Ch.262Hall of the Gods (5)

For a magician, their laboratory or workshop is a space more comfortable and cozy than their own home.

It’s also an intimate place. A space optimized for one’s magical power and spells—to have such a space dominated by another is equivalent to having one’s magic dominated.

Llewellyn knew this. Yet despite knowing, he drove the Prophet out of his own laboratory.

The reason was truly absurd.

‘It would look awkward if we left instead.’

It was for the simple reason that it would look better to drive the Prophet out to discuss something.

An extremely inhumane and cruel act, but what did it matter?

The other party was the Prophet. If it had been a docile Court Count, he wouldn’t have gone this far, but Llewellyn secretly disliked the Prophet.

It wasn’t because he was an old man, unlike the androgynous Court Count or the beautiful Empress.

Rather, his appearance gave off the impression of a handsome elderly man, which wasn’t bad, but his behavior was somewhat…

So Llewellyn, without any guilt, drove the Prophet out and looked at Ortemilia.

Ortemilia appeared somewhat anxious. Her usual confident, almost excessive attitude was nowhere to be seen.

From this demeanor, Llewellyn sensed that there was something she was hesitant to say.

Perhaps she knew why the Dragon King showed such aggression toward the necromancer.

For this reason, Llewellyn poured wine into the cup the Prophet had brought and offered it to her.

“…May I give you this?”

“I’m not a child, it should be fine.”

“That’s true, but whenever I try to take even a sip at banquets, he snatches it away saying children shouldn’t drink such things…”

Ortemilia smiled bitterly. Llewellyn imagined such a scene and inadvertently let out a small laugh.

“He’s such a dad.”

“Mm, usually so.”

“Just let him be. That’s how he is.”

Ortemilia seemed pleased that the topic had changed and smiled slightly.

“Since the Prophet brought it, it must be good.”

“Hmm, I suppose so. The Prophet wouldn’t drink just anything.”

Ortemilia took the offered wine and swallowed a sip.

The disciplined way she drank gave the impression that she was accustomed to it. Well, when Llewellyn first met her, it was in a tavern basement.

At the time, he thought she had just chosen a plausible location, but now he wondered if she actually enjoyed drinking.

Of course, it was just a guess.

“Hmm?”

“Was it a coincidence that we met in that tavern basement?”

“That time… Ah, that time.”

Ortemilia swirled her glass with a faint smile, and the wine gently sloshed inside.

The anxiety of arbitrarily occupying the Prophet’s laboratory seemed to be gradually disappearing. It was as the old saying goes: out of sight, out of mind.

There was also trust that Llewellyn would prevent the worst-case scenario.

“Yes. I do enjoy drinking.”

“Then the blue grapes too…”

“Mm, I made them from what was left after brewing. Who am I if not an alchemist?”

Ortemilia laughed contentedly and puffed out her chest, making her modest but not insignificant bosom stand out beneath her clothes.

It was too trivial to arouse desire. Llewellyn felt relieved as he sat across from Ortemilia. As he poured wine into another empty glass, he glanced briefly at the door.

The door was firmly closed. There was no presence beyond it. Though the Prophet kept grumbling and suspecting Llewellyn, he was still the most powerful necromancer and the head of the Three Clans.

That meant he had the skill, intelligence, and perception to rise to and maintain that position. Llewellyn thought he wouldn’t return for a while and took a sip of wine.

“…Hmm.”

He grimaced at the unfamiliar taste that lingered in his mouth.

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, just. How should I put it.”

“Hmm?”

Ortemilia tilted her head and took another sip of wine.

There was something naturally elegant about the way she drank, as if she were accustomed to it—something that someone like Llewellyn, who had never drunk before, couldn’t imitate.

After taking another sip, she tilted her head again.

“I was thinking the Prophet had procured something excellent. Is there a problem with it?”

“Well, it’s a bit bitter and all that.”

He had thought wine would be palatable since so many people drank it, and it was consumed like water in religious texts.

But it didn’t suit Llewellyn’s taste. In his personal opinion, Isla’s honey-infused fruit tea would be better than this.

Ortemilia, seemingly relaxed now, burst into laughter and covered her mouth as she giggled.

It was a delicate laugh. One that matched her appearance.

“I sometimes forget because you always seem so mature… but of course, you’re still a child.”

“A child? I’m already twenty.”

“Twenty is still a child. Do you know how old I am?”

“Well, I’m not sure.”

“I’ve seen at least a hundred more winters than you. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get offended when I treat you like a child.”

“…At least a hundred, huh.”

Winter comes with the passing of each year. Though she expressed it as “a hundred winters,” he didn’t take it literally as 100 years old.

The Cradle moves freely. There wouldn’t be many occasions to recognize winter, and she would have occasionally felt its presence.

Frost on windows, a sharp drop in temperature, a light dusting of snow on the terrace.

Pulling up a shawl as white breath escapes. That must have accumulated a hundred times.

It would be better to assume she was several hundred years old. As Llewellyn pondered this, he wondered what someone who had lived for hundreds of years like Ortemilia would know.

Why did the Dragon King hate necromancers so much?

Though it might be hard not to, the Dragon King’s behavior was far from rational. It was too impulsive for someone who had crossed continents with the purpose of finding Llewellyn.

Llewellyn took another sip of wine, grimaced sharply, and thought.

