Chapter 222 — 깃발을 들다
Chapter 222
Raising the Banner
A basement where not a sliver of light could enter.
Footsteps came down the spiral stairs that led there.
Tap.
Tap.
The still air of the basement trembled.
At the same time, something opened its eyes.
A pair of icy-blue ghostfire flared like candle flames.
“Are you awake, Belot?”
The owner of the footsteps spoke to that burning gaze.
A quiet voice—unlike the eyes’ owner, it carried little power. Hoarse yet ordinary, the sort of voice an old market vendor might have.
And yet to the one with the ghostfire, that voice landed heavy.
For he was the father who had birthed the owner of those eyes into this world and set him walking upon it.
“I… am….”
“Because of you, I had to offer up quite a number of sacrifices. Do you know that?”
“I’m… sorry….”
The owner of the ghostfire, Demon Lord Belot, could say nothing else. He had gone to fetch a dragon heart and returned half dead.
Leda, who had gone with him, had died outright. In terms of overall strength, it was a loss the Grigori could ill afford.
The High Priest, owner of the voice, clicked his tongue in displeasure.
“Tch! If ‘sorry’ fixed things, what in this world would be hard?”
“I’m… sorry….”
“Enough of that. I’m tired of it.”
“I’m… sorry….”
The High Priest glared, wondering if the fool was mocking him, but when he noticed the blaze in those eyes had lost its force, he could only shake his head.
The idiot meant it.
And that was the problem.
How am I supposed to scheme with this one…?
All the usable vessels under him were currently out in the Empire.
The sharpest minds, Lapis and Lazuli, were leading the Grigori’s legions.
His heir—never once revealed to the world—lay hidden within the Empire, awaiting the High Priest’s order whenever it might come.
As things stood, the only Demon Lord left here at the Chapter was Belot.
The problem was that Belot could serve as feet, perhaps, but not as hands.
How had such a useless dullard been born a vessel?
If blame was to be laid, it was his own mistake.
The earlier vessels had all proven just a bit too lacking to house the resurrected Azazel, so in forcing a larger vessel into being, Belot had been created.
He carried demonic mana and brute strength greater than that of two Demon Lords combined.
Yet his wits were so stunted that he had become a poor candidate to receive Azazel.
If only Judas were alive for times like this.
He had never even earned the title of Demon Lord—a half-formed thing—but at least his head worked. As a hand to move exactly as the High Priest commanded, he would have sufficed.
Of course, Judas was dead, and Leda, whom he had set aside as the hand, had fallen as well. Regret would change nothing now.
One way or another, he would have to make do with this one.
Mervinger, Mervinger…! You dogs never stop tripping us up.
Grit.
The High Priest ground his teeth as he thought of one he had never met in the flesh, yet might as well have.
But only for a moment.
Sigh.
He exhaled deeply and reined himself in.
Raging here would change nothing.
He could hardly call Lapis and Lazuli back from the field. Which meant he had to handle everything here himself.
He had every intention of seizing Elric Mervinger.
Not just the dragon heart snatched from before his eyes, but the Authority embodied by North Wind and Winter Snow as well.
By rights, that power should have been theirs.
No—he would take Mervinger himself. By rights, everything the Mervingers possessed was ours to begin with.
His gaze shifted to Belot, still sitting quiet.
“Elric Mervinger has appeared in these parts.”
“…!”
Ku-ku-ku…!
The ghostfire roared again.
The basement bucked as if it would collapse.
At least the brute has power to spare.
Irritation eased in the High Priest.
Stupid and slow as he might be, there was no better blunt instrument than Belot.
Power and loyalty—both were certain.
In many ways he was preferable to Lapis and Lazuli, who forever twisted the High Priest’s orders and cherry-picked them to taste.
“Elric… Mervinger…!”
“Looks like he means to return to Imperial territory. He took Fort Akran just now.”
“Akran…!”
The ghostfire flared anew.
Even Belot, slow to think and judge, knew the name of Fort Akran well.
It lay not far from the Chapter.
“Even Mervinger won’t imagine we’re right by his nape. Flushed by his triumph over the Red Lion Army, now is the time.”
Strength crept into the High Priest’s voice.
“This is also the last chance Lord Azazel has given us. So, Belot—you know what you must do.”
It never even occurred to the High Priest that Elric had seized Fort Akran as a move against them.
The Grigori had been coiled here for quite some time.
Even the Red Lion Army camped within a stone’s throw had never pinpointed their exact location—proof of perfect concealment.
In other words, Elric and the Star Host appearing nearby was, in the High Priest’s frame of sense, nothing more than coincidence.
