Volume 3 Chapter 235 A Changing World ②
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
Christy was a Witch charged with the lifeblood of Izerland Fortress—the water supply and drainage systems. More precisely, she crafted and maintained the magical devices and golems that drew and purified the water, and for the moment, she alone could repair them. That made her post one she could never abandon lightly.
If a malfunction occurred in the system that siphoned magical energy from the massive Spiritual Vein beneath the fortress to power those devices, tens of thousands of residents would find themselves without so much as a drop to drink. The moat, though wide, was useless; it teemed with aquatic monsters such as the Water-Eating Alligator, its murky waters fouled with the creatures’ fluids. If Christy was gone, Izerland would be truly parched.
Up until now, Oswald had left the water facilities in disarray, forcing Christy into near isolation as she kept the fortress running. Today was the first time in three months she’d ventured out. Before meeting Kian, she’d gone shopping with Natra—for undergarments and rare magical texts.
During their meal together, Kian regaled her with tales of the last two months. At first, she feigned cheer, politely nodding through the account of his duel with Linca and Shura. But as he reached the part about Arminus’s defeat, her forced smile gave way to genuine delight, the heaviness in her expression forgotten.
Afterward, they wandered to the Fort of the Sun, a stone relic just outside the fortress. Once a training ground for the Three Knights—Oswald, Renaud, and Owl—it now stood empty, its walls sheltering only drifting sand and silence.
On the wide sandy grounds, Kian, remembering his duel with Renaud, kicked off his shoes and challenged Christy to a game of tag. Their laughter carried in the wind until they climbed the highest spire, where they sipped chilled wine side by side. Unlike the coastal city of Châtillon, inland Izerland was untouched by the warm currents’ shadow, leaving summers cool and bracing.
The wind was crisp, smelling faintly of sun-warmed stone. Christy’s hair lifted in dark ribbons, and Kian leaned closer to share the view with her until, at around two o’clock, they began their descent.
Natra was waiting at the fortress entrance.
”Today was fun!” Christy said brightly, turning toward Kian.
”I’m glad,” he replied, smiling faintly. “I haven’t been able to give you much attention these past two months.”
”It’s fine,” she said, brushing it off with a small shrug. “We’ve both been busy. Besides, being an Adventurer means traveling, right?”
”Well, yes,” he admitted. “But the triple points period will last a few more months. By the time it’s over, winter will have set in. I’m planning to stay in the East End for a while, so I can visit often.”
”Really!?” Her eyes lit up. “That makes me so happy!”
”Working underground all the time must be depressing. I’ll take you out again. Where should we go next?” he asked.
”I can’t really go too far…” Christy’s shoulders slumped.
”But I want to play in the sand here again,” she added, glancing at the training ground.
”Got it. We’ll do that.”
”Really? Will you build a sandcastle with me next time?”
”If you want, I can make a miniature of Izerland Fortress,” he said with a sly grin.
Her mouth fell open. “You can!?”
”Of course. I’m not joking—it’ll be detailed.”
”That’s amazing! I want to see it!”
”Then we’ll make it next time,” he promised.
”Yay!” She clasped her hands together. “I’m looking forward to it!”
It was rare, Kian thought, to see someone so purely delighted over something as simple as playing in the sand. That was part of Christy’s charm. For her friends, she could endure months of grueling, solitary work.
”How much of the plumbing know-how have you passed on to the other Witches?” he asked.
”Ah… not much yet,” she admitted, her voice dropping. “Something happened recently…”
”I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
They both knew what “something” meant: the poisoning of Head Magician Lucretia.
Someone had laced the water pitcher in her dormitory room with a fast-acting manticore venom. Returning late one night, she’d poured the water into a bucket to bathe her eyes and plunged her face into it. The venom had stolen her sight, her voice, and her human-like face.
If Christy—versed in pharmacology—hadn’t been sleeping in the next room, Lucretia would have died. Even after treatment at the healing clinic, she could not return to duty. Recently, she’d been sent home, leaving behind only her notes and handover materials.
”No, it’s fine… But I’m scared too,” Christy whispered, her voice trembling. “If I keep working near Manon, I might be next… Sometimes I think of her as a plague, and I hate myself for it.”
”Christy…”
Kian stepped forward and drew her into his arms as her eyes glistened.
Natra stood silently nearby, her eyes closed.
The assassin had never been caught. But it was almost certainly someone with noble ties in the salon—a place where influence could open a route deep into the Witch dormitory. A place where motives to weaken Maribel’s power grew like weeds.
