do you think any king or emperor would throw away a gem like that over a bit of dirt?”
“……”
“And it’s not just his strength. Whatever he’s hiding, if he went to the Emperor or even Marquis Baltrak right now and pledged loyalty, he’d be granted a peerage on the spot. Hell, maybe even land. Possibly this land.”
“…You can’t mean—”
“I’d bet on it. If he told Marquis Baltrak he wanted Seol in exchange for fealty, this place would be the Viscounty of Con-shin by tomorrow. That’s what a Master-class means.”
“……”
“So be grateful. Don’t harbor a shred of resentment. Money can be earned again. And if it’s pride that stings, remember—your opponent could become nobility anytime he wishes.”
“…Then right now, I was the one invading a noble’s estate, throwing a tantrum, and demanding he leave?”
“Exactly. And you got off by paying a mere thirty-six million sel. Still hurt your pride?”
“…No. I suppose I should be thankful for his mercy.”
“Good. Then make use of this chance. Bad ties are still ties. If this lets you form a connection with a Master-class, thirty-six million is pocket change.”
“……”
“……”
After a long silence, the baron finally bowed his head to the beastkin mage.
“…I’ve learned a lot, sir. No—Grandfather Talos.”
For the first time, a faint smile spread across Talos’s aged muzzle.
“Good. Then that’s enough. Now I finally see a bit of your father in you.”
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