The gust stirred up by the Windstrider blew so hard that no one could keep their eyes open. As the Natalins on the ground cheered for its arrival, Aizela folded its wings modestly, preparing to land—only for its tail fin to be yanked hard by something.
Startled, the dragon twisted midair in a complicated motion and furiously turned its head to snap at the enemy ambushing it from behind—only to bite down on nothing but air.
It squinted and observed closely for a moment before realizing that its tail fin had been tangled in a loop of wire mesh. Spurred on by the loud shouts from the humans below, it shook its tail several times, then smugly noticed the post supporting the wire mesh begin to visibly tilt.
Just as Aizela was about to uproot the bizarre contraption entirely, someone smacked it hard on the head. It heard its master’s cold and merciless voice.
“Untangle it yourself, bit by bit. Break it, and you go a month without grooming.”
The aggrieved and bewildered dragon: ???
Then, the Natalin people watched, dumbfounded, as the white dragon hung upside down in midair like a giant bat, huffing and puffing as it cautiously picked at the wires with its beak—while letting out pitiful cooing sounds from its throat.
Dragon obey, dragon good. People threaten dragon, people bad—ugh, all scales, so gross!
The Natalin bowed one after another. The Divine Chosen stood beneath the sunlight, golden hair flowing brightly over his shoulders, coral-red at the ears like blood, turquoise as dark as indigo—all colors vivid and impossibly clear. If a skilled painter could capture this moment, he might well become a priest to more than one god just by the painting alone.
Nova watched for a while, slowly furrowing his brow.
At last, Aizela managed to free itself from the net without causing further damage. It landed on the ground, sneaking a guilty glance at the now-slanted post, and quietly shifted its rear to try and block its master’s view with its tail fin. The other simply gave it a half-smiling look but did not pursue the matter.
“Divine Chosen, may Utoska bless your fate and soul—we wish to know, is the Wall of Sighs still intact?”
One of the Natalin stepped forward from the crowd to ask. The cheerful mood diminished at once. The area near the Wall of Sighs was truly a land of death—of all dragons large enough to carry people, only the Windstrider could enter and leave safely.
“My kin,” he replied in a strangely solemn, rhythmic tone, “the sighs of the Hurricane’s Son cannot withstand the erosion of time. The storm shall pass, but only the wrathful Chariot of Fate and the descendants of Lamodora will continue to shelter the children of the wind.”
This is Professor Brody’s area of expertise.— The “Hurricane’s Son” likely referred to King Kolendin, the “Chariot of Fate” was the tidal wave stirred by Odras, god of the sea, and Lamodora was the ancestral beast of all magical creatures, the first dragon in the world, later tamed by Ambrose, god of origin.
Perhaps in an effort to retain control over religious interpretation, across the Ambrose Continent, the sacred histories of every sect were rife with all manner of convoluted euphemisms.
This, of course, made life hell for priests and clerics across the sects. The sheer number of divine epithets was absurd—take the God of Light alone, who had no less than three hundred and eight titles, a hundred and fifty-seven of which overlapped with other deities, forcing clerics to rely on context just to avoid blasphemy.
For example, if one were to confuse whether “the Crown of Flowers” in divine chronicles refers to the god of life and joy or the god of lust, things could go hilariously awry.—Perhaps resulting in a male deity getting pregnant from an affair with another male deity, followed by a divine war over abortion. Such absurdities are a disgrace to their divine image.
And this, in part, is how theologians came to be—in the wake of the Last Age’s collapse, the surviving sects still nursed deep hostilities toward one another. Their respective divine histories were guarded like sacred relics, never to be shared with rival faiths—for fear that comparing notes would reignite warfare.
Still, everyone wanted to know who the victor was—who held the truest god and the best marketing pitch for gaining followers. Thus arose the Seminary: an institution where theologians bound by soul pacts were entrusted to draw upon and reconcile the histories of all sects, publishing the most authoritative Divine Chronicle once every decade.
Nova was still untangling the implications of those cryptic references when a ripple of unrest passed through the crowd. Many Natalin faces were now clouded with uneasy fear.
The Seventeen-Day Mad King’s Wall of Sighs had protected the Asachi Valley for three hundred years—shielding it from imperial pursuit, sea beasts, and most dragon raids. Now that this “divine barrier” is going to vanish, no one knows what path remains for the Natalin people.
“Our valley is surrounded by mountains, the sea shields our flank, and there’s only one entry point through Newborn Canyon. It’s easy to defend—what is there to fear?” Ramina suddenly raised her voice, silencing the whispers. “Besides, we have ships, dragons, siege weapons, bows and blades. If some coward can only cling to their ancestors’ blessings, they’re welcome to hide in the cellar with the long-haired sheep—our people will protect you, but you’ll no longer be a Natalin warrior!”
The Natalin crowd slowly dispersed. The Divine Chosen remained standing, head tilted back, staring at the support pole his dragon had yanked sideways like a pulled-out carrot.
“You can start preparing,” he said calmly, without looking back as he heard someone rustling closer. “According to our pact, I will be sending you out of the Asachi Valley soon.”
“You killed someone,” the other person said in Common Tongue.
