Volume 3 Chapter 234 A Changing World ①
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
Natra’s search had been entrusted to Linca’s trained raccoon, and the two of them made haste to the Giant’s Snowveil Pass.
When they emerged from the teleportation gate, the steep slopes of the pass bore the scars of battle—scorched patches marred the earth, deep gouges from dragon claws raked the cliff faces, and the surrounding forests lay flattened as though swept aside by an invisible hand. Every sight spoke of the ferocity of the clash that had taken place here.
In the depths of the forest to the right, a faint trail of white smoke curled upward, veiling a narrow path.
Kian advanced up the slope, sword in hand, eyes darting to either side.
Linca followed close behind, slipping through the gate and lengthening her stride to match his.
She reached out, lightly touching his right arm, her voice still tinged with the heat of battle.
”Sir Kian, what happened to this right arm?” she asked.
”It’s a long story,” he said with a brief glance her way. “To put it simply, the Rose Garden Keeper healed it for me.”
”Even though your soul was missing, it could be restored!?” she pressed, brows knitting.
”Her soul is compensating for my missing one,” Kian explained. “Specifically—the right arm.”
That arm had returned fully to its original form. Moments earlier, he had swung his sword without the faintest hint of sluggishness. In fact, the limb now thrummed with power; magic coursed so freely through it that it might well be the strongest part of his body.
’It’s connected to the Spiritual Vein. Through this arm, you can draw on vast magical reserves.’
(Does that mean I can deploy the magic sword?)
’Impossible. The magic sword in its illusionary form is still with Erynys. But don’t worry—I’ll provide what you lack in weapons.’
Kian opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but his steps carried him to the summit of the pass—where Sarah lay on the ground.
She had received first aid from Linca; though she lay on blood-soaked soil, her breathing was steady. A shimmering barrier enclosed her, holding the outside world at bay.
”The Thorn Demon was transforming nearby creatures into monsters by scattering seeds,” Kian said as he knelt to check her pulse. “Or perhaps the seeds themselves became parasites… but I don’t see any of them now.”
Linca, standing nearby, caught his shoulder and pulled him upright. “It seems they’ve vanished. But the ones infecting Lord Renaud and Ms. Aliona are different. Please—look at them first. If we wait too long, it will be too late!”
Her urgency gnawed at him, but he doubted he could do what Linca herself could not. And if Aliona’s state was anything like what he feared… looking might be the hardest part.
He thought of Renaud, of Gary, of Homork the Third—beings who seemed immortal yet were little more than shells, their nervous systems enslaved. If Aliona could not be saved, someone would have to… end it.
”This way, please.” Linca turned, leading him deeper into the forest where the devastation was at its worst.
Near the ruin of what had once been a makeshift tent—now shredded and scattered like autumn leaves—the trees lay overturned, roots torn from the earth, exposing black, damp soil. The sharp tang of churned leaf mold stung Kian’s nose.
Beyond a massive fallen trunk, two barriers shimmered faintly. Inside one lay what was left of Renaud—headless, body torn beyond recognition, skin charred as if scorched by searing heat. The other contained Aliona.
Her robe was ripped open along the spine, from nape to hip, red-black tentacles spearing through her flesh. She hunched in a grotesque half-rise, clawing at the inner wall of the barrier.
Something like an insect fused with living coral clung to her head, covering her entirely from the crown down to just beneath her eyes. The thing pulsed in a slow, nauseating rhythm—thub, thub—as though drinking from her very mind. Her mouth hung open slackly, a line of drool trailing down her chin.
(Ms. Aliona… Is there no god in this world?)
”We used Balmung to defeat Lord Renaud,” Linca murmured, stepping forward without hesitation, white shawl fluttering over her light eastern garb. “Perhaps because of that, he no longer moves at all. It seems the parasite is gone from him.”
Kian followed, his chest tightening with a hollow ache.
”As for Ms. Aliona,” Linca continued, “the parasite has fused with her nervous system. The tentacles likely reach her spinal cord—and her brain. Shall we try to pull it out?”
”Would that even help?” he asked.
”I don’t know.”
’Even if you pull it out, the thorns will regenerate. It’s pointless.’
(Then… is it already impossible to save her?)
”She can be saved.”
Kian’s head snapped up. “Huh?”
”Eh!? Wh-who is it!?” Linca demanded, spinning toward him.
The voice came from his right arm. Startled, Kian jerked back.
”Long time no see, Linca,” the voice said warmly. “I’m the Rose Garden Keeper.”
