Chapter 14: The Unfinished Angel

‘Too flat. So flat I can’t feel any thickness. I wonder if he’s even human.’

If it weren’t for the gold hair dirtied with filth and the wax-pale hand, Iska would have mistaken Riff for a rag discarded on the floor.

Was this s*ave originally thin, or had torture whittled him down?

On the first day he was dragged into the prison, Iska had no leisure to casually take in Riff’s build. As far as Iska was concerned, there was no way to compare whether he had lost weight or not.

That was why he had asked Russell, but Russell, that fool, failed to grasp Iska’s intent and spouted nonsense.

‘Small and shrunken enough to crumble, yet unexpectedly his hand carries a man’s scent. His knuckles are rather thick too.’

Iska observed Riff’s hand, exposed outside the robe. It was pale for a s*ave, but far from a hand that had never known hardship.

Look closely and calluses were packed here and there on the fingers and palm. Injuries from rough work were easy to find too.

Iska, who had somehow drawn close enough to step on Riff’s hand, set the lamp down on the floor. Kneeling on one knee by Riff’s head, he took Riff’s long hair in hand and let it go almost at once.

Unlike when he had touched it before, it was sticky and stiff. He did not want to hold it for long.

Iska rose with an expression of disgust, then recalled the moment he first saw Riff in the underground library. Riff had pulled the hood low, so all he could see properly was the hand holding the broom.

Even though only the hand was visible, Iska had felt something off about Riff. It was as if he had sensed that Riff was an outsider who had slipped into the underground library, just as when he had rooted out subversives trying to enter the walls disguised as refugees.

Iska’s intuition was excellent. Thanks to the wealth of experience he had gained in the army, an organization where all sorts of people gathered, and senses developed to a superhuman level, his judgment of people had never once been wrong since he became a master.

Yet for some reason, in this matter his intuition, which boasted a perfect success rate, had been only half right. Riff had indeed been doing something suspicious, as he had guessed. But his assumption that Riff could not originally have been a s*ave working in the underground library had missed the mark.

‘I was sure he was pretending to be a s*ave while not being one. But there is too much evidence that he was born and raised in the Magic Tower.’

Even though it was clear that Riff’s status as a s*ave was not fake, Iska found it hard to admit he was wrong. So he had deliberately come back to the prison to find evidence that Riff was not a s*ave. Instead of finding evidence, his belief in himself was being shaken.

‘It’s an ordinary s*ave’s hand, so I don’t know where I felt that wrongness. If I touch it, will I be able to discover what that wrongness is?’

Iska’s hand moved toward Riff’s fingertips.

Fwoosh! Whether the lamp’s wick had absorbed too much oil, or a capricious fire spirit had paid a brief visit, the flame grew fierce enough to touch the glass.

Iska pressed the callus at the first knuckle of his middle finger. A callus on the middle finger was a physical trait commonly found among classes that handled pens often, like scholars or scribes.

“Your Highness, what are you doing?”

Iska hurriedly withdrew his hand like someone caught in the middle of a petty theft.

“Don’t tell me that fellow is really dead?”

Feeling Russell peeking at Riff over his shoulder, Iska without thinking gave a loud order.

“Bring a chair.”

“A chair?”

Russell tilted his head as if he had heard an absurd instruction.

“Is it strange to tell you to bring a chair? Then did you plan to keep me standing the whole time?”

“Pardon? But before, you conducted the interrogation without a chair…”

Russell swallowed the rest. Iska only turned his head, but his glare was murderous, as if he were looking at a meddler interfering with his revenge.

“I’ll be back.”

What could he do? If a superior said jump, he had to jump. Russell swallowed a sigh and trudged out of the prison.

He felt utterly wronged by how Iska kept watching him as if to make sure he was really going to fetch the chair.

Creak, slam.

Only after confirming the door had closed did Iska reach for Riff again. He carefully lifted the edge of the hood as if raising a bride’s veil.

Once the hood was pulled back, the face revealed was much smaller than he remembered. It was a wonder that the eyes and nose all fit inside.

Iska gently placed the back of his hand against Riff’s cheek, where grime had dried.

