Chapter 153

The sun had set. The darkened sky swallowed the storm clouds blanketing the atmosphere whole and poured down rain without emotion.

Patter. Tap-tap.

Inside the makeshift command post erected near the Cave of Contemplation's entrance.

Germain Lowell sat at the head of the long table and addressed the investigator who'd just returned from surveying the scene.

"Are we certain the students aren't anywhere on the plains?"

"Yes, sir. There are no signs of movement toward the plains, no reason either of them would have hidden their trail, and one uniform from the support unit heading into the cave has gone missing. Given the circumstances… it appears both individuals are inside the cave."

Germain's expression hardened and a pained groan escaped him. Almost on cue, a low rumble rolled out from the direction of the cave.

A growl like a predator pressed flat against the ground. Germain rubbed his throbbing forehead and turned to another investigator.

"What's the state of the cave?"

"Still shaking. No signs of settling down anytime soon, either. The one piece of good news is that the composition of the bedrock and the cave's overall structure make a full collapse all the way to the interior unlikely."

"And the mana we're sending from this end still isn't reaching them?"

"Correct. It seems to penetrate as far as the area near the entrance, but beyond that, there's still no response."

Germain held the silence for a while. Then his eyes narrowed and he brought his interlaced fingers to his lips.

"One question. In the current situation, is it safe to say there's no way for those inside the cave to escape on their own?"

"Yes."

The aide's answer came soft but without a shred of hesitation. After a brief pause, he added:

"I wouldn't even count on a miracle. The activation circuit on the carriage carrying the mana replenishment source, the teleportation circle at the far end of the cave—all of it was built on the framework and arrangement of ancient formulas."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

"……"

Germain's face sank into deepening shadow as a low, agonized sound hummed from beneath it.

He murmured, barely above a whisper.

"I see. If every other option is off the table, then perhaps a direct breach could—"

FLASH!

A blinding light erupted from outside the tent. Germain was still wondering if lightning had struck when frantic murmuring and hurried footsteps closed in fast.

Swoosh!

The flap was thrown open. The person who appeared wore an expression of open shock, stumbling over their words.

"G-Guild Master Germain, sir. You need to come outside!"

"What happened?"

"Out—outside, one of the missing students is—!"

"Let's go."

Germain rose from his seat without a beat of delay and headed for the exit. The personnel seated around the table followed close behind.

Shaaaaaaa—

"—Get more towels and thermal packs over here! Mana stabilizers too! Move!"

On the rain-battered plain, shrouded in darkness.

Germain stared at the young man collapsed on the ground—a figure he recognized—and murmured blankly.

"Verte… Fischer."

Germain pulled back the hand he'd been reaching out and clenched it shut. He pushed through the buzzing crowd and came to stand at Verte's side.

"Cough."

Propped up by the medical team, Verte's face was drained to a deathly blue as he retched blood in violent, heaving spurts.

His fingertips, resting against the damp ground, had turned a dead, blackened color—like the bark of a withered tree.

"How did this…"

Even a glance was enough to tell the injuries were severe. Germain couldn't hold back the groan that climbed his throat.

"……"

Verte's eyes shifted with an agonizing, grinding effort until they found Germain's. Germain dropped to one knee and leaned toward him.

"Fischer. Can you hear me? Even a few details would help—tell me what happened. How did you end up like this…?"

"The inside… is collapsing… badly."

Verte's breathing came in wheezing, irregular gasps, but his mouth kept moving—dragging the words out piece by piece. He glanced toward the cave, and a look of raw pain twisted across his face.

"……"

The silence stretched for a moment. Then Verte forced strength into his shaking voice and pushed out the remaining syllables.

"But… Senit is… still inside."

"!"

Patter-patter. The falling rain sounded unnervingly sharp. The instant Germain's eyes blew wide and his head snapped toward the cave—

KA-RUMMMBLE—!

The roar that followed was louder than anything they'd heard all night.

The grinding shriek of solid rock warping and twisting, carving massive shockwaves into the air.

No sound like that could exist unless something enormous was caving in.

"……"

Germain exhaled a parched breath into the rain.

Something was fracturing inside his head. A tide of dread crashed over his consciousness and began soaking through.

---

The damp darkness had settled over the plains. Lloyd Cloelle stood among the murmuring crowd, staring past the curtain of rain.

"My god. Two people go missing and only Verte comes back…. What the hell is going on?"

"Did you see Verte's condition? Coughing up blood, looking half dead. Did he run into another monster in there?"

Confused voices offered their theories, but none of them warranted attention.

Lloyd let a noncommittal hum trail off and tilted his head.

Rainwater streamed along his brow and blurred his vision, but he had no desire to wipe it away.

Showing mercy to the defeated after settling the score…. Sure. That's the kind of grace befitting a guardian. Compassionate and noble. A shining example for troubled times. But.

KA-RUMMMBLE—!

A massive boom shook the air. Every voice that had been trading anxious words cut off at once, silenced by the sheer scale of it.

