Chapter 141

"—The basilisk's fourth incapacitation is about to wear off! Finish your attacks and pull back!"

Verte didn't stop advancing despite the announcer's warning.

The only thing reflected in his bloodshot eyes was the mana sphere writhing above his outstretched hand.

My condition. The opportunities left. The momentum to seize everyone's attention…. Factoring all of that in, right now is when I get the best return.

Four rounds of combat had given him all the timing he needed to strike and retreat.

He had room to gather a little more mana. Still.

"Verte—! Stop! You need to pull out before it's too dangerous!"

The shout from behind jabbed at his ears. But nothing could arrest his moving feet.

The only things worth looking at were the goal he carried and the judgment he trusted.

Verte kept his eyes locked forward and pressed on, step after step.

FZZT. CRACKLE.

The mana sphere above his palm blazed with blinding light. Sharp sparks leapt across its blue surface.

Five seconds…!

Verte pulled the corner of his mouth taut. He measured the force his spell would unleash, calculated the points it would earn, and pictured every eye in the cavern fixed on him.

Three.

Ragged breaths hissed through his clenched teeth. Verte broke into a triumphant grin and took one more step.

One.

KA-BOOM!

The mana sphere ripping from his fingertips hammered into the basilisk's body. Verte stared at the deep wound his strike had carved and let a flicker of exhilaration light his eyes.

Good. Exactly as planned.

He sprang backward and gathered mana at his fingertips again. Even the retreat would become an opportunity to attack. The window was identical to the one he'd just exploited.

Five seconds…!

He seized the perfect timing in the narrow gap.

The point gap will shrink again.

Three.

Every nerve in his body stood on end as he sidestepped danger by instinct alone and fell back another pace. Left, just as predicted. Every beat fell into place. One last step.

One.

WHOOSH—

…Out of nowhere.

Wind tore across Verte's vision, and something black lunged forward half a step ahead of him.

KA-BOOM!

It happened in a flash. The mana sphere crystallized at Verte's fingertips shattered into fragments and scattered.

Verte stared at the scene that had transformed in an instant, a blank question echoing through his skull.

How… why.

He blinked, unable to comprehend.

Noen's face—drained white—swam into his upside-down field of vision.

"Verte!"

It was only a beat later that Verte realized his body was sailing through the air, and that the thread of blood spilling from his mouth was tracing a crimson arc as it scattered.

"!"

Screams erupted from every direction. Verte hurtled helplessly into the wall, struck it, and slid toward the ground.

"Gah—hack…!"

Noen and the research institute's members sprinted toward him. They dropped to their knees before his unconscious form and pulled him into their arms.

"Verte! Stay with me! Verte!"

"The blood… there's too much blood. What if—what if Verte dies? Noen, what do we do?!"

Someone fired off emergency signal flares in rapid succession. Someone else searched desperately for help through a blur of tears.

Frantic footsteps threaded into the crowd heavy with choked sobs.

The ones approaching the research institute's members were the organizers' medical unit.

"Medical team supervisor. Step aside."

The stern-faced supervisor pushed through the gathered crowd and examined Verte. His gaze dropped to the fingertips stained an ugly black, and his expression darkened.

"…This is."

He deduced that Verte's mana network had sustained severe damage, then drew a deep sigh and pulled his eyes away. He turned to the medical staff positioned behind him and spoke.

"Get him outside and begin treatment. Tell them authorization is granted for whatever medicines or equipment are needed."

"Yes, sir."

The medical team began transferring Verte's limp body onto a stretcher.

The supervisor surveyed the research institute's members and spoke.

"It'd be best if one or two of you went along as his escorts. Any volunteers?"

"I'll go."

Noen answered without a shred of hesitation and stepped forward.

But something seemed to strike him mid-stride. He turned back to face his teammates.

THOOM—!

Behind them, the battle against the basilisk raged on—yet the research institute's members huddled around Verte showed no will to fight whatsoever.

"Hk… hhhk. Hrrghh."

"Verte… you're gonna be okay. Right?"

Every last one of them had tears streaming down their faces, heads bowed low or murmuring endlessly at Verte's motionless form.

"……"

Noen swept his gaze slowly across his teammates, then looked down at the hand wearing the magic tool.

His pupils locked onto the score etched on the display.

None of this… matters anymore.

Noen clenched his fist. He glanced once at Verte, then addressed the supervisor.

"I hope you'll forgive the presumption, but…."

Noen swallowed a deep breath and paused. The supervisor watched him without a word of hurry.

"Our institute… would like to forfeit and withdraw alongside Verte."

The weight of the declaration was enormous, but the supervisor offered Noen neither advice nor objection.

He simply asked one thing in a level voice.

"Are you sure you won't regret it?"

"…Yes."

Noen gave a stiff nod. The supervisor returned it with a nod of his own, then signaled to the butterfly-shaped broadcaster fluttering nearby.

