The Marshal of Magecraft who had mastered the Second Magic and slain Crimson Moon—how could Avia possibly not know that name?
And yet, despite the robust appearance of the man before her, there was a subtle air of decay surrounding Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg. It felt as though something had been quietly eroding him from within for a very long time.
In truth, ever since arriving in the year 400 AD, Avia had been puzzled. Why would Zelretch allow the Clock Tower to fall into decline? Why hadn't he stepped in to help his fellow disciple, Cowbeck, when he was being hunted down? That wasn't the man she knew.
Now that they had finally met in person, Avia understood—the Second Magician, supposedly immortal, was withering away in a most uncanny manner.
Perhaps noticing her surprise, the white-haired old man continued speaking immediately after his introduction:
"Magic, as they call it, truly is something beyond magecraft. It is a power far greater."
The mastery of the Second Magic proved the existence of parallel worlds. Thanks to that, the world's lifespan had been extended, and the dreamless planet found a glimmer of hope once more.
As a mage marshal who could use the Second Magic to traverse different worlds through gemstones—even time travel was within his reach. Record alteration, phenomenon rewriting… It was the operation of parallel worlds itself, an existence of boundless energy.
"But four hundred years ago, my junior Cowbeck, inspired by the first Pope Novia and with the Church's support, began researching a certain… entity."
In the modest room where they stood, a view of the steel-blue sky could be seen through a simple window. Outside, the wind whispered, and the little house creaked continuously.
Elteluci listened intently to the marshal's account. After all, she too had been curious—how had Kischur lost? The moon being mirrored and cast down, that endless aether cannon… to her, those scenes had been truly awe-inspiring.
"Two hundred years ago, Cowbeck finally completed it," the marshal said with a sigh. "Magic and faith—'It' was the fusion of both, pursued tirelessly by mankind. 'It' is a unique illusion unlike anything else. Not a holy book inscribed with divine prophecy, and certainly not... not a tangible object."
"Through the inspiration of Pope Novia and the culmination of countless saints' philosophies, the Church created a miracle unlike any other in this world. It is—'God's Love' itself."
At those words, Avia immediately realized what he meant: Trelitin, the Holy Codex. But if Cowbeck possessed Trelitin, why would he be hunted down? The question lingered.
Trelitin could take human form, yes—but under Cowbeck, its "father," things shouldn't have spiraled out of control.
Yet the next words from Kischur cleared her confusion entirely.
"The formless 'God's Love' wasn't what wounded me most. No—it was during the joint assault on Crimson Moon. The Church sent someone, a being born a natural saint, who was personally acknowledged by that unique illusion of 'God's Love' and even hailed, briefly, as the new savior—"
"Marble Kiara."
The mage marshal couldn't help but recall the year 300 AD. Even he had to admit, she was a true-born saint. During the Battle of Millennium City, whether mage, Church agent, or Dead Apostle—they were all treated the same under her gaze…
At the time, Kischur had even believed that this woman, with her charismatic leadership, might genuinely allow all factions to coexist after the fall of Crimson Moon. She might bring new life to the continuation of the planet…
But then she appeared on the battlefield where he fought Crimson Moon—smiling as she stripped away the infinite aether cannon and the mirrored moon with methods unknown. That saint—
"The 'Illusion' she wielded, combined with the immense faith of the Church, gravely wounded me. My body began to rapidly deteriorate. Since then, I have been unable to observe parallel worlds. In other words… she used those two forces to destroy my Magic."
---
Rome, beneath the Papal Throne.
Though underground, the chamber was brightly lit—torches burned alongside magically sustained lamps, creating a place where the sun seemingly never set.
Every inch of the underground space was adorned with intricate carvings, each stroke brimming with artistic power. Under the light, they shimmered with life, projecting a sense of majesty and sanctity.
The air carried the scent of incense, blended with the aged wood and stone—deep, solemn, reverent. Time itself seemed to freeze here. Every breath felt sacred.
"You're going to die again, aren't you?"
A soft voice echoed from atop the throne made of solid gold and inlaid with countless gemstones.
Following the voice's direction, one could see a figure nailed to the wall—crucified.
"A hundred years have passed, and yet you reincarnate again. Just as you claimed—you must be a god, or the child of one. Ahté? Beelzebub? Or perhaps that blasphemous outer god you can't stop thinking about? Ah well, it doesn't matter. They're all the same."
That wall, so out of place in this holy chamber, exuded dampness, mold, and the scent of blood—steeped in ruin and despair.
"I've already prepared another body for your next rebirth. So keep up the good work. Really, if you hadn't shown up in Millennium City that year—if you hadn't appeared before me—I might never have captured you. But then again, without you, I wouldn't have understood the true magnitude of what Lord Novia intended when he founded the Church."
"For that, I must thank you."
With those words, a corpse was thrown to the foot of the wall. Then, under invisible magical threads, the person nailed to the wall immediately lost their life. Simultaneously, an unseen force flowed from the crucified figure into the corpse below.
In less than a second, the corpse opened its eyes—only to be instantly crucified again. Within those eyes burned only fury.
"Francesca, as always, keep contributing your paltry divine power, and prepare to welcome the new world that will never come."
"That is—be a necessary sacrifice for my plan, and for the grand ambition that Lord Novia could not complete."
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