Chapter 164

“Did you see that just now?”

“How could anyone with eyes miss it?”

“To witness something like this without fearing for our lives! What luck. If only we could have watched from a little closer.”

“You'd have died if you had.”

For wizards on their level, Turan and Harun's spar had been nothing more than a modest warm-up. Yet even that was a battle far beyond anything ordinary wizards could imagine.

The stone deflected by the gun had shattered a nearby boulder, scattering fragments in every direction. Knocked back by a bullet, Turan's body had plowed a furrow over a meter deep and dozens of meters long through the earth.

As for the countless shadow tentacles and the two mighty House Heads' hand-to-hand exchanges, the scars they left hardly needed describing. They looked more like the aftermath of a natural disaster, almost as though a meteor had struck.

Of course, some of Parsha's and Ravista's wizards had already witnessed the transcendent power of House Heads during the war against Baraha. But more of those gathered here had never seen it. Some of Parsha's wizards had even loitered near the rocky mountain where Turan trained, hoping to glimpse his abilities, so their awe was all the greater.

“Well fought, Head of Parsha.”

“It was nothing so demanding. Just a light warm-up.”

Osel, who had watched the fight from closer than anyone else, extended a hand. The grazes on Turan's forearms where the bullet had struck healed.

They would have healed in a day or two if left alone, and he could have treated them himself. Nevertheless, Turan deliberately let everyone see Osel healing him, to demonstrate the bond between Parsha and Ravista to House Zahar.

As he healed Turan's forearms, Osel leaned closer and whispered.

“So, how was it?”

“In what sense?”

“Could you win if you fought in earnest?”

“Hard to say. If it turned into a prolonged fight, perhaps...”

Neither had brought out his real weapons in that fight, but Harun had most likely concealed more of his strength. He had not even drawn upon his Alchemist bloodline, let alone his true power as a Night Hunter.

Had he used the ability to turn any substance into poison effective even against nobles, every attack would probably have been far more dangerous. If the arm struck by a bullet or the leg scratched by a shadow tentacle began rotting while Turan was still alive, the damage would have been considerable.

Of course, Turan was not without a countermeasure. The Ravista bloodline he possessed through the Holy Relic included the Purifier bloodline, which could eliminate every kind of disease and poison.

Like the Dominator bloodline, it was an ability that had nearly died out because it was generally considered of little use in battle. Against the Alchemist bloodline, however, it could very well prove a perfect counter.

While Turan and Osel spoke, the nobles of the three houses cautiously took stock of one another, then began mingling in earnest. Not everyone broke formation to mingle, of course. Only a few with considerable say within their houses moved between the groups.

One man approached Turan as well: his grandfather, Talis. With a brazen expression that suggested the earlier slight had not bothered him at all, he brought a woman along behind him.

“Please forgive my discourtesy earlier, Master of Parsha.”

As before, Talis addressed Turan with the utmost deference. Considering how he had lorded it over him at their first meeting—or, more precisely, when Talis had first met Turan—it was a remarkable reversal.

Of course, regardless of his strength, Turan had been merely a local warlord in Kalamap then, while Talis represented Zahar. His attitude had been understandable. The power of official standing was not something one could simply dismiss.

Turan regarded the bowing Talis for a moment, then gave a courteous nod with the same air of superiority as before.

“I can forgive that much. You are my grandfather, after all, not a stranger.”

At first hearing, it might have sounded like a conversation between an affectionate grandfather and grandson. In truth, it was closer to a rebuke, affirming that Talis had indeed been discourteous. Addressing him respectfully here only placed more pressure on him. Receiving such deference from someone who had just faced the Head of Zahar would elevate Talis's standing far too much.

“Is the Head of Zahar well?”

“Yes. He is merely resting from a little fatigue. He is getting on in years, after all...”

Turan had to suppress the laugh that almost escaped at Talis's brazen words. Harun's body was elderly, but unlike Badal's, it was not within a few years of death. Nor was it old enough to warrant such a remark. He had merely drawn upon a god's power.

After a little more of this empty talk, though both knew the truth perfectly well, Talis leaned aside to reveal the woman standing behind him. By commoner standards, she looked somewhere between her mid-to-late twenties and early thirties. Her mana was in the upper-middle tier.

At a glance, it might have seemed that he was playing matchmaker again, but Turan did not frown. Having gathered intelligence about House Zahar through Berit, he had a fair idea who this woman was and why Talis wanted to introduce her.

“This is my daughter, Aril Zahar. She shares a mother with your father... that is, my son Karim.”

“It is an honor to meet you, ruler of the Gray Zone.”

The woman bowed politely, her voice rather low and husky. Turan quietly regarded the aunt he was meeting for the first time, then turned his gaze to Talis.

“A pleasure. But why this sudden introduction?”

“As I told you before, I know little about what sort of person Karim—my son—was. Aril was rather close to him, however, so I brought her in the hope that she could tell you what you wished to hear, my lord.”

In other words, he had assumed Turan would be curious about his father and thought this would serve as a bribe.

