"Do you remember who I am?"
Jarvis turned his head to look at Inham, his face still as blank as a sheet of paper. He furrowed his brows in thought for a moment, then shook his head.
Inham sighed and asked again, "Then do you remember who you are?"
Jarvis thought for a while but still shook his head.
"Do you remember how to use this?" Inham walked a short distance away, picked up a sword from the corpse of a swordsman, and tossed it to Jarvis.
Jarvis caught it, and immediately, a glimmer appeared in his eyes. His grip was steady and firm, as if the sword had slotted perfectly into an empty lock waiting for its key. He glanced at the sword in his hand, thought for a moment, and then swiftly thrust it forward. With a faint clink, a mark appeared on a wall more than ten meters away.
"As long as you haven't forgotten that, it's good enough. Now, do you remember how to use this?" Inham pulled out a scroll from his cloak and handed it to Jarvis.
Jarvis took the scroll and nodded. It seemed that while he had forgotten his past experiences and the people he knew, he still retained his knowledge of objects and skills he commonly used.
Inham said calmly, "I know you have a lot of questions for me, but now is not the time. Use this teleportation scroll to go to Alrasia. I've arranged everything—someone will be waiting for you there."
This time, Jarvis did not nod immediately. Instead, he seemed to be thinking, as if he was considering why he should trust someone he didn't even recognize.
"Even if I don't say it, you should be able to feel that I am helping you, right?" Inham smiled at Jarvis.
Even with his usual mask-like smile, he possessed enough charm and persuasiveness. But now, the warmth and familial affection in his gaze were so palpable that even a fool could sense it—let alone his own son. Jarvis looked at him, then slowly nodded.
Suddenly, a loud commotion erupted from the direction of the plaza. Inham frowned and turned toward the noise.
"Alright, that's settled then. You go ahead. It looks like things here will wrap up soon. Once this is taken care of, everything will be much quieter in the future."
After saying this, Inham turned and sprinted toward the plaza.
By all logic, the situation in the plaza should have already been under control. But the sudden uproar was not just the sounds of combat—something unexpected had clearly happened. And to Inham, no matter what kind of surprise it was, an unexpected event always meant opportunity.
Once Orford was completely defeated, Inham knew that in Magnus's eyes, the greatest remaining destabilizing factor would be himself. Though Magnus might not be in a hurry to deal with him just yet, with Lancelote's support, it was only a matter of time before Adra reclaimed the papal throne in her restored body. And once that happened, Inham would naturally be the next target.
That was why, if an opportunity arose now, he absolutely could not afford to let it slip away.
Jarvis' wounds were healed, and the truth about the Black Star was clear. With those two lingering shadows finally lifted from his mind, the only remaining concern was how to deal with Magnus. But as long as any opening presented itself, Inham had absolute confidence that he could resolve the issue perfectly. Even he couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement now, his full attention fixed on the direction of the plaza, not sparing a single glance behind him.
Behind him, Jarvis did not use the teleportation scroll. Instead, he watched Inham's departing figure with an expression that was completely different from his earlier blank confusion.
That gaze held something far deeper, filled with complexities that no one who had lost their memory should have.
And at the very moment Inham turned his back to him, Jarvis's hand gripping the sword twitched slightly—just for a moment. But in the end, he did not make a move.
Once Inham completely disappeared from view, Jarvis's expression changed entirely.
It was as if someone who had been forced to remain a statue for centuries had finally been granted freedom—finally able to release everything within. The blank confusion on his face began to ripple, shifting into something more intense—excitement, an overwhelming, uncontrollable excitement. His striking features twisted, contorted by the sheer force of his emotions, laid bare in their rawest form.
He was laughing.
Not aloud—there was no sound, only the rasping breath escaping from his throat. His trembling face, overwhelmed by exhilaration, carried a hint of madness. The joy in his eyes was so intense, so fierce, that it seemed as if a lifetime's worth of happiness had erupted all at once, concentrated in this very moment.
And yet, just a moment ago, he had concealed all of this—had buried his exhilaration beneath an indifferent, dazed mask so perfectly that even someone as keen as Inham had failed to notice.
As he laughed in silence, Jarvis, too, turned his gaze toward the plaza. His eyes held the same calculating sharpness as Inham's—both searching for an opportunity.
But his desire burned hotter, wilder.
Like a wolf that had starved for a thousand years.
By now, the scene in the plaza could no longer be described as mere chaos.
Grutttt's fall had completely tipped the scales of battle in favor of the Glory Fortress.
