Ortolan's eyes were fixed on the ruby, still smeared with streaks of black blood. His lips moved slightly, as if to utter a spell.
"Wait!"
It was Malachi who suddenly spoke up, cutting him off.
Ortolan turned his head, glancing at the young Ban Ard ritualist.
The sorcerers standing near Malachi tugged discreetly at his robe, trying to stop him from speaking.
Even Sunny frowned, his gaze cold and heavy.
But under everyone's eyes, Malachi swallowed hard, ignoring Sunny's warning look.
"I suspect," he said, his tone unsteady but firm, "that the owner of this ruby… is the being who caused the Conjunction of the Spheres."
He took a deep breath, his voice solemn.
"It might be… an Evil God."
The withered woodland, ravaged by war and storms, instantly fell silent. Only the mountain wind howled through the trees, rustling the dead leaves scattered across the scarred earth.
Every eye turned toward Malachi. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, but he stood his ground, meeting Ortolan's clear, ancient gaze.
Ortolan squinted, studying him for a moment — then glanced briefly at Sunny, whose face had darkened further.
And then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
"This child worries for me," Ortolan said, stroking his beard with amusement. "Who would've thought that one day, even I, Ortolan, would have someone worry about my safety?"
Malachi, though called a "child," was no youth — by mortal standards, he was old enough to have grandchildren. But compared to Ortolan, such distinctions were meaningless.
Even Sunny was but a child before this ancient master.
The sorcerers of the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization burst into laughter, following Ortolan's lead.
For a moment, the desolate battlefield seemed more like a banquet hall than a land scorched by war — filled with cheerful, sycophantic laughter.
The Rissberg mages, who had been cold and distant a moment ago, now turned toward Malachi with friendly smiles.
Sunny narrowed his eyes, lips twisting into a stiff smile that didn't reach them. The glint of cold fury flickered within.
"Come here, child. Tell me, what's your name?" Ortolan said warmly, beckoning with one wrinkled hand.
Sunny immediately stepped forward, blocking Malachi's path.
"Grandmaster Ortolan, his name is Malachi, he's—"
"Let him speak for himself," Ortolan interrupted, waving dismissively.
Sunny froze, his fists clenching at his sides. Reluctantly, he stepped aside.
Under the astonished, envious, and fearful stares of his peers, Malachi took slow, steady steps forward — passing Sunny — and bowed before Ortolan.
"Grandmaster Ortolan," he said, forcing a respectful tone, "my name is Malachi. I belong to Ban Ard's Ritual Department."
"I know, I know…" Ortolan said, stroking his beard, his tone oddly gentle. "Ban Ard's ritualists — all of this is your handiwork, isn't it?"
Malachi hesitated. Unsure of Ortolan's stance on necromancy, he lowered his head and said cautiously,
"We failed, Master. Necromancy brought us no victory — only bitter defeat. We will never again—"
"No, no, no." Ortolan cut him off with a chuckle and patted his shoulder lightly.
"You misunderstood me. You've achieved something truly magnificent. The only flaw… was that it came too late."
"Too late to change the course of the war — and far too short a time spent studying necromancy itself. You never even touched upon its true secrets."
Malachi's eyes widened in shock.
He had expected Ortolan to be lenient, perhaps neutral on the subject of necromancy.
After all, although Sunny had given the order to use the forbidden art, he could never have done so without the tacit approval of Rissberg's powerful allies.
But he never imagined that Ortolan's true opinion would be… so extreme.
"Surprised?" Ortolan asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he read the thoughts behind Malachi's widened eyes.
Malachi nodded instinctively.
Ortolan turned back to look at the genetically modified creations he was so proud of, and the hordes of undead covering the mountains, his smile fading.
"The Brotherhood of Sorcerers has lost its way."
"Those gifted with extraordinary power, under Hen Gedymdeith's leadership, have strayed from the right path."
"The convenience brought by supernatural power should be shared with the common people to advance society as a whole — not handled with the weakness of someone like Hen Gedymdeith."
"We sorcerers are born to be the shepherds of foolish mortals. Just as a flock needs a shepherd to know where to graze, how to let the pastures recover, and how to ensure the flock's continued survival."
"Born leaders should not bind themselves with chains."
"All spells, rituals, techniques, and abilities — including demon summoning and necromancy — are tools, the most important tools, meant to reform and perfect the human species, to improve human living conditions, to eliminate disease and disability, and to prevent aging…"
"These are the true, ultimate missions and goals of magic."
