Chapter – 64
The tavern was noisy.
Rather than simply enjoying their drinks, everyone was caught up in a strange fervor. Heated discussions broke out everywhere, filling the air with clamor.
It wasn’t unusual when matters of national importance arose. But today felt different.
“Those so-called Great Houses of Prophecy…”
“What ‘Great Houses’? They’re just prophecy peddlers.”
“That’s a bit harsh. No matter what, they’ve rendered service in the past.”
“Service? Haven’t we paid enough in fees and taxes already? Every time this comes up, people go on about gratitude. Did those prophecy houses ever divine anything for free?”
As always, the voices defending the prophecy houses began to wither away. No one feared them anymore. No one thought they were indispensable to life.
Because they could be replaced.
“Then what about the Tempest?”
“That’s why all those divine relics should go to Allen Bahar.”
“Exactly! He already prophesies that well without relics—imagine how much better he’d be with them.”
“And the Tempest, you idiot. Don’t you know Baron’s young lord already lost to Allen?”
Everyone was rooting for Allen’s victory.
At the very least, Allen didn’t demand their money.
He didn’t oppress others through authority, nor did he harbor treasonous ambitions.
Rather, beyond being a prophet, he had proven himself as a warrior and an explorer, accomplishing countless feats. No one on the continent could match the short yet magnificent life he had lived.
“To the great prophet, Allen Bahar!”
“T-to him!”
“Cheer up already. Let go of that idea that the prophecy houses are supreme.”
The atmosphere was festive. For once, the opinions of the taverns were united.
And naturally, that meant there was only one topic of conversation.
“So then… what about preparations for war?”
“You mean the Demon Realm?”
“Yeah…”
Lately, everyone had been talking about the Demon Realm.
The king himself had presented evidence, exposing the existence of a shadow faction attempting to revive the Demon Realm.
The shock to the public was immense. Not only that such a faction existed, but that they had already partially succeeded in reviving high-ranking demonic beings—it was deeply unsettling.
At this point, everyone wanted the conspirators eliminated. But since the king himself was involved, many believed it wouldn’t be easy.
“They’ll probably succeed with their plan.”
“Then we’ll have to fight demons?”
“I’ve fought plenty of monsters before.”
“Think I’ll dust off my old skills?”
As with any drinking session, it naturally devolved into a contest of boasts.
From the farthest corner of the tavern, a mustached man sipped his drink and spoke.
“Even a knight commander would struggle.”
A hooded woman sipping beside him responded.
“Monsters are manageable, but Demonkin would be another story… Well, that’s easy to say when you don’t know.”
They were Oscar, captain of the Herter Mercenary Company, and Layla, effectively his deputy. They had stopped by to gauge public sentiment after a long while.
Oscar leaned back against his chair, scanning the lively tavern.
“So he really pulled it off, in such a short time.”
“He was never ordinary.”
“Honestly, I wasn’t even sure it was possible.”
“Same here.”
Layla adjusted her hood and asked:
“So does this mean the end for the prophecy houses?”
“The end?”
“They took a heavy hit. Public opinion turned against them, many relics were seized, and their ties with the royal family seem severed.”
“It’ll be tough for them.”
“Isn’t it basically over? The prophecy houses are a setting sun now. They won’t be able to interfere with Allen anymore.”
Layla offered her optimistic outlook, but Oscar shook his head.
“It’s not the end. It’s the beginning.”
“The beginning?”
“They’ve finally developed true hostility. Until now, they were just a nuisance. Now they’ve realized something—that as long as Allen Bahar exists, their survival is in jeopardy.”
“That realization came awfully late.”
“They’re a large organization. It takes time for something big to move. But you know this, right? A slow beast is most terrifying when it’s enraged.”
“I get the idea.”
Oscar stared into his cup. Though he appeared absentminded, Layla knew better. At that moment, the hundreds of scattered brains within Oscar’s abnormal mind were running calculations no ordinary human could comprehend.
“…They’ll mobilize everything—funds, connections, whatever they can. Contract work.”
“Meaning mercenaries like us.”
“No one can take down Allen easily.”
“True.”
Oscar slowly set down his cup, having reached a similar conclusion.
“That’s probably how it’ll go.”
At last, I finished everything at the royal palace.
Radon had been crowned king, and the existence of the shadow faction known as the Black Tide was revealed to the entire continent.
Now, there were three objectives.
Find the upper echelon of the Black Tide and uproot their attempt to revive the Demon Realm; or prepare for the great war that would be called the Second Human-Demon War or the Second Demon Realm War; or force a final resolution with the prophecy houses.
In truth, they were all interconnected.
I spent several days at my desk, head in my hands, sorting out priorities.
