Chapter 3 – The Only Licensed Pirate
Holy City, Strahl — Outskirts.
The great demon Elias walked alone along the winding mountain path. He passed through dense groves, past weathered signposts whose words had long faded, until a small, quiet village appeared ahead of him.
"Young man…"
Elias ignored the elderly voice calling from the village entrance and kept walking.
"Ahem—kids these days, can't even hear better than me…"
"Hey! Young man! Over here!"
Elias stopped and turned, expression flat, gazing at the hunched old man waving his cane.
Young man, he said?
Surely he wasn't referring to him.
The old man hobbled forward, bent with age, until he stood before Elias. Raising his cloudy eyes, he squinted at Elias's pale face.
"Judging by your clothes, you're a traveler… a mage, perhaps? Forgive my boldness, but I have a small favor to ask."
"I'm not interested in the trifles of mortals," Elias said coolly, turning to leave.
"Wait—please!"
The old man's voice cracked with urgency; his aged eyes were filled with pleading.
"I'm the village head. Our humble village holds a grimoire left behind by the great sage Aivis! If you'd lend us your aid, all of these treasures will be yours to choose from!"
Elias's lips curved slightly.
Aivis…
A name heavy with memory—terrifying, even.
Many years had passed, and yet that name still lived on in the tongues and myths of men.
But he knew better than anyone: of every hundred so-called Aivis Grimoires that circulated the world, ninety-nine were fakes.
Two millennia ago, when Elias returned to the continent after a fruitless voyage through the Central Sea, he heard the news—
the death of his old comrade, the great sage Aivis.
What no one knew was that, to protect Aivis's remains and the true fruits of his lifetime of magic, Serie had built him a false grave.
She had even filled it with nonsense—scribbling meaningless spell formulas into fake tomes and scattering them across the world as decoys, stuffing the rest into the tomb to serve as "burial treasures."
One infamous example: "The Magic of Resurrection and Immortality," a piece of gibberish she wrote in three sleepless nights.
Thus, nearly every "Aivis grimoire" that survived to the present day was, in truth, a forgery penned by Serie herself.
Rumor even had it that the old dwarf made a small fortune selling those "pirated" copies.
Still… Aivis, huh.
Elias couldn't help but smile faintly. Even after all this time, that name still lingered in his mind like an echo that refused to fade.
"Lead the way," he said.
The moment he stepped into the village, Elias could feel the desolation hanging in the air.
For a settlement so close to the Holy City, the place was strangely dilapidated—crumbling wooden houses, rotting gardens, and filthy insects crawling through the overgrown weeds.
And in the center of the village square stood a weathered stone monument: a statue of three figures.
"May I ask," Elias said, "who these three are supposed to be?"
"Oh, them?" the old man replied proudly. "Legends say they were the travelers who brought great blessings to our ancestors a thousand years ago."
Elias nearly choked.
If he wasn't mistaken—
the squat, big-nosed goblin on the left was supposed to be Serie.
The bald, bearded brute on the right was clearly meant to be Aivis.
And the tall, long-haired, large-bosomed woman in the middle…
He refused to admit who that was meant to be.
Elias's expression stiffened with regret.
If he'd known this would happen, he'd have cut his hair short like those southern warriors back then.
Then perhaps, a thousand years later, he wouldn't have lost both his memory and his gender in local legend.
"So then," he said dryly, "what exactly is this task of yours?"
"You can see for yourself," the headman sighed, gesturing to the shabby hamlet. "We're a dying village…"
The old man looked around and said, "We used to make a living running an inn—things were tolerable. But three years ago, a plague of insects hit us. Countless cockroaches scared away the travelers. The young left for the city to find work. Even my beloved granddaughter—afraid of cockroaches—hasn't returned in three years. Now only we old folk remain…"
"Cockroaches…" Elias's face hardened.
Human fears and hopes grew ever more baffling to him. He could understand being asked to slay monsters, but cockroaches? Was this really worth interfering?
"Are you mocking me, human?" Elias asked.
"Please, mage, do not be hasty! Our village warehouse holds a grimoire handed down for generations—said to be a masterpiece painstakingly left by Sage Aivis. Help us decipher it and our troubles will be solved!"
Inside the dim warehouse, Elias's gaze swept over row upon row of black shelves filled with grimoires. Dozens upon dozens—each a supposed posthumous work of Aivis.
If any of these were genuine, the village would have been wealthy ages ago—why run an inn then?
As Elias suspected, a single glance was enough to expose Serie's handiwork: forgeries through and through.
The Magic to Prevent Someone from Patting Your Head.
The Magic That Forbids Others from Calling You Short.
Magic to Freely Adjust the Size of One's Bust.
…
"That really is her style…" Elias muttered, helpless amusement in his voice.
As he had predicted, Serie's prankster touches had driven the Aivis originals to extinction.
"Well? Anything here that can help?" the headman asked, holding a candle aloft.
Elias was about to refuse when something at the edge of his vision caught him—one book that had managed to slip past the usual absurdities.
"This is—"
—A Magic That Instantly Kills Cockroaches with a Snap of the Fingers.
Elias picked up the grimoire, his right hand trembling slightly. Long-buried memories surged back.
——
Year 3000+ Before the Dawn Era
Southern Continent · The Torrent Region
When the three of them crested the last high ridge, before them lay an immense plain carved by five great rivers. Roads and bridges fanned outward, converging on the bustling riverine trade city of Lister.
Serie squinted, puzzled. "I could have sworn six hundred years ago this was still wilderness."
"Don't underestimate human ingenuity," Aivis replied with a smile.
Twenty-five-year-old Aivis looked toward the city: "Though our lives are short, memories can be passed down through generations."
"Indeed," Elias said. "I faintly remember—this is how humans write history."
Serie scowled. "You damned demon—always pretending to be human."
The three argued as they approached the city, and no sooner had they passed through the gate than a broad black carriage blocked their path.
"Are you the sage Aivis? The lord of the city requests your presence."
...
"A commissioned grimoire?!" The three exchanged stunned looks.
The city lord clasped Aivis's hands with firm reverence. "We have heard you are a rare genius among men—a sage capable of crafting unimaginable magics. I beg you to help us."
Aivis hesitated. "Your lordship flatters me. I am but a humble scholar, unworthy of the title 'sage.'"
"You are too modest! With your talent you can surely create the magic I desire."
"Then speak plainly, my lord. What sort of magic do you wish to commission?"
The lord inhaled deeply. "My estate is overrun with cockroaches. I would ask you to create a magic that can kill cockroaches instantly."
Elias: (wide-eyed)
Serie: (grimace)
Aivis: (aghast)
Elias: "You called us all here just for this petty matter?"
Serie: "That's easy—I'll blow the manor sky-high. No more cockroaches."
"No, absolutely not!" the lord screamed. "This manor is an heirloom—passed down eighteen generations!"
"Eighteen generations?" Serie shrugged. "So what? That's only a few hundred years."