A month and a half ago, Maribel had imposed taxes across all land domains in return for Izerland’s protection. The result was catastrophe: Ramsey lay devastated, thirty percent of its wheatfields ruined, and its dead uncounted.
Lords who had long opposed taxation now openly criticized her, but she could neither abolish the tax nor meet their demands. Military expenses soared with the creation of a standing army, and her only hope had been to continue taxing the borderlands with the help of Mankovitch and Lucretia.
Then the assassinations began.
Lucretia had survived. Mankovitch had not.
His body had been found in an alley, pierced and slashed more than twenty times—not killed outright, but bled out, tortured. His corpse was nailed to the wall, throat slit, tongue hanging out. On that tongue, the words Incarnation of Greed. Tax Thief were carved in magic script.
Christy, essential to Izerland’s survival, was thought to be safe for now. But “for now” was never certain.
”You won’t die,” Kian said firmly. “I’ll protect you.”
”Y-yeah…” she murmured.
”Natra, escort Christy to the Witch dormitory,” Kian ordered.
”Yes,” Natra replied.
”Christy, don’t leave without cause. Between the dormitory and your work, Natra and Linca will protect you,” Kian said.
”Is the dormitory even safe?” she asked. “Lucretia was poisoned in her room.”
”Never drop your guard. Not even around other Witches.”
”…Everything is just too scary…”
”If it truly becomes dangerous, I’ll take you away,” Kian promised. “I don’t care what Her Excellency says—I’ll make you my Head Magician.”
He wrapped an arm around her narrow shoulders—too slender, too fragile compared to warriors like Sarah and Linca. It made him doubt whether leaving her in Izerland was wise.
”Lady Christina, it’s time,” Natra reminded her.
”Oh, yes… Well then, Kian.”
He nodded, and she returned the gesture before stepping toward the shimmering portal.
”I’ll invite you out again. Take care,” he said.
”Yeah,” she replied softly.
Natra conjured the gate. They would first leap to the fortress’s main gate, then again near the old Oswald residence. Christy vanished into the distortion of space. Natra lingered only a moment.
”While shopping, there was really nothing?” Kian asked.
”There were seven flies,” she said plainly.
”And?”
”I dealt with them.” She raised her index finger, a glinting filament of thread trailing from the tip.
Kian frowned. “I’m sorry for making you handle this kind of work.”
”No. Lady Christina isn’t a stranger. I want to protect her too,” Natra replied evenly. “But I expect a reward later.”
With that, her lips curved faintly and she disappeared into the gate.
”Are you going to use the gate as well?” she’d asked before leaving.
”No. If we met again at the main gate after that conversation, it’d be awkward. I’ll walk,” he’d answered.
”You’ll still make it if you walk, but don’t dawdle. It’s already four-thirty—you’re short on time,” she’d warned.
”I understand.”
The new secretary was efficient, if somewhat immune to suggestive banter. Still, Kian mused, persistence could change that—
’No, it won’t,’ the voice in his head snapped. ‘Don’t think disgusting things, pig.’
”I want you to insult me more,” he murmured aloud.
’…Does being insulted feel good? Weirdo.’
”Adults all crave dangerous thrills,” he said with a crooked smile, whistling sharply for Shield Cain.
* * *
Once alone again, Kian made his way north through the under-town of the Izerland Fortress. Ever since Oswald’s destruction of the city streets, the guards—lacking in ability, Liam among them—had been on extended duty. Despite that, a faint air of relaxation had drifted inside the castle for some weeks.
Now, though, the mood was different. The guards stood posted at every corner of the main street, their white shirts torn at the shoulders to reveal sunburnt, corded arms. Curved swords hung bare in their hands, the steel catching the faint glimmer of the overcast light.
The spice-and-vegetable stalls that lined the road gave off a heady scent of cumin, coriander, and drying onions. Several barefoot children darted past, shrieking with laughter.
A guard with dark skin pushed up the brim of his distinctive feathered hat with the back of his hand, then bellowed—a deep-chested roar that rattled the street.
”Stay back! Clear the road!” he ordered.
”Yikes—sorry, sir!” one boy yelped, stumbling aside.
”…Tch.” The guard snapped his mouth shut as if clamping down on further words. The feathers on his hat swayed as he turned back toward the vertical street, shoulders squared and motionless as a carved statue.
As Kian passed, one of the men called, “Thank you for your hard work, sir!”
Kian inclined his head in acknowledgment. The robust soldiers, streaked with colored clay beneath their eyes in the fashion of the tropics, did not return a smile. Their gazes stayed locked forward, like hunting dogs trained not to break posture.
’Well-trained. Far more disciplined than Father’s bodyguards.’
