Chapter 38: Persuasion

I watched intently—this was it, the hallmark of a superior warrior, the skill called “Martial Art.”

Unlike magic, holy light, or Radiance, which require innate talent and secret training, Martial Arts have no fixed path.

They’re the culmination of a warrior’s relentless practice or a sudden epiphany in a life-or-death fight, stepping into the extraordinary.

Plain swordplay or bladework, at that moment, transcends into something akin to magic or divine arts.

What couldn’t be cut becomes cleavable; what couldn’t be blocked becomes defensible.

Among countless professions, warriors are common, but those who master Martial Arts, becoming superior warriors, are always rare.

‘Impressive…’

I thought, but suddenly felt Kritiya, after struggling, finally spit out the gag.

“He’s not dead! Watch out!”

A black mage’s vitality is unnatural, their vitals unlike humans.

I recalled how Ross, struck down by the old nun, rose again—Kritiya remembered it vividly.

Darryl, alerted, reacted faster, her dual swords slashing a cross, shredding the corpse that tried to spring up into pieces, now truly lifeless.

“Huff—huff—not great at fighting, but that elf-specific poison… nasty stuff.”

The blood-soaked half-elf warrior panted, her face pale, sweating, staggering forward.

Her trembling hands undid Kritiya’s chains.

Darryl, relieved, half-knelt before the girl.

Kritiya, freed, stared at the half-elf warrior.

“Sorry… for dragging you into this… Don’t know how much sense you’ve got left, if you remember me, or understand me… but listen.”

Darryl spoke haltingly, and I felt a bad premonition.

“Listen… I can’t move. Things look bad. You need to… forget it, just run. But these swords—their inscriptions hold elven swordsmanship secrets— Take them… give them to another elf if you can. If not, doesn’t matter… Just go!”

Wait—what’s with that last-will tone?

Aren’t you the protagonist’s mentor?

You haven’t even met him, and you’re giving up?

Panic surged, nearly drowning the evil god’s seed’s throb.

Darryl, as if spent, shoved the swords into Kritiya’s hands, then collapsed.

The sticky incense smell in the air faded slightly.

My panic eased.

Kritiya silently eyed the half-elf, realizing the seemingly heavy swords were surprisingly light.

Time passed—then faint footsteps sounded outside, likely campfolk roused by the fight.

Kritiya knew it was time to leave.

She took a deep breath, clutched the swords, and crawled out the tent’s other side.

***

I’d suspected Raylir was Black Mage Ross in disguise, here to track Kritiya.

But on second thought, it didn’t add up.

In the novel, Ross was a cunning, formidable villain—how could he die so easily?

Yet, if so, why was Darryl, meant to be the protagonist’s mentor, facing a mortal crisis?

Or… is there no destined “fate” in this world?

Everything can be sacrificed, anyone can die—even Nolan might not be the fated hero?

As I sank into pessimistic thoughts, the next figure I saw disproved Ross’s death.

That face, unseen for nearly two months, now stood before me.

Let me piece it together.

Kritiya fled the scene in darkness, moving along the cliff’s edge.

I noticed, between the cliff and a valley, faint outlines of ancient ruins.

Seven or eight camps, lit by bonfires, ringed the ruins—likely the forces Darryl mentioned, sealing the site.

As Kritiya scanned for an escape route, I saw tension stirring among the camps, previously peaceful.

Then, unbelievably, those coexisting forces clashed upon meeting.

Small disputes turned to armed conflict.

Hoofbeats thundered, shouts and cries echoed.

Magical flashes lit the sky, revealing Romern’s city guard banners.

Fires blazed among the camps, chaos escalating.

The disorder made finding an escape path impossible.

Kritiya’s face showed faint distress.

Then, a devilish voice spoke.

“Confused, Miss Airandil? As your teacher, let me explain.”

Kritiya turned from the ruins, seeing a figure in a black cloak emerge from the dark, pulling back his hood to reveal curly hair and the face of her former art teacher.

