Chapter 139

Chapter 139
Chapter 139: Never Mind The Heir, I’ll Focus On Healing

“……It appears there remains nothing further to debate, so let us conclude our business here.”

Petrik rose from his seat.

For the Archbishop to go this far suggested he had already picked up on certain details concerning Lion.

‘If that proves true, a swift resolution is by far the most prudent course.’

Dragging out the conversation any longer would simply give the Archbishop’s cunning intellect free rein to conjure wild theories and speculations.

“……!”

Tylius, meanwhile, felt a wave of profound relief wash over him.

Anticipating that his foul mood would prompt Petrik to keep him detained for hours, he was stunned to find himself dismissed far sooner than expected.

“Th-that sounds like a capital plan. Just as Your Grace suggested, I shall look after my royal well-being. Farewell.”

Congratulating himself on having survived such an ordeal, the Emperor hurried to his feet and vanished from the room.

He was a man who certainly understood how to capitalize on an open door.

‘Tsk tsk…….’

Watching the Emperor make such an ungraceful retreat, Petrik let out a silent sigh and clicked his tongue.

How could a man manage to display such a complete lack of basic dignity while occupying the throne?

Still, he was currently dancing to the proper tune, so… I suppose I can let the matter drop for today.

Averting his eyes from the empty doorway, Petrik sank back into his chair.

“Now then, what precisely compelled you to travel all this distance just to speak with me?”

“Ah. Lord Petrik’s insight remains as astonishing as ever.”

Remaining utterly motionless in his spot, the Archbishop offered a faint, thin smile.

Naturally, he had not come without a purpose.

“Since both of our schedules are rather full, let us dispense with the pleasantries and come straight to the point.”

Truth be told, the visit was hardly unexpected.

Lion had stirred up quite a significant commotion back at the temple, so it stood to reason that the man had arrived to investigate.

A Messenger of God.

Was he attempting to verify their true identity?

It was evident that while digging into various unrelated matters, the Archbishop had somehow caught wind of the attack on Lion.

‘No matter how carefully the details are managed, the Archbishop’s intelligence network is remarkably extensive… Even so, I have no intention of projecting any vulnerability.’

The Archbishop had kept a low profile until now, and even if he had managed to unearth some fragments concerning Lion, he possessed no hard proof.

“Are you truly in such desperate haste?”

“You are the one dragging your feet.”

“Ah. Is not every effort dedicated solely to catching the echoes of the Divine? It is nothing so grand. Simply……”

The Archbishop let out a soft laugh as he clenched his fist, then turned his gaze away.

“Witnessing Young Master Lion Asteri brings a particular individual to mind.”

“…….”

“His behavior mirrors that of… a Messenger of God. Or rather……”

“He bore a striking resemblance to the Hero who once traveled beside the Saintess.”

The air between them grew taut as their eyes locked in a silent duel.

‘Just how much has he managed to piece together?’

If he was willing to voice these suspicions aloud, it meant he possessed either a profound intuition or some deeply troubling evidence.

The Archbishop had been recognized for his sharp intellect since childhood.

Moreover, he had spent years keeping a vigilant watch over the legacy of the Hero, making such a deduction entirely plausible.

Yet Petrik remained entirely unruffled; this development fell well within his calculations.

After all, regardless of the Archbishop’s capabilities…

‘He never laid eyes upon the Hero directly.’

His sources were ultimately incomplete.

Had his predecessor still been alive, perhaps things would be different, but Petrik held the superior hand when it came to firsthand knowledge of the Hero.

Even if the boy had been raised on vivid, idealized accounts from the Saintess, those stories could not compete with the direct experiences of Petrik or the Elder Elf Boaresia.

While lesser men might have faltered under that gaze, the Archbishop’s counterpart today was Petrik Asteri, an Eighth-Circle Archmage.

A man whose skill with a tongue matched his mastery of the arcane.

“What are your thoughts on the matter, Lord Petrik?”

“It is certainly a fascinating perspective, but……”

Calmly, Petrik allowed one corner of his mouth to lift into a dry smile.

“Even so, he is hardly the Hero you are searching for.”

“I am afraid I do not quite catch your meaning.”

“Simply put, he is not ‘that person’ who walked alongside the former Archbishop.”

“…….”

The former Archbishop. At the direct mention of the Saintess, a sharp, cold gleam flickered in the depths of the Archbishop’s eyes.

