Chapter 2 – The Last Whisper of the Ancient Sage
"Flamme, see our guest out."
——
Flamme could barely suppress her laughter as she escorted Elias out of the Holy Hall.
A spell to turn demons into humans?
Truly, the cunning nature of demons never ceases to amaze her. Mimicking human speech was one thing—but to spout absurdities like turning into a human so earnestly? It was almost entertaining.
Elias paused mid-step, gazing at the young woman in the flowing white gown ahead of him.
"What are you laughing at?"
"I'm laughing because the lies you demons tell are so… childish."
Flamme walked on, her long hair cascading down her back like a stream of liquid amber, catching the sunlight in fiery glints.
Then, suddenly, she turned. Half-squinting, her lips curled into a mocking smile.
"I may only be twenty," she said softly, "but I've already heard countless demons say the same lines—'I want to be human,' 'I wish to live among humans,' 'I just want to be friends with them.'"
Elias chuckled. "Hah… As expected of Serie's disciple."
His eyes lifted slightly, watching the proud curve of her expression. For some inexplicable reason, a warmth spread across his face.
"So your name is Flamme, huh?"
—— Dong!
The bells atop the Holy City's tower rang out. White doves took flight into the sky, and a gentle breeze rippled through the streets, brushing against their hair.
For a fleeting heartbeat, across a thousand years of difference, their eyes met—only for the moment to be swallowed by the bustle of the crowd.
"Demon," Flamme said coldly, "I don't want to hear my name from your mouth."
——
3000 Years Before the Mythic Era
Central Continent – The Nameless Forest
Following faint traces of mana, Serie pushed through the overgrown woods until she found a decrepit wooden cabin, half-choked by dead vines.
She pushed open the rotting door. Inside were rustic furnishings—and shelves upon shelves of ancient grimoires.
Each of these books, in the world a millennium later, would be priceless artifacts.
Serie's lips curved in faint distaste as her gaze drifted to the wooden bed in the corner—where an emaciated, time-worn figure lay motionless.
"To think the great sage himself would choose to die in a place this rundown."
The old sage, Aivis, turned his head slightly. When he saw that familiar golden hair, a gentle smile touched his withered face.
"Serie… ten years have passed. I'm at death's door, and yet you haven't changed a bit."
"Ten years…" Serie murmured, lowering her gaze.
"To me, it feels like we met just two months ago."
"Heh… The way elves perceive time truly is incomprehensible," Aivis said with a dry laugh. "But perhaps it's a mercy that human lives are short—you can still remember me."
"I'm glad," he continued, his voice faint, "that I can leave this world with an old friend by my side."
He coughed twice, eyes flickering toward the cabin door.
"And Elias? I sent him a letter as well."
At the mention of that name, Serie's expression cooled—her tone edged with disdain.
"He went to sea."
"He should be on some deserted island in the central ocean by now."
"If I'm not mistaken, that little messenger bird you enchanted with a voice-transmission spell probably fell into the ocean halfway there… and drowned."
Aivis's pupils trembled slightly.
"So it's true… Even after all these years, that man is still searching for that magic."
"That's enough, Aivis."
Serie's tone cut sharp through the air, filled with impatience.
"You didn't summon me all this way to reminisce. If you have last words, say them."
"Last words, huh…"
Aivis's gaze drifted toward the window. Outside, the forest shimmered in green. His thoughts wandered decades back—to that impossible journey.
An elf.
A human.
And a demon.
Three travelers bound by an absurd dream, venturing together from the southern continent's marshy jungles to the frozen tundras of the northern plains.
Every mountain they crossed, every river they waded through, the campfires they lit beneath the stars, the dungeons they explored, the enemies they slew, the treasures they found…
Each memory shimmered before his fading vision—like the fragments of a spell, bright and fragile.
"Serie," he murmured, "don't all people become sentimental before death?"
"You, who yearned for battle, fought fearlessly."
"I, who longed for creation, delved ever deeper into magic."
"And he… who wished to become human—those eyes of his, from beginning to end, never once…"
"Enough, Aivis."
Serie closed her eyes. Elias's face flashed through her mind—a face as desolate as the midnight sky.
"Aivis, fighting alongside a demon was the greatest disgrace of our lives."
"Disgrace?" Aivis chuckled weakly. "When I'm gone, and a thousand years have passed, who will even remember it, Serie?"
"And besides…"
He smiled, thin and frail, and pulled from his robes a book of pure white—a magic grimoire unlike any other.
"This is the spell I created under the Goddess's guidance. It can fulfill Elias's wish."
"Serie, if anyone can decipher it… it's you."
"Before that poor fool loses the last remnants of his humanity—please, I beg you…"
Serie took the grimoire. The moment she flipped open its cover, a quiet laugh escaped her lips.
"Heh. A spell to turn demons into humans? Aivis, you really…"
When she lifted her gaze again, the old man—the great sage of the Mythic Age—had already closed his eyes forever.
"Aivis…"
For reasons she could not explain, a glimmer of tears welled in Serie's eyes.
She remembered the instant her rapid-cast spell pierced the sky—
and struck down the enchanted messenger bird bound for the Central Sea.
"Aivis, you knew."
"You knew I could never do this."
"I, who was born to fight demons, can never grant them peace."
——
"Master, I've returned."
A calm, steady voice broke her reverie. Serie looked up and saw a flash of orange.
"Oh, Flamme. What did Elias say?"
"That demon has decided to stay near the Holy Capital—waiting for the next trial, ten years from now."
Serie's eyes went distant, her gaze unfocused on the starry illusion glimmering across the hall's vaulted ceiling—
the Fake Constellation Spell slowly revolving above.
"He really is persistent…" she murmured.
"Well, after searching for thousands of years, what's another decade to him?"
"To hide from my detection magic, he even chose to linger outside the city."
The words had barely left her lips when Flamme suddenly dropped to one knee.
Beneath the shifting starlight, her thin face was grave and resolute.
"Master, shall I kill that demon?"
Serie laughed softly.
"Flamme, you truly are my disciple. If only you'd stop wasting your time on frivolous spells like the Field of Blossoms, you might one day surpass Elias himself."
"But not yet."
"Even I," Serie said, her smile fading, "cannot guarantee victory against him."
"What?! Even you, Master—?"
Flamme froze, stunned.
After over ten years as Serie's pupil, she had never once doubted that her teacher stood unrivaled beneath the heavens. Yet, the calm acceptance on Serie's face left no room for doubt.
"The day I accepted you as my student," Serie said softly, "I told you this—magic is the world of imagination."
"And that man… he was born with imagination beyond measure."
"Even a thousand years ago, he crafted strange, impossible spells the likes of which I had never seen. All-knowing as I am, I still could not fathom them."
"Even Aivis—the genius who birthed countless magics—often said that Elias's imagination bordered on divine."
"And Elias himself," she added quietly, "claimed his magic was merely the creation of memories from a previous life."
——
"Memories of a previous life…"
Flamme lowered her head, frowning deeply.
"Damn it…" she muttered.
"As expected of a demon—
always lying."