"And before achieving them, sacrifice is always necessary."
"Just as soldiers of the ancient human kingdom of Dezmod gave their lives in the wars to defend their nation — would anyone call their sacrifices meaningless?"
"Even if the Dezmod dynasty fell, no one would say that. On the contrary, they would sing of those soldiers' loyalty and sacrifice."
Malachi looked back at him in astonishment.
Such shocking words didn't provoke the slightest dissatisfaction from any of the male mages present — except for the group from Ban Ard.
In fact, all the others gazed at Ortolan with fanatic admiration, as though they were worshipping a god incarnate.
"But… this isn't permitted by the Brotherhood of Sorcerers…" a young mage from Ban Ard's Ritual Department spoke weakly.
Ortolan gave him a brief glance. "That's exactly why the Brotherhood must change. That's why the Rissberg Civil Cooperation Organization supports Ban Ard, and why we're standing here."
"We're here to correct Hen Gedymdeith's mistakes."
"Now, back to the matter at hand…"
Ortolan gently patted Malachi's shoulder and raised the ruby in his hand.
"Tell me — do you think this gem hidden inside a corpse, and the Conjunction of the Spheres, are both the works of some evil god?"
Malachi nodded reflexively, then asked, "Aren't they?"
"I'm not certain," Ortolan replied, his tone deliberate. "But tell me — why would an evil god choose to watch your battlefield this way?"
Malachi froze — as if a realization had just struck him.
"Because it's afraid," Ortolan continued before he could answer, his voice firm and resonant, far stronger than his frail appearance suggested. "Even if it truly is an evil god, it's afraid. Afraid of you, or of the Wild Hunt — perhaps of both."
"A lion doesn't hide in the grass to spy on two antelopes fighting — and then flee."
"Besides…"
Ortolan lowered the ruby and raised his chin with a contemptuous smile. "Even if it truly is an evil god, so what? A voyeur who can only gaze across worlds through a single gem has no right to harm me."
"That's right!" shouted one of the mages from the Rissberg Civil Cooperation Organization. "Even evil gods must bow to Ortolan's mastery — just like the djinn in Geoffrey Monck's bottle!"
"If witchers can drive out evil gods from the Northern Continent, then how much more can our King of Mages from Rissberg accomplish?"
"And the Wild Hunt's sudden retreat during battle — perhaps it was to chase after this so-called 'evil god'!"
"If we find this 'evil god,' we'll find the Wild Hunt — and with it, world-shaking research, heaps of published theses, and a seat on the High Council!"
"And a new future — one that belongs to Rissberg!"
"Yes!"
"Yes!"
-----------------------------------
"Enough!" Ortolan raised his hand, cutting off the crowd's chatter and boasting. With a helpless wave, he added, "All of you, step back. I don't care about evil gods, but I might not be able to protect you."
At his words, the mages obediently moved away, letting Ortolan's grotesque creations stand between them and their master as a living barrier.
As Malachi retreated, his eyes met Sunny's.
Sunny glared at him viciously but said nothing — not here, not now.
Once everyone had taken their positions, Ortolan scanned the surroundings again before fixing his eyes firmly on the ruby in his palm. His deep, booming voice began to chant an ancient incantation.
In the blink of an eye, the ruby flared with a crimson glow.
It trembled, slowly rising from Ortolan's hand.
Then, as if breaking free from invisible shackles, Ortolan's chanting grew louder and sharper, echoing through the dark forest.
Suddenly, the wind roared through the trees, whistling like wailing spirits, carrying with it the unmistakable stench of decay.
No one paid attention to the foul odor. From behind the wall of twisted monsters, every mage stared intently at the ruby floating in midair.
Then —
Ortolan's voice abruptly stopped.
The ruby ceased to tremble, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though the entire world had fallen silent.
Everyone held their breath.
Crack!
A sharp sound split the air. Fissures appeared across the ruby's surface, spreading rapidly — forming what looked eerily like a closed eyelid on a spherical eye.
Another crack followed. The ruby shattered with a resounding bang, breaking into countless crimson fragments that drifted downward like dust.
Just as everyone assumed the ritual had failed — some even preparing words of comfort or distraction — the falling ruby dust suddenly coalesced in midair, forming a humanoid shape.
A skull, crowned with a rusted helm, flickered to life. In its hollow sockets burned crimson flames, and a tattered cloak billowed behind it in the ghostly wind.