”Ms. Rose Garden Keeper!? How—? Ah! Could it be that Sir Kian’s right arm grew back because of you?”
”Sharp as ever. Saves me explaining. And by the way, remember my name—Talia. I’m what remains of Princess Talia’s soul, gathered and reshaped by Erynys.”
”I… see. Then—what’s going on?” Linca asked, still reeling.
Kian cut in. “More importantly—Talia, can you help Ms. Aliona?”
He rolled up his sleeve. A mouth had formed on the bicep—an unsettling, puckered thing that made his stomach turn.
”Just drain the thorns’ life force,” Talia explained. “Deplete their magic, and they’ll shrink, hiding in the body in a dormant state. Restore the brain and major nerves during that time, and her personality may return. But the dead cells and thorn ’embryo’ will remain. If you don’t keep draining it regularly… she’ll become a monster again.”
”If it helps, I’ll do anything! What should I do? Absorb magic like usual?” Kian asked.
”It takes precision. I’ll handle it. Put your palm near the High Elf.”
The mouth on his arm closed, sinking back into the skin. A strange warmth bloomed in Kian’s palm, like the pressure before a storm.
(Wait… is this onahole—?)
’Don’t overthink it, pig-head. Move.’
Kian didn’t need telling twice. He leapt toward Aliona’s barrier.
Linca stepped in front of the shimmering barrier and pulled free a wedge buried deep in the earth.
Immediately, Aliona lunged at Kian. She was fast—lightning fast—but for Kian, whose body had been honed by inhuman trials, even the unleashed strength of a High Elf freed from her mental restraints was nothing he couldn’t handle. He seized her and slammed her hard into the ground.
From her back, writhing tentacles shrieked in a soundless, gut-churning way, like nails scraped along the inside of one’s skull, as they lashed toward his eyes and ears. Yet the moment they touched him, they recoiled violently, as though sucked into a void.
”Leave it to me,” Kian said firmly.
”Got it,” Talia replied without hesitation.
Kian let his right arm relax.
His hand then moved without his will—Talia guiding his fingers as they slipped into the warm flesh at the base of Aliona’s neck. A flicker of unease touched him, wondering if this would harm her further, but seeing her condition already pushed to the brink, he chose to remain still.
Under his fingertips, something writhed—muscle, sinew, and the alien pulse of a parasite. Then, suddenly, the creature went rigid. Its color drained to a lifeless white, its form collapsing like a balloon losing air.
(Disturbingly… it even drooped like—no, better not finish that thought.)
A sharp hiss escaped the air—shhhk!—as the parasite crumbled into fine, pale ash.
Normally, Erynys would have quipped at such a moment. But Talia’s reaction was cold, almost mechanical. Kian felt an odd loneliness in that silence, watching the last of the parasite drift away on the breeze.
”—The restoration has begun!” Linca’s voice broke through, urgency layered beneath her relief.
The tentacles slid wetly from Aliona’s back, hitting the ground with a sickening splutch. Red, circular wounds marred the pale canvas of her skin, raw edges vivid around the spine. Yet, as if time itself wound backward, the angry wounds smoothed and closed.
Before long, her back was pristine once more—flawless, unmarred, beautiful as any High Elf’s.
”U…” A faint groan escaped Aliona’s lips. Her skull—once grotesquely exposed—was whole again, crowned by a restored cascade of golden hair.
”Talia, thank you!” Kian said with heartfelt weight.
”You’re welcome,” she replied softly. “Please monitor her condition carefully. It would be best if you stayed by her side for the entire day.”
”That was my intention from the start,” he said.
”Incredible… it’s nothing short of a miracle~desuwa,” Linca murmured, placing her hand gently on Aliona’s neck to feel her pulse.
”Um, Ms. Talia? Can you heal Lord Renaud?” Linca asked hopefully.
”I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t feel his soul,” Talia answered, voice low.
”Huh? What does that mean?”
”I’m not certain. His soul may have already returned to the Spiritual Vein due to the extent of his body’s deterioration.”
”Is it because I used Balmung?” Linca’s voice wavered.
”I don’t know,” Talia admitted. “It’s possible Erynys cut him with the ‘Funeral Dance (Soukoku Kagura)’.”
”But Ms. Aliona wasn’t cut,” Linca protested.
”There’s still a possibility.”
Her tone carried the finality of a sealed fate. Even if the Restoration Curse could be invoked, saving him was impossible.