True to his reputation as one of the foremost schemers even among gods, he had struck squarely at Turan's desires. Given a choice between a powerful Holy Relic and the chance to meet and speak with his father, Turan would have chosen the latter without hesitation.

His yearning to know what sort of man his father had been, to discover his roots, had been partly satisfied when he traced his mother's past in the Gray Zone. It had never been fully resolved, however. Especially now, when he was conscious of having become a father himself.

Even the intelligence Berit brought contained little about his father. Few people remembered an otherwise unremarkable noble who had been dead for twenty years and whose sole distinction was being Talis's son. Even Reto, who had remembered Karim's face, had known a little more about him only because they had served in the same unit.

After taking a moment to collect his thoughts, Turan nodded.

“That is... welcome news. Then perhaps I could speak with my aunt alone for a while.”

“Your aunt? Please, you need not call me that.”

“But you are my aunt. You said you were my father's sister.”

At Turan's firm reply, Aril Zahar bowed her head deeply rather than protest further.

* * *

“You look younger than I expected.”

“This year marks ninety-five years since my birth. Karim and I were fifteen years apart.”

Their mother had been a commoner-born concubine and had long since died of old age. That was only natural: even if she had borne Aril at twenty, she would already have been over a hundred.

Since Aril was the elder sister, his father would have been exactly eighty if he were still alive. He would have been around sixty when he courted Turan's mother, Bijella.

Considering that his mother had been in her late teens then, the age gap was almost dizzying. Still, they probably would not have looked particularly strange together. A sixty-year-old noble would have looked like an ordinary young man in his twenties, still in his prime.

“So young...”

Listening quietly, Turan murmured without realizing it. His friend Solif was nearing sixty. When he thought about it, the age gap between Solif and Karim was smaller than the one between Solif and himself.

Father and son were sixty years apart, yet they felt as though they belonged to almost the same generation. The world of nobles was often peculiar in all sorts of ways.

'Come to think of it, I suppose my child and I belong to the same generation too.'

Turan and the child Maysa would bear were twenty years apart. That was about the same gap as the one between Asiz and Turan—close enough to be friends.

It almost felt absurd to call the child his heir. By the time Turan died of old age, his firstborn might well be in much the same condition, or might even have died before him...

“May I continue?”

“Ah, please do. I'm listening.”

Aril, who had fallen silent upon seeing him lost in thought, cautiously spoke again. What followed was less remarkable than he had expected.

Karim Zahar had been among the youngest of Talis Zahar's children and had been somewhat marginalized within the house. His innate mana had been weak, and he had possessed no particular talent to distinguish him.

As the son of Talis, one of the house's strongest members, he had been treated as a young master by lower-tier nobles. But his timid disposition had kept him from abusing that position.

Ironically, that had led Zahar nobles of similar standing to ostracize him, on the grounds that he seemed hypocritical. Aril, who shared both his parents, had been about the only person he regularly spent time with.

“Here is his portrait.”

Turan quietly studied the portrait of Karim that Aril had created from ash using the thought-imprinting technique. It depicted a young man with close-cropped black hair and gray eyes.

Though his features were somewhat rougher, he clearly resembled Turan, and naturally Talis as well. Had the three stood side by side, people would probably have taken them for a father and two sons.

One thing he did not share with his father and son, however, was his sturdy build. Broad-shouldered and big-boned, he was closer in physique to Turan's great-uncle Harun.

If only Turan had inherited that build, he could have enjoyed more of an advantage in hand-to-hand combat. He clicked his tongue inwardly in regret.

Aril went on recounting stories she knew about Karim. There was the time he had secretly spirited away a commoner who was to be executed for damaging a noble's property, only to be discovered and punished. Or the time he had gone easy on a child who was to be whipped for unknowingly bathing in an oasis, and had been reprimanded himself...

After listening quietly, Turan voiced his honest impression.

“Father's nature seems to have cost him dearly in many ways.”

“He was far too softhearted for a Zahar noble. It was difficult to tell because he looked cold when he kept quiet, but he was gentle and sensitive. Sometimes I even saw him crying alone.”

It must have taken considerable courage to tell the head of a great house that his father had been the sort to snivel in a corner in secret. Yet Aril's expression barely changed as she spoke.

That did not mean she was lying. Throughout their conversation, Turan had kept his newly learned Eyes of Truth active, checking whether her words were true.

As they spoke, he could imagine how his father and mother had become involved and grown close: a cheerful captive girl who found something positive even in being taken prisoner by the enemy, and a large, taciturn young man with a tender heart, gradually changing from conqueror and spoil of war into lovers...

Naturally, following that train of thought inevitably brought him to the one responsible for driving their relationship to ruin.

“Aunt.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“How did my father die? I heard that he lost his life during the war.”

Aril's eyes widened slightly, but she showed no great agitation. She must have considered the question inevitable. Turan had already heard from Talis that his father was dead.

“I do not know the details myself. Karim served in a different unit from me during the war... But I heard that he died from an Arabion noble's magic. I saw the wounds before his funeral as well.”