“Would 100 years be considered young among necromancers?”

Ortemilia, who had also taken a sip of wine, blinked her bright yellow eyes.

“Not young, but rather non-existent.”

“…What do you mean by that?”

Not young, but non-existent? It wasn’t a common expression, and Llewellyn’s brain couldn’t follow.

He wondered if the translation function naturally provided by the status window was malfunctioning, but that wasn’t the case.

“Necromancers are not born anew. Unlike clans where new individuals are rarely created from blood, or shapeshifters who can reproduce.”

Necromancers are the result of dragons who fell trying to avoid death. Llewellyn recalled this newly remembered information, and Ortemilia touched her glass with a dark expression.

He had an intuition that the secret between the Dragon King and the Prophet was hidden in “this topic” that she found difficult to discuss.

“Among necromancers… I am the youngest. I am a necromancer created as a replica by Her Majesty, my mother.”

This was a fact Llewellyn vaguely knew. He blinked, and Ortemilia, after gauging his reaction, said:

“However, I cannot say there were no such attempts before or after me.”

A sudden sense of déjà vu. Llewellyn recalled the first of his kind he had met.

A clear failure of a homunculus.

A pitiful child who couldn’t even control its hunger. As Llewellyn’s expression hardened, Ortemilia whispered:

“And dragonkin… were treated as useful test subjects among necromancers.”

*

The Dragon King was imprisoned.

Of course, the level of the prison was trivial. From her perspective, the crude iron door could be torn apart with a single swipe of her tail, and the atmosphere was bright with torches hanging on every wall, not a complete dark cell.

But she didn’t try to escape. Even the Dragon King herself knew that her action wasn’t particularly rational and was far from her purpose.

It was closer to something done in a fit of anger.

The face of a necromancer, unlike dragonkin, mixed with human traits, seemingly deceptive—she couldn’t bear to see that face.

So she lunged. She didn’t expect to be blocked. Her recovery had long been complete, her attack was fierce, and among the Three Pillars, no one could stop her first strike.

The Sword Saint would have withstood it with his bizarre unique skill, and Valterok would have “taken the hit and counterattacked.”

Therefore, when she was blocked, she was honestly surprised.

She knew they were stealing and using her techniques, but they were using them much better than she had anticipated.

To the point where she wondered if there was any meaning in coming here.

In fact, she also felt it was already too late.

She had come to advise him not to serve them. Whatever he intended to do afterward, she came to tell him that they were unnecessary to the world and that they were the real enemies.

But it was the opposite. He had become someone who received their service, who boldly used them as his pawns.

If one person is evil, you can kill them and be done with it, but what if the king is evil?

If the country is rotten to the core, the king is evil, and the ordinary people caught in between are blind, should they all be killed?

Is that even possible? The Dragon King didn’t have the power to destroy the world, not like Annihilation.

‘…Though Annihilation was on their side.’

It was absurd. That such an overwhelming madman would show complete trust. The Dragon King sighed.

It might be better to escape now, but she didn’t feel like it.

There was someone outside the cell. A figure standing silently. A woman with gray eyes that shone clearly even in the darkness, watching the Dragon King.

Annihilation, Lucilla.

If it were just her, perhaps. But not far away would be Valterok and the Sword Saint, and the Dragon King didn’t have the power to kill Annihilation before the other two of the Three Pillars came to support.

How could she kill in one blow someone who had reportedly died once but returned? The Dragon King sighed, unaware that she had returned as a homunculus.

With the Three Clans also present, it seemed hopeless. Everything did. Just as she leaned against the wall in resignation:

Suddenly, footsteps were heard. Her scales trembled slightly, and she felt heavy footsteps approaching along the cold wall of the prison.

Familiar. The Dragon King was a genius in combat, and she had never forgotten a footstep she had once heard.

Her bright yellow pupils narrowed.

She saw Lucilla, ‘ready to emit a sun-like temperature if the Dragon King made any rash moves,’ turn her head sharply to look behind her and smile.

“Sejin! What brings you here? Did you come to see your sister?”

It was the very definition of a female expression.

‘To think that even Annihilation would make such an expression. Hmph.’

The one who had turned even Annihilation into a female was a man who somewhat resembled Lucilla.

A handsome, aristocratic-looking man.

She stared at him for a moment, then focused on the footsteps that sounded simultaneously.

They belonged to a girl standing behind him. The Dragon King stiffened when she saw that face.

The Dragon King’s gaze lingered on the girl with ram-like curled black horns, bright yellow pupils, and light green hair with a mischievous impression.

A hateful necromancer.

Strength naturally gathered in the Dragon King’s fist. She was filled with the urge to rush out and tear her apart right now.

Just as she was about to close her eyes to suppress the impulse.

Suddenly, a voice rang out.

“I’ve wanted to meet you.”

A cute voice that didn’t match the old-fashioned and antiquated speech. When the Dragon King opened her eyes, the necromancer was standing beyond the now-open cell door, along with Annihilation who looked worried, and the man with a slightly tense expression.

Especially the girl, who was within a distance where the Dragon King could tear out her throat with a swipe of her tail.

The girl seemed well aware of this.

Bright yellow dragon eyes, faintly tinged with fear, beheld the king of dragons.

“Could we have a conversation?”

Bravely so.