317. The War of the Puppets (14)
Click, click. The horse, though terrified, struggled to walk along the road. Even a sane person would feel chills and freeze at such a sight, let alone a timid horse.
All the people of this city. No, everything that moves are the specters of a thousand years ago. They are old, decayed remains. Even the horse Lavirata is riding now. Lavirata’s horse walked as gracefully as its owner.
[How is it?]
“Beautiful.”
[Hehe, right? I think so too.]
Lavirata looked around the road as she spoke. The people were engrossed in their livelihoods, children ran around energetically. The elderly basked in the sun while watching the scene, and merchants laughed and chattered as they exchanged old coins and worn fabrics.
It’s all an illusion. A puppet show that has been repeated for a thousand years and will continue to repeat forever. They know it too, yet they willingly entomb themselves in the same day.
Because the human spirit is more fragile than time.
Because they want to survive.
Even the dead corpses deceive themselves with just one desire—to live.
-Is the painting in the masterpiece merely a poor imitation of reality?
In Mumto’s illusion, even after realizing it was a fantasy, Fernandez couldn’t easily shake it off. The artisan’s canvas, every moment where its texture flows alive, is not just a lowly imitation of reality. Now he knows.
He watched the children playing and running, then closed his eyes.
Tiny souls without vocal cords, unable to convey voices through magic. Though no sound could be heard, it seemed as if pure laughter echoed beneath their dry skulls.
[Is it hard to watch?]
“It wasn’t their fault.”
[It wasn’t anyone’s fault.]
Lavirata slowed her horse’s pace to match Fernandez’s stride. She gestured slowly into the air and said,
[Do you remember what I told you? Humans inevitably move toward death, but that doesn’t define them as beings who live to die.]
“True.”
[It is from that realization that Asit’s vision begins. See?]
At her words, Fernandez opened his eyes. A clear sky and a green meadow had unfolded before him. It was an intricate illusion magic, completed in an instant.
“The priests of Asit. Those old men called Burial Priests didn’t just raise corpses for immortal labor.”
Beside him stood a beauty with long, black hair flowing like ebony. Her pale skin and enchanting eyes smiled softly at Fernandez.
“Have you ever seen the Burial Priests’ temple? They paint at the entrance of their temple. Remember us. We are…”
“Your future.”
“Oh, you’ve seen it? In which city’s ruins?”
“Altarak. In the underground ruins of Mahras.”
It felt like a story from long ago. Before the threat of the Conclave arose, when this wilderness was still a wasteland. A tale from before the 50-year war ended.
In the ruins of Altarak buried beneath the peaceful oasis city, Fernandez had seen such inscriptions.
“Must have been quite a large ruin. Right. The priests studied the dead to remember. That was… the highest form of respect. A way to honor eternal life, immortal souls. Our necromancy values the essence of life the remains held more than the corpses themselves.”
-Kugugugung!
As Lavirata gestured, a complex knot of magic energy wove through the air. Even knowing it was all an illusion, Fernandez carefully observed her gestures and magic patterns.
“Those created in this way are not mere imitations of reality. They are respected warriors, people, life itself. Therefore, I do not pity myself or my people, Fernandez.”
Lavirata smiled softly as she looked at him. At her gesture, the ground shook, and the meadow split open. From within, warriors clad in shining steel armor rose one by one.
Such scenes unfolded everywhere in sight. Dozens, hundreds… no, thousands of soldiers, each different in height and appearance, slowly rose from their places.
They raised their gleaming spear blades under the sunlight and, in unison, knelt on one knee and shouted.
-May the sun be eternal!!
“In our ancient myths, the sun is born at the eastern edge and dies at the western edge. Like humans, it grows old, sick, and fades. But the last light of the sunset hints at the dawn that will rise tomorrow. That is life—”
-May the light be eternal!
“We, the specters, walk between. We are eternalized in time, living forever in the day, not the night. Like the most brilliant noon sun, we strive to eternally honor the most glorious moments of the dead.”
So, do not pity us. Lavirata smiled as brilliantly as the noon sun, just as she said.
“Do not pity us for repeating meaningless actions like fools. That was our life. Instead, you should revere the dazzling moments we cherished through that long time.”
“My thoughts were short. I’m sorry.”
“Well…”
-Clap!
Lavirata smiled and clapped her hands. Soon, a rough wind brushed past Fernandez’s face. When he closed and opened his eyes, the cityscape was before him again.
The specter sovereign wearing a golden mask, Lavirata, spoke from beneath her mask.
[Our current form was made to remain as Mumto’s puppets, so even if you pity us, how could we blame you? In fact, you can dismiss it as a long excuse.]
Let’s go. The space is cramped. Lavirata clicked her tongue and led the horse out of the road.
* * *
“Show me once more.”
[Hehe, even for you, it would be difficult, no? Asit’s vision is as long and intricate as its history. Fine. I will impart my wisdom to you as much as you desire.]
Lavirata gestured again, weaving magic into the air. Fernandez silently watched the entire scene.
Three times. This was the third time Lavirata demonstrated ‘Raising Specters.’ First ten people, then fifteen, then twenty-two. As Fernandez requested, she increased the number each time, diligently constructing the magic.
In front of them stood forty-seven silent, awakened wraiths clad in rusted armor, lined up in perfect formation.
– “The outer three variables are conditional clauses. This is quite a clever move.”
– “The overlapping geometric patterns in the inner clause resemble the schematic of Asit hieroglyphs. Five characters were unnecessarily overlapped, making it overly complicated.”
– “It seems like it’s to increase the mana consumption efficiency of the knot… Well, there’s still room for improvement. Why not try rewriting the text in modern Imperial language?”