Kian and Linca exchanged a wordless glance.
Aliona had been saved.
Renaud could not be.
Renaud had been a thorn in Kian’s side—a man quick to provoke, impossible to ignore. Alive, he would have continued his petty harassment, perhaps escalating it endlessly.
And yet… facing the man’s death, Kian felt an unexpected emptiness.
Yes, Renaud had been rough, even brutish. But he had honored a promise made with the previous head of Danofen. He had guided Izerland’s young soldiers with skill and discipline. Beneath the armor of hostility was a strategist worthy of respect.
Today, they should mourn the passing of a great man.
”Was using Balmung a mistake…?” Linca whispered, placing a strip of jerky upon Renaud’s still form, her lips pressed tight.
Kian rested a steadying hand on her shoulder. “If you had died instead, we wouldn’t have defeated Erynys. Balmung was necessary.”
”…I see. I want to believe that,” she murmured.
Together, they performed the Azrael-style memorial service—solemn, deliberate, ancient in gesture.
By the time they finished, Kian sensed movement below the mountain pass. Natra and Rufna—alongside the faint presence of a raccoon—were drawing near. Natra was safe. Rufna had returned to the battlefield.
But before any reunion could happen, Kian caught another approach—rushing figures from the opposite side of Snowveil Pass, toward Ramsey.
A heavy, distinct wave of magic power. Yelmar. His aura was unmistakable, a storm carved into the air itself.
The burnt tang of scorched wood drifted on the wind… and beneath it, sharp and fresh—the unmistakable iron scent of blood.
”Mr. Kian, I’ll handle this,” Linca said, rising from Renaud’s side, her gaze hard.
”Wait,” Kian replied, eyes narrowing. “That blood—it’s Umar’s men. Something’s happened to Yelmar’s group. We should hear them out first.”
”Are you serious? After Umar nearly blasted you to death?”
”I’m serious. I know this smell.”
”…What?”
”I’ll deal with it. You stay with Aliona and Sarah.”
Kian slipped into the forest, black curved sword in hand. He knew the capabilities of Head Magician Natasha, Yelmar, and Umar. Natasha’s spells were useless against him; Umar, under the sun, was an aging shadow of his power. Only Yelmar and his magic sword posed any threat—and Kian had mastered two new Secret Techniques since their last encounter.
’I’ll back you up with magic,’ Talia’s voice echoed in his mind.
”Can you really do that?” Kian murmured.
’I can do anything,’ she replied matter-of-factly. ‘The Spiritual Vein feeds me; my magic will never run dry.’
(Wait… is she the strongest of us?)
’I’ve studied your swordsmanship. Move as you like—I’ll adapt.’
They stepped onto the mountain path—right into Yelmar’s group.
Yelmar spotted Kian at the same instant Kian saw him. On Yelmar’s shoulder hung Umar Vahid, bound in ropes, gagged, sweating like a man dragged from the gallows.
”Oh, hey, Lord Kian! Been a while!” Yelmar called, raising an empty hand in greeting. His other remained well clear of the greatsword on his back.
Yet his eyes never relaxed, tracking every twitch of Kian’s posture. Behind him, five young Wolfman swordswomen trembled—instinct telling them this was a man who could erase them in less than a heartbeat.
”What do you want, Yelmar?” Kian asked evenly.
”Hey, hey, ease up. My girls are shaking already. You’re leaking killing intent.”
”Is that Umar for real?”
”You tell me,” Yelmar shot back. “Smell the blood. Feel the magic wave. You already know the answer.”
Kian studied the bound man. There was no mistaking it—this was the real Umar Vahid.
Unless there was a super-performance magic tool like the Sixth Magic Sword, Mistcloud, capable of replicating even the microscopic components of blood, this was an undeniable truth.
”I came to sell this man. Let’s make a deal, Lord Kian,” Yelmar said, his voice low but firm.
Umar groaned—”Nngh… nghh…”—the sound wet and ragged.
But his strength was gone. His shoulders sagged; his breath rattled. He could stay animated through the night thanks to whatever bitter draught he swallowed in secret, but when daylight broke, he was nothing more than a limp shell.
That was likely because his body ran on some forbidden elixir extracted from the Bloodsucking Kind.
”A deal?” Kian asked, his gaze unmoving.
”Stop chasing us,” Yelmar replied. “We’re already on the regular army’s wanted list in Izerland. Staying in this forsaken backwater means living with a blade over our necks every hour.”