And then, I was ready.
“You’re leaving?”
Outside the outer walls.
The grass had grown lush and green after the rain. I stood there with heavy packs on my back.
Behind me was Feril—my only escort today.
“Will Radon be all right?”
“He was an investigator to begin with. He’ll manage.”
Then Feril suddenly lowered his voice.
“But is it really okay if I speak casually—”
“It’s fine.”
“Hahaha, between us, right?”
“Yes.”
I smiled back and asked about the others.
“How’s Alonne?”
“You were right. For the first few days, the alchemists were calling her a genius. Now she’s teaching them instead. With royal support, her bomb-making skills have skyrocketed.”
“With a great war looming, please allocate more budget.”
“I’m no politician. That’s a bit much.”
Feril snorted, but I knew better. Recently, he had finally acknowledged that Alonne possessed the potential to become the greatest alchemist in all history.
How proud he must be. After all, he didn’t love her for her swordsmanship—he loved her because she was the daughter he’d gained late in life, against all odds.
Even without my prompting, he would pressure the system to secure immense funding for her.
His connection to King Radon was sharper than his blade.
“So what about you?”
Feril asked one last question.
“We’ll stay here. What are you going to do?”
“Are you curious?”
“Pure curiosity. Am I not even allowed to ask?”
“You are.”
Feril was someone I trusted.
Without him, none of this would have progressed so quickly. Even with my Clear Memory, I would have danced in the palm of the Black Tide.
Along with Vega Veros, he was one of the greatest variables I had discovered in this life.
I answered honestly.
“I’m going to make bandits.”
“Bandits?”
Feril tilted his head.
“What does that even—”
“It’s a metaphor. But I still think humanity’s martial strength is lacking.”
“That’s true. At the very least, techniques for dealing with lower Demonkin should be widely taught—”
“I’ll leave that to you. I’m aiming higher.”
“Higher… You mean the mid-ranking Demonkin.”
“Yes.”
There were methods to deal with Demonkin. More important than strength was knowing the solution.
But the stronger the Demonkin, the more paradoxically one needed pure, fundamental martial power—the pinnacle of force capable of reaching demonic authority.
Since not everyone could reach that level, I decided to nurture those with the aptitude.
“Bandits, huh.”
“You don’t like the metaphor?”
“Maybe I’m old-fashioned. Even metaphors should be honest and upright.”
“That wasn’t a metaphor either.”
“Anyway. Just go already.”
Feril waved me off.
I smiled and offered my final farewell.
“I’ll be back in a few months.”
“Good.”
As I walked away, I shouted back.
“If you don’t like ‘bandits,’ how about this!”
“Hm…?”
“The Five Heroes of the Pagoma Mountains.”
“The Five of Pagoma—?”
He muttered the words, then let out a hollow laugh.
“So it’s not a metaphor.”
Not such a foolish old man after all.
I made a playful gesture, as if I’d been caught.
“Oops. That was a prophecy.”
Now it was time to meet the five heroes.
The Second Demon Realm War was not a one-sided conflict.
It dragged on for nearly ten years because humanity resisted fiercely.
Most of it was defensive warfare. In all that time, the front lines advanced fewer than four times.
And even those advances were meaningless—marching across wastelands the enemy had already abandoned.
That was called a victory.
So was there ever a true triumph?
I remembered exactly one.
When the title “King of Mercenaries” had begun to shift from meaning the strongest mercenary to meaning humanity’s hope—
The only true victory I ever heard of, amid endless defense.
That was the Five Heroes of the Pagoma Mountains.
Pagoma Mountains.
A twisted range so labyrinthine even the demon race lost their way. Constant moisture bred thick moss, and extreme climate variations created wildly different ecosystems.
Drawn by instinct, five warriors gathered there.
They endured. They fled. For a full year.
Then one day, they achieved victory.
Victory after victory—defensive battles that nonetheless inflicted devastating losses on the enemy.
“In the end, they met a miserable fate.”
All stories end that way. Humanity itself met a miserable end.
They died in isolation, before the human side could even finish investigating them.
What’s more ironic was that they hadn’t even been officially conscripted.
Each was deeply flawed as a soldier—products of war, nothing more.
Some called them the Disaster Flowers of the Battlefield.
“Flowers of calamity blooming in slaughter.”
Murmuring the phrase, I gazed upon the mountain range.
This was not the Pagoma of the past.
This was the field where I would call them early and make them bloom anew.
I took out five sheets of paper and began writing.
Letters addressed to them.
[If you read this letter, you will soon die.
If you wish to live, come to the address below.
— The Great Prophet, Allen Bahar]
There was no way they wouldn’t come.