Whirrrr—

The device responded to the summons and drifted toward the supervisor. He drew a heavy breath and spoke into the transmitter.

"Announcement to all factions. The magic research institute has officially forfeited all activities effective immediately. Repeating—"

---

What did I just see?

A cold draft raked through Mikhail's hair. He stood rooted in place, listening to the announcement of the research institute's withdrawal, and curled the fingers dangling at his side into a fist.

Just now—the basilisk's movement was….

Mikhail pressed down the pulse hammering through his chest and rewound the scene. The murmuring voices around him seeped into his dazed awareness like evening rain pattering against a window.

"What the hell, the research institute guys just forfeited out of nowhere? They had second place and they're throwing it away? Don't they care about the points?"

"Verte did charge in way too recklessly…. I mean, they literally announced the withdrawal warning. Why would he do something that stupid?"

Mikhail shook his head as if answering the chatter nearby, and swallowed hard.

No. Verte's calculations were flawless. Reckless, sure—but under normal circumstances, he would've pulled back without a scratch. …So why was the basilisk's reaction a full beat faster than it should have been?

The question sank its hooks into his mind and refused to let go. Mikhail wet his dry lips with the tip of his tongue and turned his head in a slow sweep of his surroundings.

Did I miss a shift in the main storyline?

The second arc's central event.

With the basilisk's rampage fast approaching, the telltale signs of the anomaly described in the storyline should be visible from where he stood.

First.

Mikhail shifted his gaze to the right edge.

Hssss….

Across the surface of a mana stone that jutted up like a small piece of coral, a faint golden shimmer flickered and vanished.

The encroachment is spreading inward from the edges, just as expected.

Mikhail looked down at his feet.

Irregular tremors pulsed through the floor.

Thump… thump….

The anomaly's influence must have been scrambling the basilisk's sensory organs, causing its tail to thrash erratically in every direction.

Same as what I know.

Mikhail pulled his awareness from the vibrations and raised his head to face forward again.

While each faction pressed on through round after round of combat, the basilisk had failed to breach its opponents' defenses and lay with its head resting against the floor.

THOOM—!

Mikhail watched the beast slumped on its side and Ethan's group charging toward it, then extended his arm and gathered mana at his fingertips.

Last one. Third.

His gaze fixed on the lime-green eyes set in the basilisk's face.

Its eyes should be different from before, too.

For now, the pupils were hazy and unfocused—but any moment, a golden shimmer would begin to ripple across the corneas.

The basilisk's corneas are organs that reflect the mana inside its body. So the golden glow I'm expecting should be—

That was when it happened.

Mikhail went rigid mid-observation.

What shimmered across the basilisk's lime-green eyes wasn't the gold he'd taken for granted—but a color that had no business being there.

Wh… what?

The realization struck like a blunt blow to the skull. Mikhail felt the blood in his veins turn to ice and let the hand he'd stretched forward drop to his side.

---

The commotion from Verte's reckless charge had barely settled.

Ethan finished his assault on the incapacitated basilisk and returned to his position as instructed.

The window for attack had closed. Now it was the defense unit's turn to step forward.

"Whoa—!"

Dian yelped as his boots hit the ground. Ethan reached out with practiced ease and caught him by the collar.

"Watch your step, Dian."

Ethan spoke calmly and turned his head—only to find Dian dangling from his grip at a precarious angle, half a second from face-planting. Dian scratched his cheek sheepishly.

"Heh."

Ethan let a laugh slip, released Dian's collar, and started back toward his position—stealing a glance at the basilisk behind him as he moved.

Grrrrr….

Wounds covering every inch of its body. Ragged, uneven breathing.

Movements noticeably more sluggish than when the fight began.

The basilisk was far from whole. One or two more rounds, and it would collapse from sheer exhaustion.

And after that… this long campaign finally ends.

Ethan pulled his eyes from the basilisk and moved forward.

What entered his line of sight was his group positioned at the rear of the formation.

"……"

Mikhail was scanning the battlefield in broad sweeps.

The same way he always did—rather than sizing things up from a single angle, he studied every surface of the situation to piece together the full picture.

You know something again, don't you.

A twist of discomfort coiled through his gut. Ethan stopped walking and stared at Mikhail. A span of time that should have lasted only a moment stretched out like frozen, barren tundra.

Layered over his view of the person before him, a scene from the approach to the Cave of Contemplation surfaced like a transparency placed over glass.

The memory of the first time he'd traced back the source of the turmoil that kept sinking his chest every time he faced Mikhail.

I wanted the peace to just keep going.

No sharp friction, no anxiety or restlessness. A calm where he could simply move toward the moments he wished for.

His past self had believed he truly wanted that.

That's why the friction with Mikhail got under my skin so badly. Once I saw it that way, everything made sense.

