Chapter 64: Those Who Wander in Search of God and Paradise (5)
"Hello? Hmm, nice evening, isn't it?"
"..."
"Hey, can you hear me? Uh… hello? Er… maybe not? Hel-lo? Ah, that's not it either…"
The boy muttered in a puzzled tone. The words themselves were understandable—but the place was all wrong.
Dean thought, What is a human doing here? Then, looking at the boy's face, another question arose: Why does someone with such a face appear in a place like this?
The Azerlisia Mountains were no place for a child. Monsters of threat level 50 and higher roamed freely. Dean himself had barely survived against a pack of Killer Apes earlier.
And yet, here stood a youth. Draped only in a strip of black cloth covering his body from the neck down, his long navy-blue hair spilling to his shoulders. His features—too beautiful, too unworldly—blurred the line of gender. He seemed a boy only because of his voice: slightly husky, just breaking, tinged with a strangely alluring charm.
If not for the foolish small talk, Dean thought, the child's beauty alone could topple nations.
But what Dean felt wasn't admiration. It was fear.
A crushing weight bore down on him, like gravity multiplied. His shoulders screamed, his knees trembled. Without his spear to lean on, he would already be kneeling.
A demon…?
The thought came unbidden. Unreal beauty, a voice that ensnared, suffocating pressure, and appearing here in the mountains without reason… He couldn't be an angel, so what else could he be?
No horns were visible. Perhaps hidden? Dean's grip tightened on his trembling spear.
"Who… are you?"
"Oh? You understand me? You can hear me? Well then… uh, my name's T—" The boy paused, hesitated. "—Tith. Yes, Tith will do."
"Your real name."
Dean caught the stumble. He instantly regretted pressing, but the boy—Tith—only scratched his head, sheepishly, instead of taking offense. Pale fingers slipped through a fold of cloth, brushing against silky navy hair. Dean imagined those fingers pressing into his throat.
So absurdly pretty. Yet the pressure he exuded was terrifying. Facing him was like facing the clan head, Monkyspanner himself.
Dean's thoughts whirled: Am I losing my mind? Or has the world itself gone mad? Either way, this is danger at its peak.
"My real name," the boy said lightly, "I gave you part of it. That's enough. But… why are you staring so hard?"
"I… well… are you an enemy?"
"Hah?"
The question slipped out before Dean could stop it. Foolish—dangerous. His instincts screamed that this youth could snuff him out with a finger, that he stood on par with the clan head. To blurt such a question—if it cost his life, he couldn't complain.
But instead of anger, the boy blinked. "Why ask something like that out of nowhere…? Oh."
His eyes closed briefly—then opened.
In that instant, the crushing aura vanished.
Dean almost fell from shock. Just a blink, and the pressure evaporated like mist, leaving no trace. Grass was untouched. His companions Colton and Rohaim still lay unconscious, unaffected.
So it was only me…
Cold sweat drenched his back. What was this boy?
"Ah, sorry. Forgot I had a skill turned on."
"...A skill? That was a skill?"
"Why? Is there a problem?"
Dean had no answer.
Dean was struck speechless. A true demon… or something even beyond?
Rot's letter flashed in his mind—about the masked demon in the capital, the one said to have killed the clan head. That fiend was estimated at threat level 200 or higher. And now, staring at this boy, the two threads connected. Dean shivered.
That sensation still lingered in his body. He remembered the stampede—beasts and monsters alike fleeing in blind terror. Was this child the source? If so, there was no chance of victory. No matter what he did, the result he imagined was the same: death, swift and meaningless.
Dying didn't scare him. But dying without meaning—that, he could not accept. He still had things to do.
Across from him, "Tith"—Tiamat—sighed inwardly.
Damn, forgot to turn off [Intimidation].
Just minutes ago, after breaking through the endless tunnel and finally stepping outside, Tiamat had been overwhelmed by what he saw.
A night sky, unspoiled by smog or clouds. The last blush of sunset fading crimson into deep navy, stars emerging one by one above the vast mountain ridges. A natural beauty no photograph could capture, far surpassing the artificial skies of Yggdrasil.
He'd stood there stunned, savoring it. Then, remembering to seal the tunnel he had carved, he'd melted the rock with a 9th-tier spell—[Incinerate]. Luckily it worked well, blocking the breach.
After that, he'd considered scouting the surroundings. To his surprise, human voices had reached his sensitive ears. Out here? He'd been told by Monkyspanner that the Azerlisia range was uninhabitable. Yet people were here.