Petrik did not blink, nor did he look away from those eyes, which shimmered with a volatile mix of grief and dark obsession.

Instead, he maintained his steady, measured tone.

“Keep those emotions in check, Archbishop. I am merely laying out the cold facts.”

Though he had castigated the man as a madman only moments prior, Petrik felt a sudden, fleeting stab of pity.

If he were forced to trade places with the Archbishop, he knew he would find the reality equally impossible to let go of.

After all, the Saintess—who had loomed as large as a parent in his life—had vanished from the world overnight.

‘Back during those days…….’

It was the chaotic aftermath that immediately followed the conclusion of the war.

Every soul was drowning in exhaustion and sorrow, yet they clung desperately to the fragile hope that they would not have to endure any further losses.

Amidst such fragile reconstruction, the sudden death of the Saintess arrived as a devastating blow to the entire realm.

“The Saintess! No, they are saying the Archbishop has passed away!”

“How could someone possessing such vitality perish so abruptly……?”

“The rumors claim her constitution finally buckled under the accumulated backlash of curses.”

“Or perhaps the heavens simply recalled her early because her divine capacity was too great.”

Hundreds and thousands owed their lives to the Saintess’s interventions, and the great defensive barrier itself stood as a monument to her unsparing sacrifice, so naturally the public mourning was universal.

Yet… beneath the surface.

‘There remain far too many troubling inconsistencies surrounding that death.’

Had Petrik not intervened to clamp down on the investigation and bury the ripples, the circumstances of her passing would have raised alarms everywhere.

First, the final person the Saintess met before drawing her last breath was none other than the Hero.

Their rendezvous had been cloaked in an unnatural level of secrecy, far beyond what mere administrative planning required.

The second complication was the timing of her demise.

On the very day she died, the Hero disappeared without a single trace.

From that day forward, up until the present moment.

Leaving behind no footprints, they had effectively evaporated from the world.

That particular detail had plagued Petrik with doubts of his own.

Even so, having fought shoulder-to-shoulder as comrades, Petrik could vouch for one absolute truth.

Whatever else might be said, the Hero would never have raised a hand against the Saintess.

Therefore, while their secret meeting might constitute vital evidence in some unfolding tragedy, the Hero could not possibly be her murderer—however……

The Archbishop, who had looked upon the Saintess with the devotion of a child and was merely a youth at the time, lacked the emotional maturity to accept such nuance.

That was precisely why he continued his relentless hunt for any lingering shadow of the Hero.

A deep ache settled in Petrik’s chest.

He could find it in his heart to empathize, but he could never bring himself to agree.

How many others back then had been forced to witness the senseless deaths of those they held dear?

It was an era where scarcely a soul was unfamiliar with the heavy, crushing weight of grief, the piercing hollow in the chest, and the bitter taste of utter futility.

And yet, ordinary people had buried their loved ones deep within their memories and forced themselves to carry on, acting as their own gravediggers.

Because that was the only way to protect the survivors who remained.

…He himself had done no less.

Yet this Archbishop still wandered the paths of the past, chasing phantoms with those feverish eyes.

Worse still, his ultimate goal had twisted over the years.

His obsession was no longer fixed solely on the actual Hero of history, but had expanded to target anyone who showed the faintest potential to *become* a Hero.

And as ill luck would have it, his current target was Petrik’s own grandson.

“Already fifty years have slipped away.”

“There are certain truths one must refuse to surrender, no matter how many years pass.”

“I am not telling you to forget. I am simply suggesting that if you insist on remembering, you ought to do so accurately.”

With those final words, Petrik stood up once more, his gaze steady as he looked down at the seated man.

He felt a flare of irritation that the Archbishop had dared cast his ambitions toward his grandson, but considering the young man’s complicated circumstances, he decided to grant him leniency this once.

“Weigh my advice carefully.”

Besides, madman though he might be, the man was still like an orphaned child to his departed comrade.

It was Petrik’s sincere hope that the Archbishop might finally rejoin the living in the present.

Furthermore…

“It would appear you have managed to acquire a clever successor of your own.”

At that parting observation, the Archbishop’s frame stiffened visibly.

Choosing to ignore the reaction, Petrik turned and walked away.

After all, he mused, everyone—regardless of their station or years—seemed destined to suffer through their own clumsy growing pains.

—

“……Pardon me, what did you just say?”

“I asked if you might be willing to clear out the smithy for tonight.”

For the first time in quite a while, Mudu found himself paralyzed by a degree of bewilderment that transcended mere surprise.