Since it was not a lie, Aril herself must have believed it to be true. In other words, she had not been involved in his father's death.

Combined with Talis's earlier remark about disposing of his father, that gave Turan a fair idea of what had happened. He had probably been incapacitated and thrown before an Arabion noble, or killed first and then marked with lightning magic.

When the conversation ended, Talis came to fetch Aril and bowed deeply to Turan.

“Well, did you find the conversation satisfactory?”

“Of course, Grandfather. It was so vivid, I felt as though I had spoken with my father myself. Thank you.”

“Your pleasure gives me even greater pleasure, Head of Parsha. Though we could not spend your childhood together, I hope we may continue to grow closer as grandfather and grandson.”

Without abandoning his deference, Talis tried to play the grandfather. Turan answered that revolting display with a smile as rigid as an iron mask.

'He really is something. Judging by appearances, anyone would think he was full of goodwill toward me...'

Somehow, Talis even gave off an emotional scent that suggested he was delighted to have met Turan. He had gone beyond perfectly controlling his emotions to keep them from showing in his scent, and reached the point of feigning false emotions. Acting like that truly deserved to be called godlike.

Had Harun not told him during their earlier conversation that Talis and the other gods of Zahar had wanted to kill him to eliminate the threat, Turan might have mistakenly believed the man felt a shred of affection for him.

Hadn't Harun even said that the recent joint attack by Karmine and Ruban had come about through Talis's mediation? Considering how much damage Turan would have suffered had he failed to respond properly, Talis was brazenly smiling at someone he had just failed to stab in secret. Even calling him shameless was too generous.

'I'll kill you myself. Someday.'

Keeping his smile in place, Turan had to struggle to control his emotions, lest the razor-sharp killing intent he honed within him escape in his scent.

* * *

After a night's rest, Turan resumed the talks with Harun, who had recovered some of his energy. This time, rather than speaking privately as before, they held the discussion where all the other nobles could hear.

The subject, naturally, was what to do about Berit. She had originally been sent to become the Head of Parsha's partner, only to suddenly go to the Head of Baraha instead. Turan remained thoroughly unabashed about the matter.

“She will still stand beside the master of a great house, will she not? They suit each other well. And Baraha was already close to Zahar. Surely this is something to celebrate.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

Though their exchange was decidedly frosty, Turan and Harun's argument was effectively staged. Just like the war between Arabion and Zahar decades ago.

Osel added the occasional offhand remark. Amusingly, this resulted in Solif being cast as a lecher who had seduced his friend's woman. Turan stole several glances at his masked friend, still disguised as a servant, and struggled not to laugh.

After several rounds of public argument, the conclusion proved rather anticlimactic: Turan would act as Berit's godfather on Zahar's behalf and pay her dowry to Baraha.

With the Head of Parsha becoming guardian to Berit, daughter of Zahar's next House Head, Zahar could strengthen the bond between the two houses as it had originally intended. Meanwhile, Turan could settle the price of disregarding House Zahar and acting on his own authority with a verbal commitment.

Of course, becoming guardian to a second cousin several years his senior was rather embarrassing, but it was only a formality.

Once everything had been discussed and the meeting of the three great houses finally adjourned, everyone began packing up. The hastily erected tents and meeting hall vanished in no time, leaving bare wilderness where a village's worth of structures had stood.

“Well then, I shall be on my way.”

“I wish you a safe journey.”

Turan bowed his head slightly to Harun, who waved in farewell.

An old man who had slaughtered hundreds of thousands to bring about his birth. It was hardly surprising, considering that before becoming a god, in the world of the game, he had habitually said the poor should be thrown into gas chambers—earning him the nickname Nazi.

Yet he was also someone who had cherished love for thousands of years for a god presumed to have been Turan's past self. Turan had not yet decided how to treat him, but at the very least, he ought to repay the goodwill shown to him with goodwill. That was the morality of the Golden Rule his mother had taught him since childhood.

As Turan approached for a final handshake, Harun asked in a near whisper.

“So, have you made any progress with what I taught you?”

“Yes. It helped.”

“I'm glad. As I told you before, don't be too hasty. You are still young, with plenty of time. Badal's body, on the other hand, has little time left, and apart from Maysa, there are no suitable candidates. Of course... it has been so long since I last saw that one that I don't know what situation he is in.”

The person Harun mentioned with a faint frown was, naturally, the Biologist, the true leader of the Arabion–Nagin forces.

When Turan had expressed his desire to strike at the man behind Maysa's abuse, Harun had advised him, just as he had now, not to rush and to take his time. He had also warned that security within House Nagin was so tight that even he had been unable to learn what went on inside.

“One final word: be happy. Life has meaning not merely because you live it, but because you find happiness in it. If you lose sight of happiness because revenge has blinded you, you would be better off never seeking it at all.”

He wore the expression of someone looking at a person he dearly missed. Turan knew instinctively that he was not the one Harun was addressing.

Having left those final words for the one he loved, Harun climbed aboard a huge camel-drawn wagon and disappeared from view.