(They’re just regular soldiers, though. The bodyguards back in Count Cain’s territory…)
’Everyone loved cola and donuts. With the health problems that caused, regular formation drills were nearly impossible.’
(Cola, huh. It was popular back home. Mrs. Camilla mentioned wanting some before, too.)
’The lady shouldn’t gain more weight. Her body can’t take it.’
(You should say that yourself. She doesn’t listen to me.)
’If you offered her a reward, she might agree. The quickest route is money.’
(Money, money, money. Is that all in the end? I’m poor, and Maribel hasn’t paid me a thing.)
’If you sold Princess Maribel’s organs, you’d have enough. Livestock organs fetch a high price; a princess’s would be priceless. Start with one kidney. I’ll have Linca handle it.’
(Some of the things this princess says are terrifying.)
’Huh? You’re plotting to put her in a… naughty shop and make a profit. You’ve no right to talk.’
(I’m still more wholesome than that. Not just Maribel—Aerial and Botti too. Plenty of witches would draw the old lechers. It’s not a bad idea.)
’Naughty. The worst. Pig’s prick.’
Kian brushed the insult aside—it had no bearing on the matter—and turned down the left road toward the old Oswald mansion. The winding path was thick with more of the so-called sea men guards. When Kian passed, they stamped their heels in unison and bellowed, “Thank you for your hard work!”
The noise was enough to rattle the eardrums.
He headed toward the wide-open main gate, wide enough for a carriage.
Waiting there was Lishena, Head Magician to Lord Louis. She stood in a flowing red dress, a deliberate counterpoint to Christy’s favored pale tones. When Kian approached, she bowed with elegant precision.
”Welcome, Duke Dacia,” she said.
”Thank you, Ms. Lishena,” Kian replied. “Where is the new Defense Minister?”
”Lord Louis awaits you in the salon,” she answered. “Sir Guy is there as well—likely in the marble plaza at the base of the staircase.”
”I see. My thanks.”
He nodded and moved on. Lishena made no move to follow. She was clearly waiting for someone else.
Through the gate, Kian turned left, passing dormitories and office buildings until the massive white marble wall loomed ahead. The salon appeared soon after—its triangular roof perched atop a rectangular pedestal, a strange marriage of forms. Even from here, he could hear the nobles’ voices inside: sharp-edged, cutting through the summer air.
He skirted the white wall into the marble plaza, a fifty-meter square of open stone. At the far end, a staircase wound upward toward the salon’s entrance.
Inside the salon, nobles in dresses like living bouquets flitted in clusters, but the plaza below held nearly a hundred people as well—guards and courtiers alike, gathered in tight knots.
Kian crossed to the far-left edge where three men stood encircled by guards: the Châtillon group. Guy—a giant who wore white as if it were wealth itself. Louis, in an emerald jacket and wine-red trousers. And Knight Blumer, his gloom hidden behind the gleam of gold-and-silver armor.
They spotted Kian at once.
”Duke Dacia!” Louis called, his pale hair and red eyes giving him an almost inhuman air. He strode forward, Guy and Blumer in tow.
”Duke Dacia, I’m sorry to trouble you when you’re busy,” Louis said, his tone warm despite its formality. “I’m glad you came.”
”No problem, Defense Minister,” Kian replied, clasping his hand.
He traded a friendly embrace with Guy, whose cologne was—as ever—cloyingly strong.
”Hah! It’s good to see you looking well, Kian!” Guy boomed. “When I heard you’d been blown to bits, I couldn’t believe it! Glad you’re still breathing!”
”I owe my survival to my comrades,” Kian said. “There were more close calls after that, but ending up in one piece is a blessing from Lord Azrael.”
”Luck and skill both, eh? Hahahaha!” Guy’s laugh was big enough to turn heads.
It had been some time since Kian had parted from him after the Arminus attack. He had meant to attend the funeral in Châtillon, but obligations to Mrs. Camilla and Aliona had kept him in place.
After a brisk handshake with Blumer, Kian turned back to Louis and Guy.
”Regarding Lord Renaud—it’s truly unfortunate,” Kian said. “If I’d reached the battlefield earlier, perhaps it could have been avoided.”
”If you’d been the one to help, the old man might have died of rage right then,” Guy replied dryly.
”My father was a man of the old world,” Louis said quietly, the bare skin where his eyebrows should have been shifting with his expression. “He was always seeking a place to die. I can’t say if this battle was the one he wanted, but I believe he was glad to meet his end in the field.”