”Is that why your pack is dwindling?” Kian’s voice was flat.
”‘Dwindling,’ huh?” Yelmar gave a sharp, derisive snort.
It wasn’t just dwindling. They were down to one man and five women. If Yelmar fell, the pack would be finished.
”Why betray Umar?” Kian asked.
”Hah? Do I need to explain that?” Yelmar shot back, brows furrowed.
”I want to hear it,” Kian said, voice sharpening. “And to be clear—this is to test if you’re lying. Every time your answer displeases me… one of the women behind you dies.”
”—!” A sharp gasp came from the group.
”Don’t even think about lying,” Kian warned, the weight in his tone freezing the air. “Understood?”
”I… I got it,” Yelmar stammered. “You really are Umar’s son, aren’t you?”
Then, with a resigned shrug, Yelmar recounted what had brought them here. They’d been hunted by Izerland’s regular army and fled into these mountains. Just as they were settling into a life in hiding, the Thorn Demon revived. Umar demanded its ‘spirit stone.’
The promised reward was the plunder of Ramsey.
They’d been told they could strip the abandoned town bare.
But thanks to Kian and his allies, the situation resolved far sooner than expected—leaving no window for looting. Umar still ordered Yelmar to smash through Giant Snowveil Pass, where Kian’s party stood, and seize the Demon’s ‘spirit stone’ from the Cockley Clay wilderness.
”I’ve been thinking for a while now—following that decrepit old man will only grind us down,” Yelmar said, spitting the words. “And that reward? Loot from Ramsey? It doesn’t even make sense. Umar should’ve been the one paying us directly.”
That, Yelmar concluded, was why he betrayed his leader.
Kian gave a single, silent nod.
He accepted his biological father’s limp body. Once, Umar had loomed impossibly large in Kian’s boyhood eyes; now he weighed no more than a bundle of dried branches.
Kian laid Umar at his feet and called to Talia.
(Restrain these wanted criminals.)
‘Are you sure?’ her voice brushed against his mind.
(I don’t mind. Law is law.)
There was a tremor in the air, then—
”Ahhh!” “Oof!” “Gah!”
The five Wolfman women were slammed to the ground, their waists caught by jagged pillars of earth. Before they could recover, stone projectiles smacked into their faces with bone-jarring thwacks, sending them sprawling.
Before Yelmar could even flinch, Kian had sliced away his right arm in a blur of steel. The mercenary had no time to scream before Kian’s follow-up blow cracked his forehead, dropping him into unconsciousness.
With a flick of ‘thread,’ Kian severed the strap of Yelmar’s magic sword and drew it into his hand.
Could Kian… be a villain? Talia whispered under their breath.
”It’s worse to let a wanted criminal run free for the sake of a foolish bargain,” Kian said, his expression unreadable.
He was not just any knight—he was a Master Knight.
(What a disappointingly anticlimactic end after all,) Kian thought as he bound Yelmar and the others with heavy rope. He had already stopped the bleeding at Yelmar’s stump. Frankly, it was mercy compared to what they had tried—likely attempting to kill Kian along with Umar.
”Sir Kian!” came a voice from the mountain path, accompanied by the crunch of boots in the snow.
After dragging Yelmar and the others into a heap, Kian turned to Umar, who glared at him like a venomous caterpillar.
”────”
(So, this is how the so-called genius Umar Vahid ends.)
Alone.
Broke.
His shame laid bare on a filthy roadside, unable even to bite off his tongue thanks to the gag in his mouth.
”Father,” Kian murmured, “this is not what I wanted to see.”
He placed a firm hand on Umar’s nape, pressing until the man’s consciousness slipped away like a snuffed flame.
* * *
Three weeks later.
August arrived, and the market swelled with the bustle of wheat harvest.
Kian sat alone in a tavern in the southern quarter of Izerland’s fortress town, idly tipping a glass of iced coffee.
Though called a tavern, the establishment was a high-class coffeehouse by any other name—walls paneled with fragrant wood, beams of iron, and an open two-story interior spacious enough to host a dance. From his special seat by the second-floor window, Kian could look out over the street while the glow of the chandelier above—its countless candles flickering like tiny suns—bathed his Azrael-origin coffee in a soft amber light. The warmth of it deepened the coffee’s flavor until each sip felt almost like a luxury in itself.
”────It seems another person has been killed. This time, Baron Mankovitch, the one handling finances,” murmured a man at a nearby table.
