Chapter 249: Heresy and Faith

Kamail shifted awkwardly, the rune-etched armor plates floating midair around him clinking softly as he moved. The strange sensation had come and gone so quickly that before he could even make sense of it, everything seemed to return to normal.

To be honest, Kamail hadn’t felt anything like this in many, many years—ever since he lost his human form, he had lost most of his human senses. Instead, he relied on magical perception to sense his surroundings. He wasn’t even sure if what he’d just felt was “itching.” The sensation was so distant, so faint, that all he retained was a vague impression. When it suddenly appeared, it startled him—he thought something was wrong with his body.

Jenny looked genuinely concerned. “Master Kamail, are you really… all right?”

“No harm done. It’s probably just a slight discomfort from entering a new magical environment. I’ll adjust my energy flow later,” Kamail buzzed, manipulating the magic so that the sheets of paper covered in formulas and calculations floated around him. His voice carried a note of admiration and surprise. “I still can’t believe… you actually managed to summarize all this…”

“It’s not just me. Mr. Ravencrest and the Wild Mage laid the groundwork. I only compiled it,” Jenny said earnestly, boldly meeting the flickering arcane sparks dancing above Kamail’s head. “The Lord once said: The truth of the world should be simple and clear. Seeking truth is a God-given right for everyone. A person’s magical talent should never be a shackle that limits their thinking…”

“A shackle on thought…” Kamail mused thoughtfully. “Everyone has the right to think—that was a phrase often repeated by mages in the days of Gondor. But few ever extended it to everyone. We’ve grown used to the idea that only mages have the right to seek truth, to the point that we almost forget… ordinary people can think too.”

He glanced at the floating papers, and his mind drifted to the magical devices he’d seen earlier in the mechanical workshop—the “mortals” who operated and even designed those devices. As a scholar of magic who had witnessed the ancient Gondorian magical civilization, he understood what this meant.

Even ordinary people without any magical talent, as long as they had enough knowledge, could control magical power—not just use it, but research, invent, and advance technology.

Kamail was a researcher, but that didn’t mean he was ignorant of social development. He could imagine the impact such technology would have on human civilization. What unsettled him was that he didn’t know whether that impact would be good or bad.

“Magic, noble as it is… in the end, is just a tool…” he muttered to himself.

“Magic isn’t noble. It’s just a power,” Jenny quickly countered, then shrank back a little. “That’s what the Lord says too…”

But the expected scene of the ancient mage erupting in anger never came. Kamail only let out a hoarse laugh. “You seem to really admire your Lord?”

“He’s a great man,” Jenny said softly. “He sees farther and clearer than any of us…”

“If he truly believes what he’s doing benefits humanity, then I will support him. After all, I have sworn my allegiance,” Kamail chuckled lightly, neatly stacking the manuscripts on the table before turning to Jenny. “May I take a copy back to study? I’m very interested in these things…”

“Of course!” Jenny nodded eagerly, a bit surprised. “I didn’t expect someone like you—a great archmage—to be so interested. I thought you might be angry, since many mages see treating mysterious magic as a mere tool as heresy. My own mentor nearly killed me for that.”

“Heresy, huh… maybe it is,” Kamail chuckled softly. “But do you know what I did back in the day?”

Jenny shook her head obediently. “I… don’t.”

“I did things far more heretical,” Kamail said calmly. “All of us did. We were the most heretical researchers, handpicked from thousands. So what you’re studying is nothing to me. I’m happy to research it with you.”

Jenny lowered her head in delight. “Master Kamail, it’s an honor.”

“In this field, you’re the master,” Kamail was humble on this point. “Much of what I learned is outdated now. I need to relearn. In academia, honor belongs only to the capable… hmm?”

“Master Kamail?”

“Nothing. Just an itch again…” Kamail twisted awkwardly, suddenly turning toward a certain direction. In that brief moment, he finally sensed the source of the magical fluctuation causing the itch. “What’s over there?”