"The Wild Hunt?!!"
The words erupted like thunder.
Those who had once seen the skeletal riders galloping through the skies — who had felt their terror firsthand — the mages of Ban Ard's Ritual Department and the Rissberg Civil Cooperation Organization all broke into an uproar.
They had imagined countless possibilities, yet none had expected this.
A member of the Wild Hunt, spying on a war between its own kind and sorcerers?
The Wild Hunt?
How could it possibly be the Wild Hunt?
The mages — political creatures by nature — instantly ran through dozens of possible explanations, each more convoluted than the last.
Just as Rissberg and Ban Ard were both sorcerer institutions divided by hidden rivalries beneath their alliance, so too might the Wild Hunt — intelligent and cunning — suffer from internal strife of its own.
Prince in exile, stolen relics, usurpers, purges…
And on top of that, two Conjunctions of the Spheres within a single day, and the Wild Hunt — clearly holding the advantage in battle — had inexplicably retreated without hesitation.
Every mage's eyes gleamed with excitement, fixed upon the skeletal figure wreathed in crimson firelight.
Ortolan noticed the restless hunger among them and gave a cold glance.
"Don't rush," he warned.
"It's not over yet."
As soon as he spoke, the "Wild Hunt" phantom turned, glanced once toward the heart of the battlefield, and then silently darted away in the opposite direction.
The group followed in haste.
They reached a cave at the edge of the Withered Grove, where the dust-covered ground bore clear traces of an arcane ritual — and fragments of gemstones similar to the shattered ruby.
The mages of Ban Ard's Ritual Department studied the symbols closely, exchanging confused glances.
"I've never seen anything like this," Malachi muttered, frowning. "The structure, the symbols, even the materials — none of it fits any known magical system of the Northern Continent."
Ortolan didn't respond. He stood still, eyes locked on the phantom formed from ruby dust.
"The ritual came from the Wild Hunt, of course it's different from ours," sneered the Rissberg mage who had earlier mocked Sunny. He smiled at Malachi, his expression feverish.
Not only him — everyone bore that same look of burning zeal.
The idea of a relic capable of controlling a Conjunction of the Spheres was reason enough for their fanaticism. But even more alluring was the knowledge implied by the ritual itself — a system wholly alien to the Northern Continent's known magic.
After all, even if such a relic could manipulate the spheres, it would never truly belong to them. But the knowledge they could extract from the Wild Hunt… that could be theirs to share and study.
Considering the Hunt's nearly flawless mastery of spellcraft, this vision of ruby dust was, to them, more tempting than a seat on the Supreme Council.
Unfortunately, the phantom image was fading, becoming blurrier with each passing second — they could no longer discern how the Wild Hunt had constructed the ritual before them.
Otherwise, as masters in their own fields, every mage present could have learned something of immense value from it.
But while the mages' minds burned with greed for the Wild Hunt's knowledge, the phantom continued to move.
It left the cave, sprinting toward the outskirts of the Withered Grove — darting swiftly down the valley, passing through Ban Ard's encampments at the gorge's mouth, and plunging into the dark expanse of the Passolon Forest.
The group struggled to keep up.
Before long, only Ortolan, Sunny, and a handful of mages skilled in body-enhancement spells managed to stay close; the rest gradually fell behind.
Yet rather than discouraging them, this only fueled the fervor — especially among the Rissberg mages.
Because they realized that, despite covering such vast distance, the phantom of the Wild Hunt had not summoned its skeletal steed, nor had it used a single spell.
"Grandmaster Ortolan!" one Rissberg mage exclaimed, voice trembling with excitement. "The Wild Hunt is the perfect model for Project Superman — this is what humanity is meant to become!"
"To possess spellcraft beyond ordinary mages — and a body as powerful as a Witcher's!"
"We must obtain—"
Before he could finish, the mage's face froze.
The ruby-dust phantom, still sprinting ahead, suddenly flickered — and vanished.
"Grandmaster Ortolan!" the Rissberg mages cried out in panic.
Ortolan, however, stopped calmly, narrowing his eyes as he gazed into the distance where the phantom had disappeared.
Beyond the green forest ridge, bathed in the light of the rising sun, stood a grand city — a sea of countless spires piercing the sky.
They all recognized it instantly.
The City of a Thousand Towers. The City of Mages. Once the greatest gathering place of the Northern Continent's gifted — and the future capital of the first kingdom ruled solely by sorcerers—
Ban Ard.
.....
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