“Cold.”

Perhaps in response to human warmth, Riff languidly lifted his eyelids.

Watching Riff’s consciousness awaken, Iska recalled the homunculus said to have been popular in the Age of Magic. A homunculus was an elaborate doll modeled after the human form, and owners of homunculi were said to have mostly met miserable ends because of them.

There were also rumors that the alchemist who first created the homunculus might actually have been a demon, perhaps because of an unfortunate accident. Setting aside whether that was true, the meaning was obvious.

It meant that at the time, the perception was widespread that the homunculus was an evil object that seduced and corrupted people like opium.

But to give up one’s life over a homunculus, something not even human? Iska could not understand them.

The people of the ancient Age of Magic must have been mentally weak. They were that weak because they had relied too much on magic.

Iska had never once been bewitched by the illegitimate offspring of the demon race, sirens or succubi or whatever. So even if a homunculus appeared in this world, he would never be bewitched by something so crude.

Meanwhile, Riff had opened his eyes, but the self that had fragmented while he was unconscious had not yet been restored. Simply put, his memories were split into several periods and wandering the fields of consciousness like sheep without a shepherd.

‘Who is this person?’

Having fallen into a brief state of confusion and failing to recognize the black-haired man before him, Riff examined him with curious eyes.

When he was Baskerville, he had once argued with the theologians of the Holy Empire about the appearance of angels and demons.

The Holy Empire described angels’ appearances in a form that emphasized holiness as much as possible, but to Baskerville that was deception. Records of priests and holy knights in history who had received God’s favor showed their appearances were far from the angels in holy paintings.

Their hair and eye colors varied, but dark colors appeared more often than light. Their skin was more often described as sun-browned than pale. Priests and holy knights alike were written to have sturdy builds and skill with weapons.

The conclusion was that God preferred strong warriors. Moreover, according to scripture, priests and holy knights chosen by God as saints became angels after death. So it was an entirely reasonable inference that angels’ appearance differed from the descriptions in holy paintings.

However, the Holy Empire completely ignored the evidence Baskerville presented and brought him before a heresy trial. The Holy Empire submitted a painting as evidence that Baskerville had insulted God.

It was a painting that combined all the elements Baskerville had presented as what an angel would look like, and it was absurdly malicious. It had been drawn so that it looked like nothing but an evil demon, not an angel.

To counter the Holy Empire’s smear campaign, Baskerville hired a painter to make a painting, but the result did not satisfy him. To be clear, it was not the painter’s fault. The problem was Baskerville.

If he had normally held the belief that angels must look like this, the work would have been much easier. But Baskerville had never taken interest in the appearance of angels until he happened to argue with the theologians.

Describing a superficial being he had never seen was too difficult. Since he could not accurately convey to the painter what he wanted, the result was naturally not good. Still, his pride would not permit him to paint something suitably beautiful and submit it to the court.

‘Archmage, did you not say you do not know what angels look like? Then on what grounds do you assert this painting is wrong? All the features you requested are included here.’

The defense team representing Baskerville was going mad with frustration because of their stubborn client. But what were they to do when every angel the painter put on canvas made them think that was not it?

Baskerville was a man who would sooner die than call something false true. He would rather lose the trial than submit a painting he was not satisfied with.

Even if he lost the trial, it would only put him in a bad mood, not cause any great trouble. Other mages might find their actions restricted if branded with the sin of blasphemy, but he was an Archmage.

The powers of the Canon Continent and even the emperor of the eastern continent had sent chests of gold and silver to recruit Baskerville to their country. Baskerville’s power was at its height, while the Holy Empire’s influence was shrinking by the day.

Even if he received a guilty verdict in a Holy Empire court, no one would dare look down on Baskerville.

In the end, the trial fizzled out and Baskerville suffered no disadvantage. The Holy Empire did not forget the humiliation they suffered at Baskerville’s hands and took revenge after his death. They took the lead in spreading word of Baskerville’s misdeeds and played a part in branding him an enemy of the continent.

Even after the trial ended, Baskerville continued to challenge himself to create the ideal angel. But the portrait of the angel was never completed before Baskerville died.

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