”Oh my, then all of the princess’s aides are gone now,” another replied, voice tinged with morbid relish.
”The Head Magician, Lucretia, still lives, but poison took her sight and voice. Might as well call it a clean sweep,” a third added with a dry chuckle.
Kian sipped in silence, gaze fixed on the cobbled street below. Politics again. It was inevitable in this district, where merchants and minor nobles came to sip coffee and trade whispers. Still, such talk soured the aroma.
He willed his superhuman hearing to dampen, but their voices carried to him regardless.
”What do you think of the new Defense Minister?” asked one.
”Ah, him,” another answered, pausing before adding, “He looks terrifying. Maybe that’s an asset here in Izerland, where assassination is practically a parlor game.”
”There’s no way that’s good. Princess Maribel’s──Danofen’s power has waned. This only means Châtillon will swallow them soon,” said the first, his tone grim.
Kian exhaled an exaggerated sigh, setting his glass down with a sharp thunk that drew a startled silence from the gossipers. He leaned his elbows on the railing. I don’t care, he thought.
At the tavern’s entrance below, a striking woman with flowing black hair—Christy—stood in a blue beret and matching dress. Beside her, Natra, hair neatly tied back, wore a loose white swordsman’s garb.
After a brief exchange with an employee, Natra looked up and caught Kian’s eye. She offered a faint smile—something she’d been showing more often lately. He raised his right hand in return.
Natra then took Christy’s hand and guided her up the stairs with steady assurance.
Kian glanced toward the table behind him. Empty. The gossipers had moved elsewhere, whether from sensing his mood or simply avoiding the presence of an Azraelian, he neither knew nor cared. Adjusting the collar of his black shirt, he turned just as Christy’s bright smile closed the distance between them.
”Kian!” she called warmly, rushing forward.
”Christy, finished your shopping?” he asked with an easy smile.
”Yes!” she replied, her voice lilting.
The black-haired witch fell into his arms, the delicate fragrance of rose perfume rising around her. She pressed soft kisses to his cheek.
”Now, sit down. ──Natra, good work on the guard detail,” Kian said, gesturing to the seats.
”No,” Natra replied, bowing slightly, one hand resting on the hilt of her magic sword. She had grown taller and more composed in the past weeks—perhaps a result of her recent evolution into a shapeshifter. Her modest build lent her an unassuming purity, almost out of place beside her blade.
”Nothing happened!” Christy chimed, slipping into the seat across from Kian.
”There was nothing at all!” she repeated with cheerful insistence.
”Ms. Natra, I’ve only been carrying luggage this whole time,” Natra added with a shrug.
”I see,” Kian said mildly. “But there are unfortunate events happening around you nonetheless.”
”You’re worrying too much!” Christy countered with a bright laugh.
Still… something was off about her. The last time they’d met—right after the Erynys affair—she had clung to him in tears, crying as though she might never stop. They had spent that entire day together. Now, though she smiled, the weight in her expression remained.
”Lady Christina,” Natra said gently, “you don’t need to put on a brave face in front of my master. Be yourself.”
”Not at all! I’m totally fine!” Christy declared, but her voice faltered.
She lowered her head, removed her blue beret, and held it before her chest. A faint sniff betrayed her composure.
”Would you like to order something?” Kian asked, signaling to an employee. He avoided looking at Natra—offering a handkerchief—and Christy—accepting it. This was supposed to be a pleasant outing; siding with Natra now would only sour the mood. He would listen to Christy’s troubles later, in private.
”Kian, I heard you’ve become a noble?” Christy asked once she’d steadied herself.
”That’s right,” he said with a small grin. “As of yesterday, I officially inherited Dacia. Brave Duke Kian of Dacia, at your service.”
”So… not a Baron or a Count?” she asked, curiosity piqued.
She placed her order—wine and sheep’s brain soup—with the employee. Behind her, Natra kept her sharp gaze fixed on the man’s every move.
”Right,” Kian said. “I’m Azraelian, so here I’m just a low-rank adventurer. They likely wanted to keep me at a quasi-Baron level, but couldn’t. There was some debate over whether Dacia’s holdings could remain mine until the next generation. In the end, they bypassed Baron and Count entirely. After my so-called ‘heroic’ deeds, they created the title Brave Duke. I’m still not sure where it fits exactly—probably above Baron, below Count.”
”That must be the work of the new Defense Minister. He smoothed things over at the salon,” Natra remarked.
Kian nodded. “That’s right. I should thank him.”
Notes:
• 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.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
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