”‘Death is not the end. It is the beginning of a new battle,’” Guy quoted, clapping Kian’s shoulder. “The soul returns to the Spiritual Vein, journeys the world, and prepares for a new life. Foolish superstition, maybe—but the old man truly believed it.”
”Renaud chose his own death. By then, he was half gone already. Better that than wasting away here, drowning in smithing work and gourmet indulgence.”
”Mourning is important,” Louis said, his tone firm. “But we live. And as long as we live, there are duties we must fulfill.”
”Is that ‘duty’ to flood Izerland’s streets with gangs?” Guy asked, one brow arching.
”That is merely a symptom,” Louis replied evenly. “As Defense Minister, I will rebuild Izerland’s military—and if necessary, intervene in its finances.”
”…There’s talk on the streets that Châtillon is laying the groundwork to seize Izerland,” Blumer rumbled at last, his voice low and rough, like gravel rolling in a barrel.
The gloomy knight was a capable man, entrusted with Châtillon’s affairs in Guy’s absence, but he was cloying in manner, slow to let go of a conversation, and deeply cynical. Popularity had never been his strong suit. Kian, for one, found him an exercise in patience.
Louis fixed his sharp, blood-red eyes on Blumer, gaze unwavering.
Sensing the tension curdling in the air, Kian decided to step in.
”By the way,” Kian said lightly, “I was curious—what prompted Lord Louis to consider becoming the Defense Minister? Why on earth would you want to hold that position in Izerland?”
”‘Defense Minister,’ you say? Heh-heh-heh.” Louis’s chuckle was soft but oddly metallic, like a sword being drawn an inch from its sheath.
”Ah, I—I apologize,” Kian replied quickly, inclining his head.
”No, it’s fine,” Louis said, waving a hand. “But objectively speaking, becoming the Defense Minister under the Princess is a losing game. Endless labor, little reward. And if you fail—well, it’s not only your position you lose. You might also lose your head.”
”Like Baron Mankovitch, perhaps? Ku-ku-ku,” Blumer muttered, his lips curling.
”Hey, Blumer. Enough,” Guy said sharply, placing a restraining hand near the knight’s mouth.
Blumer shrugged, silent once more.
”…Well,” Louis went on as though nothing had happened, “I didn’t take the position purely as an act of charity.”
His tone was calm, almost reflective.
”The Defense Minister’s seat in Izerland—this frontier’s beating heart—holds honor. Career prospects. And connections that may bear fruit decades down the line. Most things in this world can be bought with coin, but some… some cannot be purchased no matter how high you stack the gold. That is what I seek.”
He leaned back slightly, smiling without warmth. “If Châtillon can also rebuild Izerland in the process, I’ll be pleased. After all, we’re both exiles from the Royal Capital. It’s far more convenient to stand together than to clash.”
”And once Izerland recovers to a stable point, I intend to step down,” Louis added. “It would be unseemly for someone like me—an old man—to cling to the top indefinitely.”
The insect-dragon of a man, with his deceptively boyish frame, delivered this with an innocent-seeming smile. Those who knew him would call it eerie. In conversation, he seemed agreeable enough, but whether there was true decency behind his charm… that was another matter entirely. People instinctively feared what they could not fathom.
”Lord Dacia,” Louis said, glancing toward Kian, “there’s still time before ‘he’ arrives. Shall I have them bring some wine?”
”Thank you for the offer, Lord Louis,” Kian said politely, “but my position requires me to make the rounds and greet others. Though truth be told, I would enjoy speaking with you and Sir Guy indefinitely—”
”Speaking of which,” Louis cut in, “Archbishop Homolka was looking for you.”
”Is that so? I wonder what for… though I have an inkling,” Kian replied.
”Not your brother, Archbishop Homolka,” Louis corrected. “Cardinal Homolka. His son’s the next Archbishop, so it causes confusion.”
”Oh, right. Age makes one forgetful,” Kian said dryly.
”You just lack the will to remember. Come along, Count Châtillon.”
Bowing slightly to the sarcastic remark, Kian excused himself. “Then, I’ll take my leave—”
”Wait, Kian,” Guy said suddenly.
”What is it, Sir Guy?” Kian asked, turning.
Guy’s face was serious. “My sister has been holed up in the Restricted Archive and hasn’t emerged.”
”…Ms. Priscilla is the administrator of the Restricted Archive, correct? So… is there a problem?” Kian asked cautiously.
”A serious one. She barely appears in public, moving only between her room and the Archive. The lead Witch of Châtillon mentioned it two weeks ago.”
”Eh?” Kian’s brow furrowed.