Kritiya’s breath caught.

I felt a mix of hatred, anger, and fear surge in her heart—

“How… did you find me?”

“A bit of luck, Miss Airandil. I scattered low-level familiars across likely places, narrowing it down. At first, I missed you, but when I reviewed, none of my familiars here reported back, so I came to check.”

Ross nodded smugly, then continued.

“It’s not really about you. Those dumb beasts wandered into a devil’s domain, twisted to serve her, gathering power for her— I just happened to find you here while investigating.”

Kritiya blinked, half-understanding, then glanced at the chaotic firelight around the ruins, asking,

“You caused this?”

“No, no—believe me, it’s more your doing than mine—or rather, that little devil’s trick.”

Kritiya stood at the cliff’s edge, wary of her old teacher, but the black mage, chatty, explained.

“Let me break it down. An hour ago, the Mercury Workshop found their chief master, Raylir, dead in the quarantine tent for the poisoned.

They’d had a feud with… some gang, I forget which, and immediately targeted their supposed culprit, marching off to settle scores.

Then the city guard noticed the workshop’s odd movements. Self-styled order-keepers, they mobilized to question them.

Local lordly forces—fief-holding nobles summoned here—resented the city guard, outsiders free of their control, and, also claiming order, watched them closely, ready to act.

So, the biggest players moved, and the rest—merchants, mercenaries, adventurers—thought the inner ruins had surfaced.

Why else would those profit-driven big shots stir? They swarmed like greedy locusts, fearing they’d miss the treasure. These groups, long at odds, had constant small clashes.

Now, like a lit powder keg, it exploded.”

Ross mimed an explosion, chuckling as if it were witty.

“Of course, it didn’t have to escalate this far. People have mouths, can talk, not just fight—but add a devil’s trick, and it’s different. Devils excel at tempting corruption, stirring disputes, feeding on chaos.

This was all a farce staged by some devil to regain power—spreading vague rumors to draw clueless actors, feasting, then hiding behind the curtain, laughing at the world’s folly.”

Devil—I noted Ross’s words.

In the novel, devils were a hellish backdrop, never appearing directly in the chapters I read.

I didn’t want to trust the black mage’s nonsense—maybe a story to dodge blame—but his logic was compelling, forcing me to consider its truth…

“Why tell me this?”

Kritiya said after a pause.

“Because, after failing to take you last time, I reflected on why. I didn’t grasp your importance, tried to use force—that can’t align with the god’s will. So, this time, I’ll convince you to come willingly.”

The black mage bowed theatrically.

Kritiya, clutching Darryl’s swords, looked away in defiance.

Ross, hands behind his back, spoke solemnly.

“I’m explaining this devil’s farce to show you how easily humans fall to outside influence, descending into folly—all the world’s misery stems from this.

Our path of salvation seeks to escape this ignorance, learning from great beings beyond human intellect. Understand them, accept their power, transform the impure body and mind, uplifting our entire race.

Don’t be swayed by rumors. Come with me, and I’ll give you everything. The Radiant Church’s so-called saintesses are false, lies of a sham god—but you, you’re truly blessed.

Any wizard elder or cult follower who sees you will know you’re the one to part the fog, the true saintess. Then, the Abyss’s path will spread across the world.

Wealth, power, strength—all dust. On this path of change, all creatures will kneel before you, kissing your feet—”

Ross’s speech seemed to move himself, his face drunk with zeal.

Kritiya gripped the swords, too long for her, their tips dragging on the ground—

“You’re lying,” she said, looking up.

“Lying?”

“Raylir—his death was your doing. It’s all your scheme.”

Ross paused, then explained.

“Heh—Raylir wasn’t even a wizard, just someone who, years ago, took black magic to extend his life. I only ordered him to bring you to me… These details don’t matter…”

But Kritiya didn’t listen.

She wasn’t eloquent, couldn’t argue him down—she just needed a reason to steel her courage.

She shook her head, hugged the swords, and, before I could react, let herself fall backward off the cliff—