The source of the unsteadiness he'd been feeling.

He'd blamed himself—convinced the fault was his—and taken responsibility for every unsolicited offer to help, every insistence on tagging along.

Right. Stop creating situations where I clash with Mikhail. Read the moment better before making suggestions, and don't insert myself where I'm not needed. If I do that, then surely—

That was why he'd resolved to extend the olive branch first.

Because he'd believed that if the friction disappeared, things would settle back into that peaceful state.

Back then, I thought that was the right answer.

Ethan tightened his grip on the sword. Like a wolf lifting its head beneath a moonlit sky, he stared up at those dark-blue eyes that had always hovered above him and let a breath fall.

"Hah."

The exhale that rose from the depths of his lungs—no, perhaps from the depths of his heart—was as cold as frost.

What I really wanted wasn't to trail behind you and avoid conflict. It was to stand beside you—to be recognized as an equal, as a true partner. That's why, deep down, I kept expecting the moment would come naturally. The moment you'd pull me into your plans and let me walk with you.

But the hope curled tight in his chest had been snapped short, time and again. All he'd ever been met with was a turned back.

Ethan. You need to hold your original position.

No. I can handle this area on my own. There's no need to fold my zone into your defensive route.

The disappointment and frustration that had piled up in silence beneath dark shade blazed into sharp relief the instant sunlight touched them—vivid as shattered glass.

Ethan bit the inside of his lip. The moments rushed back in a chain: the surge of indignation at Mikhail's actions just earlier, and the instant he'd failed to contain it and let the crack show.

Don't tense up too much. This won't be that hard.

……

I'm heading back. Hold the front for me.

Ever since he'd felt—truly felt—that Mikhail didn't need him. Ever since he'd recognized that Mikhail had never seen him as standing on the same level. He hadn't been able to treat him the way he used to.

Encouragement he would have accepted with an easy smile on any other day. Advice. Simple exchanges. All of it had twisted something raw inside him.

Even answering yeah had taken everything he had.

"……"

Ethan closed his eyes and drew a long breath. He accepted it now.

Even if it meant friction. Even if it meant fighting. What he wanted was to have his abilities understood, his worth acknowledged—and to stand at Mikhail's side because he'd earned it.

Is what I want too much to ask? …No. It's not. I've been helping everyone with what I can do, and they've recognized me for it.

Ethan lifted the eyelids he'd sealed shut and looked at Mikhail through a gaze weighted with everything he'd pressed down.

Why did you only ever turn your back on me? In the world you see, how did I look to you? Should I have given you more proof that I could protect you? An oath, a contract—something tangible to make my case? Worn my confidence on my sleeve? …No. That's not what matters, and you'd know that better than anyone.

Right. If this was never my failing to begin with—

Then maybe… you've been underestimating me.

The long chain of thought ended on a single question. Ethan pulled his gaze from Mikhail and turned his head toward where the basilisk lay.

The defense unit's turn had ended, and the attack unit's rotation was coming around again.

Ethan confirmed the basilisk's body sprawled across the floor, then launched himself forward like a hawk off the branch.

TAP!

The instant he landed on the beast's torso—where ash-gray scales jutted up like plates of heavy armor—he swung his sword.

The keen blade carved through the creature's hide like paper and left a deep gash in its wake.

Ethan kicked off the basilisk's body and flung himself backward just before it could shift into a defensive posture, touching down in the formation once more.

Fweeee—

A whistle cut through the air from the side. Lloyd.

"Hey, Ethan. You're feeling it now, huh? The way you read where to land a killing blow, the way you boxed out the other factions—that's no amateur work."

"Same here. You seemed a little off lately, and I was worried—but now I'm thinking that was wasted concern."

Lloyd sauntered up with a broad grin and clapped him on the shoulder. Nearby, Albin pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and chimed in.

But Ethan didn't respond to any of them. He lowered his head and stared at the ground beneath his feet.

What clung to the soles of his boots like a vivid imprint was the sensation from the moment he'd stood shoulder to shoulder with Mikhail on the same line.

The instant he'd risen from watching that distant back to actually standing level with it—the emotion that had welled up in his chest was a satisfaction nothing else could match.

"……"

Ethan replayed the voice that surfaced as crisply as a leaf pressed between the pages of a book.

Nice attack. Ethan.

Mikhail. I thought that if I just respected your plans, your judgment, your way of thinking… everything would settle into perfect peace. Maybe even myself…. But no.

Longing for something you'd never reached was admiration. But wanting to hold again what you'd touched once—that was desire.

Ethan squeezed the sword in his hand until his knuckles ached, watched Mikhail standing on the far side of the formation for one long moment, then turned away.

Look at me. Really look.

The last glimpse he caught was of Mikhail lowering the hand he'd stretched forward.

"……"

As though Ethan's strike had stolen whatever it was he'd been about to do.