"Wh-what. What was that? That sound just now?"

"Look. I've got goosebumps. …Is that whole cave seriously coming down?"

Beneath the oppressive silence that pressed down over them all, Lloyd's eyes—exhaling nothing but cold, measured breaths—narrowed to slits.

In the most extreme moment… were you nothing more than a reckless idealist?

Lloyd's brow furrowed and his teeth sank into his lip. But almost immediately, the tension drained from his face, and he draped the same easy composure he always wore back over his features.

The gears inside his head—seized up as though something had caught in them—began to turn again, same as before.

"—G-Guild Master Germain? Where are you going?!"

Absorbing new information. Reassessing the value of the subject. Estimating their remaining relevance. Adjusting their position accordingly.

"—The cave?! Please, stop! You can't afford to act recklessly, sir!"

That kind of calculation was something he'd done plenty of times before—

FLASH!

It happened then. Beneath a night sky where fat raindrops fell with mechanical regularity, a burst of light cracked across the darkness like a bolt of lightning.

Shaaaaaaa—

The roar of rain swallowed every ear. But what seized the crowd's attention came from another direction entirely.

The stretch of plain beside the cave entrance.

A teleportation circle was etching its vivid blue outline across the ground—and there, materialized in a single instant, sat the carriage carrying the mana replenishment source.

"Don't tell me… someone actually escaped the cave on their own?"

"That's impossible. The teleportation circle's activation method, the carriage's transit circuit—nobody relayed any of that information."

Lloyd left the scattered murmurs behind and walked forward in silence.

Thud.

Beneath the relentless downpour. From behind the carriage—many times larger than the boy himself—a figure emerged, swaying on unsteady legs.

Lloyd looked at the figure standing there, pale as ash, every last drop of strength wrung from his body, and spoke in an even voice.

"Mikhail."

Mikhail's eyes found Lloyd's at the sound of his name, but his lips didn't move. Lloyd faced the figure across from him and wordlessly extended his arm. Mikhail's eyelids—blinking with a dull, mechanical rhythm—drifted shut, and his rigid torso tilted forward.

Thump.

Lloyd caught Mikhail's unconscious body with both arms and held him upright.

"……"

The ceaseless sound of rain was like a chain of thoughts linked end to end, one flowing into the next without rest.

Lloyd gazed into the empty air—dark as a winter night—then lowered his eyes.

The boy draped across his arms had gone completely limp, every ounce of strength drained from his body. But the steady rhythm of his breathing continued.

"Hah."

Lloyd looked at Mikhail's hair, soaked through with rain and hanging over his shoulder.

The same color as Joseph Senit—the lord of the North and the anomaly who interpreted the past.

"……"

Lloyd took in the sight resting across his arms and listened to the voice echoing inside his mind.

[—Lord Cloelle. This is beyond comprehension!]

[Appointing Joseph Senit as the North's custodian? …I implore you to reconsider. If this stands, the system we've spent so long fortifying will crumble. Please—do not shake the foundations of governance.]

[The North is barren and frozen. It produces nothing of value; strife is the only thing that flourishes there. With uncertainty already growing by the day… there is no reason to fracture the established order for the sake of a borderland.]

Behind those bitter, resentful protests—from beyond the heavy curtain drawn across the chamber—a voice had drifted out, low and quiet.

Not the head of the Cloelle family.

His father's voice.

[…They could never grasp its worth.]

[What sleeps there is our root. Our ancient glory.]

Lloyd tightened his grip around Mikhail.

His father's voice, barely audible beneath that quiet laugh, resurfaced like mist and filled Lloyd's thoughts.

---

"Ah…"

How much time had passed?

His shoulders were heavy, his eyes gritty. Mikhail let a thin groan escape and pried his eyelids open.

Dim light seeped through the narrow gap of his waking vision, and the smell that reached his nose was dry—slightly stale.

"Where…"

Mikhail raised his head and surveyed his surroundings. What filled his gaze was a place both unfamiliar and familiar at once.

Southwestern Seoul, South Korea.

An empty office with no one inside.

The desks lined up in neat rows were tidied and bare. The curtains by the window billowed and sank in the faint breeze, over and over.

"……"

Mikhail let his wandering gaze drop. What met his downward eyes were sights he knew well.

The notebook he'd used when drafting the settings for the game, Tales Chronicle—and fingertips calloused from years of use.

A hollow laugh slipped through his lips. Judging by the scene around him, the person he was right now couldn't be Mikhail Senit—the North's heir and its notorious problem child.

If anything, he was—

Click.

"—Yo, Hansol! You in here?"

Hansol turned toward the voice that had barged through the door.

A familiar middle-aged figure, head swiveling as he scanned the room.

The team leader's face lit up the instant he locked eyes with Hansol hunched over his desk. His stubble-ringed mouth pulled into a broad grin, and he strode over in long, brisk steps.

"……"

Hansol stared up at the team leader standing before him without a word.