After sacrificing a number of warriors several times greater than the orcs, the swordsmen and priests had finally gained the upper hand. The remaining orcs, half out of desperation and half from sheer force, were being driven toward the center of the plaza. At this moment, all it would take was two or three grand magi casting high-level spells to bring this battle to a decisive end.
But then, a single person overturned the entire situation.
Even someone as formidable as Grutt could not, by himself, change the tide of such a vast battlefield. Yet, this person had done exactly that.
No matter how massive a battlefield might be, it was still like a vast machine—composed of countless intricate components. And if one could pinpoint the exact critical point, just one move could shift everything.
"A massive black dragon has destroyed the palace of Alrasia and is now heading toward Celeste..."
The moment these words left the mouth of the royal swordsman from Alrasia, the entire battlefield seemed to freeze. Everyone was shaken, but the most unsettling reaction came from Lancelote and Adra—those who should have been the most composed. The two of them stood as if turned to stone.
The others were merely in shock. But these two understood better than anyone else what that black dragon truly meant.
"Moriel has awakened? How is this possible?" Adra was dumbstruck. Only he knew that the Glory Fortress no longer had the strength to contend with an ancient dragon.
"Your Majesty... is it no longer possible to summon the Guardian Angel?" Lancelote asked in a hushed tone.
Adra shook his head, glancing at the ring on his hand. His voice wavered with uncertainty. "The power of the Ring of Kings has been completely drained. It will take at least a few years to replenish… Does this mean the fall of Glory Fortress…?" His expression was filled with doubt as he shook his head again.
"Wasn't that seal cast by Akibard? How could it break at such a time…?"
His brows furrowed, and he turned back to the royal swordsman.
"Describe the dragon clearly. What does it look like?"
The swordsman opened his mouth, but only weak, incoherent sounds escaped before his head drooped lifelessly. Despite the efforts of the two high priests administering healing magic, his condition was deteriorating instead of improving.
"What's going on?" Adra demanded, looking at the two priests supporting the swordsman.
"We don't know… It's strange. Our healing magic isn't working… His life force is fading rapidly," the two high priests responded, their expressions filled with confusion and helplessness.
"What?" Adra immediately stepped forward, moving toward the swordsman.
"Your Majesty, get back!"
Lancelote suddenly erupted into action, lunging forward. His left hand reached for Adra's back to pull him away, while his right hand drew his sword and thrust it toward the dying swordsman, who was still held up by the two priests. The moment the sword left his grip, a dazzling arc of light slashed through the air, bridging the ten-meter distance instantly and aiming straight for the swordsman's head.
But it was too late.
The revelation about the black dragon had been too shocking—a devastating blow to them both. Combined with the near certainty of victory just moments ago, the violent swings in their emotions had dulled their senses.
Before either of them could react, the dying swordsman's arms suddenly shot forward, plunging into the underarms of the two high priests supporting him. His hands sank in effortlessly, as though piercing into two masses of soft cotton.
Strangely, the two priests showed no sign of reaction—no resistance, no expression of pain.
Then, with a swift movement, the swordsman flung his arms outward, sending the two high priests hurtling through the air, crashing toward Lancelote.
The high priests' bodies did not simply crash forward like thrown stones. Instead, they moved with an eerie, twisting motion, contorting their bodies like snakes to avoid Adra before lunging toward Lancelote. Their arms lashed out—one forming a clenched fist, the other striking with clawed fingers—yet their faces were filled with bewilderment, as if they had no idea why their bodies were acting on their own.
Lancelote halted for an instant before sidestepping to evade the two priests. He had to.
The moment they were thrown, their skin rapidly turned black, as if rotting before his eyes. As soon as Lancelote dodged, the two priests collided with each other. The expressions of confusion still frozen on their faces, their bodies collapsed like two sacks of decayed flesh, dissolving into a vile sludge. A wave of putrid stench and the unmistakable aura of necromantic magic filled the air, choking everyone nearby.
That brief moment of evasion cost Lancelote his chance to grab Adra. His sword strike veered off-course—what should have been a lethal thrust became a glancing slash. The streak of white light from his blade barely grazed the swordsman's face, but it was already too late. Moving even faster than Lancelote, the swordsman had already seized Adra.
Adra's reaction was not slow, but compared to Lancelote and the swordsman, he was far too sluggish. He had no time to cast a single spell. Despite his true identity, this was still Adra's body, with all its limitations.
"So it really is you."
Lancelote's gaze locked onto the swordsman, his voice deliberate and cold.
The passing sword light had torn through the blood already covering the swordsman's face, revealing the flesh beneath. But it was not raw, mangled muscle—it was another face entirely.
The man who had claimed to be an Alrasian court swordsman was none other than Asa, the prisoner once confined in that specially designed cage.