– “The higher the infringement rate of the original text, the more variables it could introduce to the distortion of the underground magic stone veins. Not a good idea.”
– “Tsk, rote memorization is no fun. This era lacks romance. Young mages these days are the problem. They try to memorize magic without understanding it.”
– “Should we take a moment to remember that you and I are the same age?”
– “Really? Oh… I had no idea, Fernandez. I thought you were some twenty-year-old milk-drinking brat.”
– “First of all, twenty is the age when you stop drinking milk. Are you getting soul-dementia in your old spirit form?”
– “Hahaha! Got me there! Talking back to a kid like that!”
– “Ah… If only you had a body, I would’ve smacked you a few times.”
The two scholars, who had been analyzing Lavirata’s mana, began to bicker. Faijashi chuckled darkly at Fernandez’s words.
– “You should be grateful I don’t have a body, Fernandez. Always… always. If I had a body, you’d have been destined to be my test subject.”
– “Enough talk.”
Fernandez didn’t want to argue further. He had nothing more to say. If Faijashi’s true self had been here, he wouldn’t have had to worry about this.
Fernandez shook his head and pointed his finger toward Lavirata.
– “I’ll take it from here.”
– [Isn’t it too soon? I can show you more if needed.]
– “It’s enough.”
The way he gestured and the angle of his arms were entirely different from modern magic. This was less like magic and more like an ancient ritual with a long history.
A plea not to a god, but to nature itself. The origin of what is now called the “Marakalai School” of magic. Like druidic rituals, it revered nature itself and sought harmony through supplication.
And Fernandez—no, Faijashi—was already a Grand Magician who had mastered the spells of the Marakalai School at the founding of the Ensorcery School.
– “All spells, if they yield the same result, share the same direction.”
– *Whoosh!*
Convergent evolution, or something close to it. Even if the forms of magic differ, if they are researched for the same outcome, they will inevitably share the same essence.
Thus, the diagram of Asit’s secret arts is already familiar. The only difference is the method of reaching the destination—whether by sailboat or horseback, so to speak.
The gesture cuts through the air. Precise, swift, and beautiful. At the pinnacle of restrained aesthetics, where not a single thread of error is allowed—
A master’s stroke. Every movement, even a single inch, is the result of deep consideration. And then another stroke. Like a conversation, like speaking to nature itself.
With a heart that pleads for harmony.
– *Whoosh!*
The mana circuits of the Bronze Throne heated up. It had been a long time since such Great Magic was used. Raising wraiths was not mere necromancy. It was a spell entirely different from modern necromancy.
No… perhaps. Modern necromancy is but a degraded version of this great art. The pinnacle and origin of all disciplines dealing with the dead. Asit’s secret arts carried that weight.
– “Respect.”
A plea that affirms the life of the dead, respects their prime, their glorious moments, and wishes for their names to remain in this world forever. A great art born from such a plea. Closer to supplication than magic.
They should be called Burial Priests, not Burial Mages.
– *Kugugugung!!*
– [This… this fast…?]
Lavirata’s confusion was palpable. She was in disarray. How could he master Asit’s secret arts so quickly…? Becoming a Burial Priest required decades of study.
It was a higher discipline, far beyond mere spellcasting. And he grasped and replicated it after just a few demonstrations?
– *Whoosh!*
The final gesture cut through the air, and thirty wraiths rose from beneath the ground. Fernandez closed his eyes, stretched out his hand, and exhaled deeply.
– [Huff, is it tiring? Of course. Everyone struggles at first. But don’t rush… It’s dangerous. Slowly. Lower your hand slowly. I’ll take over your spell.]
– “Wait.”
Fernandez kept his eyes closed and gestured with his left hand. Double casting. Anyone can cast a simple spell with one hand, but such complex Great Magic is impossible to perform single-handedly.
However, maintaining a completed spell with one hand while casting another with the other is something a skilled mage can do.
– *Whoosh!!*
A black halo rose behind him, emitting an ominous glow. Lavirata instinctively stepped back. Under the brilliant sun, the black flames of the halo twisted like a mirage, as if—
As if wings were sprouting… No, hands. Dry, twisted hands seemed to emerge from his back.
Each hand moved in different angles and directions, one gesture after another.
Five gestures, without a single error, weaving an intricate knot.
The air distorted in the flames. Through it, two faint faces could be seen, knotting mana in the air.
– *Kugugugung!!!*
A spiderweb-like crack spread across the vast prairie, shattering like glass in an instant.
– [What… what is this…!]
And from within, one by one, the wraiths rose. Their numbers, visible to the eye alone, exceeded thousands—a great army.
The risen legion quickly formed ranks and lined up in formation. Only then did Fernandez open his eyes and gaze upon the spell he had created.
Three heads, six arms. The simultaneous use of three spells. The same spell, linked in series, amplifying its effect repeatedly.
The first spell raised thirty wraiths.
The second, nine hundred.
The third spell completed, and the wraiths that rose numbered… twenty-seven thousand on this land.
A spell is like a waterway, and a mage is like a drainpipe at its end. No matter how infinite the mana, if the mage’s skill and the spell’s precision are lacking, there’s a limit to the total amount of spells that can be cast at once.
But with infinite mana, not a single drop is lost—perfect precision and flawlessness. A massive, overwhelming pipeline with no friction or loss. That was Faijashi’s magic.
With the aid of the vast magic stone veins buried beneath the ground, assuming infinite mana, the maximum army he could summon now stood before him.
– [If you… had lived in my era.]
Lavirata whispered in a voice dry with tension.
– [Your name would have been Mumto.]
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