The Divine Chosen remained still. Beneath his feet lay a dragon’s corpse. Blood soaked slowly into the soil, staining its shadow a deep crimson.
“On a ship. I saw your shoes and hem—you killed at least two, maybe more. You used magic because you didn’t want to touch them. You were angry, but it wasn’t a crime of passion. You tortured them to death after careful deliberation. Let me guess—limb-breaking? Evisceration? No… you dislike blood. It was suffocation.” The professor’s ashen-gray eyes gleamed like twin spheres of high-transparency glass, distorting the Divine Chosen’s reflection. “Why? Who were you avenging?”
“…Do you truly wish to know?”
My dear nemesis, are you truly ready to face the whole truth?
The Divine Chosen tilted his head with elegance, revealing a partial profile—but even that glimpse was enough to stir a primal sense of awe and fear in anyone. His blue eye had completely shed its former shimmer and warmth, revealing a profound and unreadable authority.
“You may speak, or remain silent. If you wish, I can play the role of listener—just this once.”
But the other person wasn’t the least bit cowed. He first offered a perfunctory show of goodwill—just enough to humor him—then replied with unnerving calm, laced with unconscious arrogance: “It doesn’t matter if you don’t. To me, there are no secrets in this world—only mysteries with insufficient clues, yet to be solved.”
Azukar fell silent for a moment, then slowly smiled.
“Are you perhaps growing bolder in my presence?”
He used to put on airs and greet him with a “Good morning, Your Excellency.” But now? This presumptuous person seemed to have drawn some inexplicable sense of security from him, growing steadily bolder, even treating him as a source of idle amusement.
Like some reckless child, blind to the unspoken rules of the adult world, charging headlong at the boundaries others had drawn—perhaps only pain could teach them to curl back into themselves again.
Without a shred of courtesy, he reached out and closed his hand around his rival’s neck — the other instinctively tensed to pull away, only for him to squeeze the nape, as though subduing a restless cat.
“Cold. Let go,” the dark-haired young man frowned with irritation.
For some reason, Azukar’s fingers were deathly cold, like they’d been chilled by a night-long wind.
“Yes, very cold,” Azukar murmured, absentmindedly rubbing that patch of soft, faintly warm skin with his fingertip.
…It felt nice—clean, pure, the warmth of a human touch. For a brief moment, the hollowness and cold stirred within his chest beneath the shroud of night seemed soothed.
In some way, he was not alone.
The professor, feeling thoroughly violated, narrowed his eyes slightly. Knowing full well his combat power, he didn’t bother struggling—just decided it was time to push back a little.
“Where do you think I get the gall to confront you?” he asked softly. “Is it from self-deluding arrogance, or the foolishness of a mediocre man suddenly gaining power?”
“Perhaps it stems from my excessive indulgence toward you?”
Nova remained expressionless. “…Please don’t do this. It’s a little disgusting.”
“I don’t wish to be your enemy,” he said, slowing his speech slightly. “But before we discuss the redesign proposal, ask yourself—did I, or did I not, find the sonic frequency that attracts dragons? And during terrain scouting, did I perhaps plant a transmitter somewhere in Asachi Valley?”
The hand resting on the back of his neck paused briefly. In the next second, the grip tightened—pain, suffocation, and pressure surged all at once. Yet the dark-haired youth gave a quick smile. “Don’t tell me the thought never crossed your mind. I’d be so disappointed, Azukar the Divine Chosen, religious leader of Natalin.”
“Try this.” He pulled a small, crudely made whistle from his pocket and held it near the other’s mouth.
After a brief pause, Azukar finally let go, took the whistle, and gave it a gentle blow. The two of them heard nothing—but Windstrider, who had been idly preening, suddenly raised its head with wide eyes, staring curiously and warily in Azukar’s direction.
The professor said graciously, “An ultrasonic whistle. Humans can’t hear it, but many animals can. It’s yours.”
“Thank you for your generosity.”
“You’re welcome,” the professor replied, ignoring his sarcasm—or perhaps never noticing it. “My brain is my only asset. I don’t yet know what you intend to use me for, but how I choose to use my mind will depend greatly on your attitude.”
“A friendly reminder: when dealing with me, keep thinking. Constantly. Don’t treat me with the half-assed tactics you use on others.” His nemesis warned him almost gently, “I won’t say this a third time—if you want to leverage my intellect, don’t use such low-efficiency methods of information exchange. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to use my own method—and trust me, you won’t enjoy it.”
“As for now,” he gave a quick, insincere grin, “consider this a minor warning for your earlier offense. You can guess for yourself whether I actually did anything despicable in the valley.”
The Divine Chosen was silent for a moment, then suddenly let out a quiet chuckle.
“Liar.”
“Don’t use the Natalins to threaten me again, professor. It’s dangerous—I nearly snapped your neck by accident.” He returned to his usual calm tone, briefly rubbed the back of Nova’s neck, then withdrew his hand—Damn it, what the hell kind of habit is that? Nova thought grimly. Is this Divine Chosen some control-freak with a touch-starvation kink?
“Fine. I’ll remember that.” Seeing the other was making an effort, Professor Nova decided to let it go for now and nodded approvingly. “That’s better. Stop dodging the topic, and cut the crap.”
All Riddlers get the hell out of his world.