“Over there? Mostly residential areas and warehouses…” Jenny hesitated. “Ah, but at the end of the street is a magic lab, Lady Hetty’s. She should be in there conducting experiments right now.”

“Magic experiments?” Kamail’s tone held curiosity. “Interesting… I want to take a look.”

…

At the Rebellion Fortress in the Shadowrealm, the material transport was nearing completion.

Most useful samples and ancient devices had been packed and sent through magical portals to the stronghold in the real world. The items left behind were mostly large equipment integrated into the fortress structure or clearly hazardous pollutants unsuitable for outer space transport. As the operation wound down, the fortress gradually returned to calm.

Pittman stood atop the fortress’s highest level. The heavy isolation barrier had been raised, and through the translucent “divine power shield,” he quietly observed the chaotic, shattered world outside—the white giant stag drifting among vast fields of rubble and metal debris.

Passing soldiers occasionally glanced at the old druid with curiosity, surprised to see the usually irreverent old man adopt such a solemn, grave expression. But no one approached to speak—they were busy finishing the last tasks, eager to leave this strange place.

Some soldiers glanced at the corpse of the giant stag Amorn beyond the shield, but paid it little mind. Only a few knew the truth about the white stag, and those who did had been ordered to keep silent. Ordinary soldiers had no idea what astonishing secrets the fortress held. They were told it was an ancient research base for studying powerful prehistoric creatures, and the white stag floating in the otherworldly space was just a monster dead for years—an explanation easier to accept than the truth that this place was used for dissecting gods.

But Pittman knew the truth. Gawain had told him about the Rebellion Fortress and its secrets. Even if Gawain hadn’t, seeing Amorn’s corpse was enough for Pittman to understand.

He had stood there for a long time, silently watching the remains of the nature god. His wrinkled face was taut, unreadable, betraying no emotion. No one else was around when he finally sighed softly, “Truly… dead.”

Then he quietly took from his pocket a silver disk, oak bark, a blessed tender branch, and an acorn. Using these, he built a small altar before the isolation barrier. He lit the oak bark at the center, sprinkled a pinch of pollen onto the small flame. His movements were meticulous, precise—like the druid priests of three thousand years ago, before the line of succession was broken.

Nowadays, few druids could perform such a complete ritual.

Yet the flame at the altar burned quietly, slowly dying as the fuel ran out. The nature god lay right before him, but the altar could not summon even the faintest miracle.

Pittman didn’t mind. He simply completed the brief but complete ceremony, watching the offerings burn away before lifting his gaze to the faintly glowing white stag corpse in the darkness. Then a smile appeared on his face.

“You lie here… it seems the nature god will never return.”

With that, Pittman turned and left without a trace of reluctance.

He passed through the emptied Rebellion Fortress, through the ancient stronghold in the Black Mountains, and after a long journey returned to his domain. The great sun was sinking in the west, its massive corona like a golden crown hovering over the western forest. In the dimming light, he saw a group of people leaving the town’s only church together.

They were likely common folk who had just finished their prayers, their faces peaceful and serene. The holy light priest, who looked like a berserker, stood at the church door, watching the last worshippers depart.

Leight had already spotted Pittman approaching. The eccentric holy light priest called out loudly from afar, “Old man! Come in and sit! I still have some unfinished bread!”

The holy communion sweetbreads distributed by the Cecil Holy Light Church were all handmade by Priest Leight—dense, unbreakable, sturdy enough to carve handles or cut through jade and gold.

So they never ran out.

Pittman considered his teeth and stomach, deciding that as an old man, he didn’t need to challenge what even young people avoided. He politely declined Leight’s offer but still entered the church.

“Rare to see you here,” Leight said, lighting the magical crystal lamps inside and handing Pittman a cup of water. “You probably come here the least in the whole domain—even Miss Amber comes more often than you.”

Pittman instinctively asked, “Lost something?”

Leight smoothly continued, “I don’t really have anything to lose, so Miss Amber hasn’t been coming much lately either.”

Pittman paused, then smiled silently. After a few chuckles, he sighed softly, “Are you steadfast in your faith?”

(End of chapter)