”There’s a new Witch serving as Head Magician now,” Blumer said flatly. “Lady Priscilla has cut herself off completely. Even Lady Fhana, her closest friend, is no exception. Everyone in Châtillon is concerned.”
Kian remained silent.
”It’s been about a month,” Guy continued. “When she heard you’d been blasted to death, I rushed back to Ramsey—only to find she’d already shut herself away. Later, she learned you were alive, but in exchange, the old man had died…”
Louis’s brow creased, deep lines etching his bald forehead.
”That child was devoted to her father,” Louis said quietly. “He treasured her all the more for having a daughter late in life. It’s only natural she’s grieving. Time will mend it.”
”But he was someone who swore off marriage to become Head Magician. For her to abandon her duties so abruptly… it’s abnormal.”
”Still, Guy,” Louis said, “what can we really do? Should we send Brother Gosh to kick down her door? Ha—nonsense. We have no choice but to let her be. Girls are… complicated.”
”Is it really enough to dismiss this as a young woman’s mood?” Guy pressed. “Priscilla is twenty-six. And her obsession with the Restricted Archive… it’s unsettling.”
”Then if you’re so concerned, why not persuade Lord Kian yourself instead of needling him? It’s a family matter.”
”…True,” Guy admitted, though his voice held the grit of something unswallowed.
He had managed Châtillon in his father’s stead for years, yet when it came to family—particularly Fhana—he was unsure of his footing.
Even if it was the Châtillon family’s problem, Kian’s intimacy with Priscilla—intimacy that had crossed the line into the physical—made it hard to simply shrug and say, “Tough luck.”
”If I pass through Châtillon, I’ll stop by to see her,” Kian said at last.
”Please do,” Guy urged. “I can talk to that Head Magician girl, but with my own sister… I wouldn’t know how to begin. Adrian’s useless too, so you’re my beacon of hope, Kian.”
”Don’t say you’ll pay me, damn you, big brother.”
”I will pay you!” Guy declared with a grin.
”…Truly the worst,” Adrian muttered.
”Pffft—snrk—” Blumer stifled a laugh.
”Don’t laugh, Blumer,” Louis snapped, half-rising in irritation. “You’ve been a thorn in my side all day.”
Taking that as his cue, Kian bowed once more and stepped away from the Châtillon group.
From the left side of the marble plaza, he cut across toward the right. His path took him toward a cluster of rotund men loitering near the foot of the grand stair that led to the salon—Homolka Cardinal and his companions.
The Cardinal was conversing with an elderly bishop whose snowy beard spilled to his chest, and with a woman whose entire figure was bound in black leather straps.
The bishop, Yalchin Mancuso of Ramsey, had miraculously survived the Thorn Demon incursion alongside his son, Eros, hiding for weeks in the foul, wet dark of Ramsey’s sewers.
The woman, though—Kian had never seen her before. With such an outlandish appearance, she was unforgettable; this was surely their first meeting.
When he came within five meters, the trio turned toward him in unison.
The Cardinal’s smile was blinding.
”Hello, Master Kian!” he called warmly.
Notes:
• Arminus – Male. Leader of the Black Panther Tribe. Possesses extraordinary physical abilities, enhanced by the tribe’s unique technique that repels energy and magic attacks. His speed and strength surpass those of High Warlord Isthbaran. Wields the magic sword Balmung, capable of cleaving through an ice dragon with a single strike. His black fur provides camouflage in low visibility, making him nearly undetectable. Relationship: Leader of the Beastmen Alliance’s delegation.
• Linca – Jibril’s favorite girl. High-ranking warrior monk woman from Shin, with strong abilities like ignoring attacks and poisons.
• Mag – The wolfwoman under Yelmar—the one who was caught by Kian’s group earlier.
• Count Cain – Talia’s father.
• Camilla – A woman; the subject of the chapter; her body was used to seal Erynys’ soul.
• Aerial – Female. A modern-looking young woman with short brown hair, revealing clothes, and gaudy accessories. She specializes in healing and basic magic but is cold and unsociable. She has a sad backstory related to losing her ability to sing magic.
• Botti – Female. A petite, nervous witch with long bangs that hide her expression. She specializes in curses and weather control. Botti is socially awkward but follows direct orders well. Her appearance is small and animal-like, often hugging a staff larger than herself.
• Lishena – Trusted subordinates from the Châtillon family, part of Guy’s elite force.
• Louis – Trusted subordinates from the Châtillon family, part of Guy’s elite force.
• Eros – The bishop’s son is an 18-year-old suitor, described as a cheerful and sincere young man. His courtship of Priscilla adds a layer of intrigue to the narrative.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
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