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chapter 20
“Ah, that’s fine. Then I’ll instruct the carriage driver to send the letter at dawn,” said the priest.
Without lingering further, he bowed and stepped back. Zion walked alongside him and personally opened the door. The priest bowed again and left the room.
He really is a difficult person, the priest thought. Standing before Zion gave him the feeling that someone could pierce through the very depths of his soul.
At times, his gaze seemed like insight that spanned eras; at other times, it felt like a subtle, uncomfortable interrogation, as if it could expose the core of a person.
Well… he’s a high and stern individual. I suppose this is some kind of fear I feel, the priest reasoned.
Shaking his head, he set aside these unnecessary thoughts and headed downstairs toward where the carriage driver waited.
“……”
Above the receding figure of the priest, a faint shadow lingered.
Zion watched the priest silently, like a child observing a tiny ant—without reason.
If pressed, it was a kind of curiosity. He saw the priest’s shadow stretch under the hallway light downstairs, warped and bent along the angles of the stairs.
“So, he’s really heading straight there,” Zion murmured.
Finally, the shadow shortened and vanished into the light entirely. Watching the end of it, Zion turned as if his task was complete.
He closed the door and returned to the window, his gaze inevitably drawn outside.
Even though there was nothing remarkable to see, it had become habitual for him to stare into that space.
On the road to the Kingdom of Orhen, he had passed through a small inn in a village late at night.
The streets were dark and nearly empty, quiet. In the Holy Empire, the surroundings had never been this dark: every hallway had lamps lit, torches and oil lamps lined the walls, and even the patrolling priests carried lanterns.
“…It’s been a while,” Zion thought.
Being in a well-lit place had made it long since he had seen a night this dark. He recalled nights like this one, or even darker.
“……”
If the earth shakes, the sky rumbles.
That night, a fierce storm raged.
“Dammit! Where did he go?”
“It’s too dark to follow his footprints. How about on your side?”
“Same here. No trace that someone went ahead.”
Thunder, lightning, and pouring rain battered the land all day. Zion stood in the muddy forest, gazing in one direction.
“I think I can hear his heartbeat from there,” he said, pointing into the dark woods. His companions turned their heads in unison toward the direction he indicated.
“Let’s go!”
Gripping crossbows, spears, swords, and other weapons, they ran swiftly along the muddy path. Mud splashed in every direction.
Zion walked through the rain at ease. Though his companions hurried, he felt no rush. He followed the paths they cleared, relishing the sound of rain hitting from all sides.
The drops struck the foliage violently. Trees exhaled scents, disturbed by the rain. The air was thick with the smell of water and mud.
Every element around him was beautiful.
He hummed a tune as he strolled through the forest. In the distance, he thought he could hear his companions shouting.
They were chasing a man.
A man with genius-level abilities envied by all.
“Even if you run, you won’t escape my hands…”
Zion contemplated the man’s abilities. Everything the man touched, whether abstract or real, became a beautiful work of art.
An artistic power that could manifest his desires exactly as he wished. His ability wasn’t merely impressive; it drew people in with irresistible allure.
Some called it inspiration, others magic, angelic power… or a gift from God.
“…Though I did not give it to him,” Zion thought.
He recalled the world he had created at the beginning.
In his primal state, he had no desires, no feelings—only one instinct: the duty to create the world.
Born in endless darkness, he remembered the “first.”
A vast darkness stretched endlessly, and nothing existed. A solitary, glowing life emerged as if consuming all surrounding light.
He opened his eyes and, knowing his purpose from birth, stretched as if awakening from a long slumber.
The world around him was void. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled.
His breath became sparkling light, spreading through the infinite blackness. The sparkles clustered, separated, and became countless stars, each forming tiny worlds.
He observed as the stars collided, exploded, absorbed each other, and gradually formed order.
Eventually, the remnants of his breath stabilized. Among them, he noticed something peculiar.
On a nearby star, a strange transformation occurred, unlike any other.
A pale, glowing blue point.
He observed it closely. The star was strange. Grass began to grow, the ground slowly turned green, and creatures emerged one by one.
If the god born without possessions had anything abundant, it was time.
Among the countless evolving and dying stars, he became engrossed in the blue point.
The god loved all the worlds he created, but he especially loved this one.
Countless lives blossomed on the small point.
They evolved rapidly. Walking on two legs, they developed language, used tools, formed societies, and eventually built civilizations.
Humans.
“…Hmm.”
Then he noticed something strange.
A newborn child emitted a peculiar light, one he had never created.
“This shouldn’t be naturally possible…”
He watched the child closely. The child grew into youth, then adulthood, and old age. Yet throughout their life, one unique trait remained: the strange light that had entered them at birth.
It entered at birth, left at death, passed on selectively, granting specific talents that moved others—abilities given to very few.
“……”
Zion’s reflection lifted, bringing him back to the moment of pursuit.
He had reached the edge of the forest. He saw the man surrounded by his companions.
Even in the pitch-black rain, the man’s sky-blue eyes and wheat-colored hair were clear. Fear and regret trembled across his face.
He held a small, square, flat object.
“Good boy,” Zion said, extending his hand.
The man shouted something.
“Give it to me.”
Zion stepped forward.
The man laughed sadly.
“Kesis.”
Zion gestured to his companion.
Then the man…
“…Ah.”
Zion let out a short gasp, shaking off his thoughts. He rose, changed out of his outerwear into simple pajamas.
It was quite late. He tidied the table, packed his things, and sat on the edge of the bed near the lamp.
The crimson flame on the lamp flickered. Zion reached for it, staring as if it were a priceless gem.
The black pupil danced with fire, surrounded by pale sky-blue irises. As the white-tinged color turned red with heat, an old thirst escaped his lips.
“…Belita.”
At the name, his irises deepened in blue.
With a whoosh, Zion grasped the flame.
“……”
In the sudden darkness, he opened his hand.
There was nothing. Naturally, no flame remained, no beautiful flicker, no owner of the withered name—nothing.
“I miss you.”
He collapsed onto the bed, a strange emotion pressing against his chest.
Cough, cough.
Morning sunlight streamed through the window, warm as could be. Belita had caught a cold.
“What… is this?”
Every word cracked, his voice breaking. His head throbbed, and his throat felt tight.
Unbelievable. In Belita’s knowledge, no demon had ever succumbed to a minor illness.
A demon with a simple cold? His pride was wounded.
No, I can still move a bit.
Determined, he forced himself upright.
“Stay lying down.”
With a gentle yet firm push, Silvester forced him back. Normally unnoticed, the weight of his hand felt heavy.
Belita could not accept the state of his weakened body.
“Are you sure there’s no obvious cause?”
Silvester carefully wrapped him in blankets. Struggling for breath, Belita rasped.
“…None.”
“Strange. Even dogs don’t catch summer colds…”
He exhaled sharply—was he saying he was worse than a dog? The high fever clouded his mind.
“I can’t leave my wife alone while she’s sick.”
Again, “wife.” Belita’s head throbbed.
I appreciate it, but going out would probably be better…
“…You came here to work, didn’t you? Now go.”
“How can you be so cold-hearted?”
The heavy blankets weighed him down.
Cough, cough. He coughed again, unable to lift his arm to cover his mouth, turning only his head to cough.
“…When sick, someone has to care for you, after all.” Silvester said worriedly.