Had the request come from almost anyone else, he would have tossed them out on their ear; but coming from the eccentric Lion Asteri, vacating the workshop in the dead of night was at least worthy of consideration.

He would have gladly done it in broad daylight, too!

Though it stood as the finest smithy in the entire Asteri Territory, shutting down operations for a day meant absorbing a significant financial hit, yet the eccentric Young Master had already performed favors that far outweighed the loss.

The mere memory of those roaring forge fires and the lively elemental spirits dancing in the air represented a debt he could never fully repay.

Even so, the sticking point remained clear.

“Just what is it you intend to forge?”

“That is a secret.”

“Hmph, fine. Then what is the underlying purpose of this secret project?”

“That, too, remains a secret.”

The Young Master was offering zero explanation regarding the particular brand of madness he was about to unleash upon the forge this time!

“This is going to drive me clean out of my mind.”

Mudu dragged his calloused palms down his face. His nose, already permanently flushed from years of radiant heat, turned an even deeper shade of strawberry red from the friction of his rough skin.

How was it possible to feel utterly exhausted after exchanging a mere handful of sentences?

‘What on earth is he plotting now? Why won’t he give me a straight answer!’

He knew the truth of it, of course.

Mudu was being entirely honest with himself.

The real reason for his frustration was that his curiosity about what this eccentric youth was about to manufacture had reached an unbearable pitch!

More than anything, he wanted to watch this strange boy’s growth with his own two eyes!

It went far beyond the simple act of pounding hot iron with a hammer.

Where on earth did the boy acquire such a vast repertoire of techniques? Whenever he picked up a new skill, he mastered it with terrifying speed and immediately began churning out unprecedented creations!

‘And let us not forget those wooden building blocks!’

The clever interlocking toys that his beloved children spent hours playing with every day had also come as a gift from Lion Asteri.

They had been presented as a token of appreciation for a modest loan of rare dyes.

Had the boy not also dispatched a mountain of pigments that seemed entirely inexhaustible, even if the children grew all the way to adulthood before they ran out?

Now that he thought about it, spending time playing with the children was another kindness he owed the boy… No, focus!

At any rate, he desperately wanted a front-row seat to watch Lion at work.

Yet the boy showed not the slightest inclination to permit an audience tonight.

“……Very well. Have it your way.”

“My thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Mudu flicked his heavy hand through the air with a dismissive gesture.

“Still, if you needed the space during the daytime hours, I could have handed over the keys for a day or two. Why insist on borrowing the place in the middle of the night?”

“There are specific conditions required.”

“Hmph.”

He had made one last, subtle attempt to fish for information, but it had yielded nothing.

Which simply meant whatever he was planning required absolute discretion.

‘Given his usual temperament, he is hardly going to use the forge for anything foolish or destructive.’

Was the boy not famously averse to tangling himself in unnecessary trouble?

“Fine, you stubborn little brat. Do as you please!”

Mudu grumbled a final complaint, licking his lips in lingering disappointment before turning to trudge back inside the inner chamber of the smithy.

“Son! You eccentric little monster, clear me off a corner so I can sit and rest my bones!”

“Is the chat finished already? I have had your spot ready for the last ten minutes!”

The junior smith, Son, called out from the coolest corner of the workshop, offering a casual wave of his hand.

‘Perfect.’

I shall simply wait quietly in that corner until the hour grows late, and then commence the work.

—

As time marched steadily onward, the surrounding area plunged into the deep stillness of a deserted night.

After receiving his final, multi-layered warning from Mudu to exercise extreme caution, Lion finally stood up from his bench and swept his gaze across the shadowed interior of the workshop.

“There is truly no one left lingering about, correct?”

“Ppippi.”

Nature fluttered its wings to gesture toward the frost-dusted ground outside, tilted its head to scan the perimeter once more, and let out a pair of short chirps that served as a clean bill of health.

“Good.”

Only then did Lion reach into his pocket and draw out Elvia’s obsidian alongside the specialized melting agent he had secured as a complimentary extra.

The reasoning behind his choice of a nocturnal schedule was remarkably straightforward.

“It remains entirely unclear whether ordinary people could withstand that particular sweetness on their own…”

Elvia was never one to waste breath on idle warnings.

In truth, the obsidian possessed an unsettling property: whenever anyone walked within a certain radius, the stone would emit a low, hypnotic hum, as though actively singing out to lure the unwary.