And one of them looked every inch the seasoned adventurer—spear in hand, leather helm and armor, short javelins strapped across his back, pouches and satchels at his belt. A capable fighter, no doubt.
Perfect, Tiamat thought. He could ask for directions. Flying was too crude; this was his first taste of a new world, and he wanted to savor it slowly—like a true novice adventurer. Payment? No problem. His inventory was full of gear, gold, even magic items.
But instead of conversation, he'd been met with hostility. And now he realized why: his aura.
Aura-type skills apply indiscriminately unless you filter for allies.
In Yggdrasil, upper-tier races and classes usually came with passive aura skills that could be toggled on or off. Warriors had [Killing Intent], mages had [Mana Field], special races had their own unique auras.
Dragons carried [Intimidation]. Its effects weren't fancy—just five levels of raw pressure, each stronger than the last. At Tiamat's level, its maximum effect could momentarily stun even peers. Normally, he kept it running at level 1, no drain at all, then surged it to level 5 when ambushing intruders. It was his signature tactic, simple but brutally effective, especially since he was clumsy in martial combat even in human form.
That was why he always kept it on… and why these "fragile locals" had mistaken him for a threat.
Now that it was off, the man's face relaxed. Conversation was possible.
"So… where were you headed? I don't see any roads around here."
"To the dwarves' kingdom."
"The dwarves' kingdom…"
Dwarves. The word instantly brought blacksmiths to mind. In Yggdrasil too, dwarves were the premier craftsmen, their racial bonuses favoring smithing, masonry, and alchemy. If you wanted to specialize in crafting, dwarf was almost mandatory.
There had been dwarves even in the Twelve Heavenly Generals. Did they, too, now possess wills of their own? Tiamat had barely explored the first floor of Shinshi, hardly scratched the surface. If dwarves lived here, perhaps they had ties to the city buried beneath the mountains?
The thought filled him with curiosity.
"Hmm, would you guide me there? I'll pay you."
"Pay us… like that?"
"Oh—my apologies."
In his haste to leave earlier, Tiamat had forgotten he was still cloaked in nothing but a strip of black cloth. With a flicker, the drape vanished—revealing not bare skin, but armor.
It was black leather armor—or so it seemed. But the overlapping scale-like pattern gleaming with metallic sheen looked far closer to a scale mail than any simple hide.
It was the Curse of the Black Dragon, a divine-class item. Its defensive power was immense, granting both high physical resistance and damage reflection against attackers—but at the cost of a powerful curse placed upon the wearer. Most considered it the lowest tier among divine-class gear, yet for a Black Dragon like Tiamat, whose natural resistances shrugged off curses, it was the perfect match.
And that was only the beginning. The bracelets, gloves, and boots on his body—each radiated the aura of artifacts at least legendary, many divine. Some he had bought; others had been left behind when fellow guildmates retired, and had now become his.
Dean, however, knew none of this. All he saw was that beneath that shabby cloth lay a brilliance of equipment he could hardly comprehend. Each piece shone with the weight of power; each item was unmistakably magical.
Dean had long prided himself on his arsenal as the leader of Dragon's Dream, thinking his collection respectable among adventurers. Yet compared to the boy before him, his treasured gear seemed like rags.
By now, he no longer had the strength to even be surprised. Demon, god, transcendent—whatever he is, he's beyond us. We can't fight this. The only way to live is to obey.
"...Fine. I suppose we have no right to refuse. We'll follow you—just let us live. We still have things left to do."
"I never intended to kill you…"
"And regardless, we can't depart yet." Dean gestured at his comrades. Colton and Rohaim still lay unconscious, showing no sign of waking.
Tiamat considered for a moment, then raised both hands.
"[Dual Magic]… [Greater Vigor]… [Great Restoration]."
"Wh—!"
A brilliant divine glow bloomed in each palm, splitting to flow into the prone bodies of the two men. Dean's jaw fell. A demon casting holy magic? And not just any—mythic-level, and double-cast?
"Eh? What was I just doing again?"
"My head feels… clear. The exhaustion's gone, my strength is back… Huh? Uncle Dean, who's this kid?"
"…God above."
The two rose easily to their feet, vigor overflowing. Dean, who thought he had seen everything there was to see, realized he had been wrong.
He had believed there was no room left for shock. That belief was shattered.
This was no demon.
This was a god.
A great demon had appeared in the capital, they'd said—yet here, before their very eyes, a god had descended. Was this chance? Or fate?
Dean closed his eyes in reverence.
His journey was already over. For the god now stood before them.
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