“He must die…!”
“Yes. Elric Mervinger. No matter what, he must die.”
Mad light slicked the High Priest’s eyes.
“Even if it costs your life.”
“Even if I die…!”
“Can you do it?”
“I will kill him…!”
The High Priest knew full well that the Star Host’s current strength was beyond anything they could handle.
Most of the Chapter’s forces had perished with Leda.
What remained was barely enough for defense.
Meanwhile, the Star Host boasted many of the Empire’s most formidable.
Even setting Elric Mervinger aside, the Azure Lion and the Ashen Lion were there.
No matter how strong Belot was, thrown into that, he would be isolated and cut down.
If Belot went out now, he would never return.
It pained him to smash another vessel, but if he could spend it to kill Mervinger, it would be a bargain.
All he could think of was rooting out Mervinger to the last seed.
Vessels can always be remade.
He pressed once more.
“Do you understand?”
“Marshal Leda…! Kill Elric Mervinger…!”
“We move at dawn. I’ll brief you on the plan then. For now, get yourself into peak condition.”
“…Understood.”
After Belot’s reply, the High Priest wasted no time and left the basement.
In the space left behind—
“Elric Mervinger… enemy, so must die…. And yet….”
The twin ghostfires in Belot’s eyes stared at the spot where the High Priest had gone.
“The High Priest is bad, too….”
There was something the High Priest had mistaken.
It was true Belot’s demonic mana was so vast his thinking was slow.
But that did not mean he could not think.
Fwoosh…
The twin ghostfires burned softly, with a meaning none could read.
* * *
Tap, tap.
Following the stairs back up and out of the Chapter, the High Priest muttered to himself.
“With this, I have to bring the Grigori’s revival to completion, one way or another.”
In truth, the High Priest was anxious.
“Only then can we draw in enough faith to call down Lord Azazel’s descent….”
Azazel’s resurrection was lagging far behind his expectations.
By his plan, a vessel should already have been chosen, and Azazel should now be fully descended upon this land, laying the Empire to waste.
He had meant to ignite a second Great Demon War—no, the Demon God War, which few even remembered anymore.
“Of late, He scarcely sends revelations at all.”
But his designs had come to nothing.
“Far, far fewer demons have rallied under our banner than expected.”
That was the problem.
What good were perfect vessels, if the faith needed for resurrection failed to gather?
He had assumed that once the Grigori’s name reemerged, demons would flock like clouds.
Then the faith offered by those brought under the name of Grigori would coalesce into divinity and serve as the medium to bring Azazel down to this land as a new Demon God.
This grand design was no idle fancy.
The Grigori had prepared much; in theory it was entirely possible.
Above all—
Across the continent, countless demons were scattered without a true lodestar.
Many hid what they were and lived among humans.
He had meant to be that lodestar for them.
The problem was the response—pitifully, painfully small.
There were many reasons, no doubt.
But it meant most of them were still busy calculating whether to throw in with the Grigori.
Fools…! Must they taste for themselves to tell dung from soybean paste…!
To the High Priest, the scattered demons seemed as witless as Belot—had all the brains died in the last Great Demon War?
But so what.
They were the ones pressed for time.
Therefore—
To raise their enthusiasm, he meant to spark something that could not be ignored.
“Here, Mervinger’s head. And elsewhere…!”
He shook his head.
Whatever it took, what he desired had to succeed.
If not, the Grigori would devour themselves.
With only our current strength, we lack too much to overthrow the Empire.
A cool wind blew in from outside. His head felt clearer.
I’ll take a breath of air and go back in.
Far off,
Beyond the ridge, he could see Fort Akran—and the Mervinger banner snapping in the wind.
“Let’s see how long you strut, Mervinger.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“The wind bites, sir. Let’s go in.”
The underling who had followed him bowed his head slightly.
He could not recall the name, but the boy always obeyed and lived out Azazel’s teachings with care.
Perhaps he meant to take him inside before the sight of Mervinger’s banner soured his mood again.
A thoughtful lad.
If only Belot were half as good as this one.
Regret touched him, but he allowed a faint smile.
“Very well. Let’s.”
He was turning back toward the Chapter, as the boy suggested, when—
Twing—
“High Priest! Look out!”
“What—?”
At the urgent cry, the High Priest turned his head—and the boy, sprinting toward him to shield him, had his head burst apart.
Splaaat!
Filthy blood and flesh spattered the High Priest’s face.
“What is this…?”
He blinked, uncomprehending—
Fwhip-fwhip-fwhip!
From the sky, hundreds, thousands of arrows came down like rain.
The Mage Who Devoured Talents