How to Teach a Hero at the Academy

Chapter 158: The Academy’s Great Sage (4)

‘A human… and a mage.’

The Last Dragon, Lar-Prasriti, pondered.

Guarding the silence, he devoted himself to parsing Märchen. She was nothing more than a mortal smiling while standing upon empty air—yet human, and no longer human; a mage, and no longer a mage. Before long, Lar-Prasriti reached a conclusion. That translucent mortal, like an illusion, did not exist here to begin with.

She did not belong to this world.

<Hello, Mr. Dragon? I’m Märchen Blackmore.>

By contrast, Märchen lifted a hand and waved.

There was not a trace of wariness in her demeanor. Only pure curiosity shimmered in her golden eyes.

<What’s your name?>

<Was it Abel Argento?>

Lar-Prasriti did not answer Märchen’s question.

Instead, he addressed Abel. Old and young, female and male—countless voices overlapped as they echoed at Abel’s ear.

<I told you before. I hoped we would not meet again.>

“I remember.”

Abel shrugged.

In an indifferent tone, he addressed Lar-Prasriti.

“I, too, hoped I would never again behold a supreme being. However, someone who seeks your aid has appeared.”

Märchen Blackmore.

Abel supplied the name, leaning his back against the stone wall with arms crossed.

“She is my colleague. Rude, and a wastrel who chases pleasure. I ask that you bear with her.”

<That’s harsh, Abel. I greeted him and even asked his name. Not rude at all. Granted, I do pursue pleasure—but only intellectual delight.>

So tell me, Märchen whispered toward Lar-Prasriti.

<You—what’s your name?>

<Lar-Prasriti.>

<Got it.>

Märchen nodded.

<An ancient tongue, then. Lar means earth, Prasriti means to swallow… so, “the one who devours the land”? Simple. A good name. With a primitive linguistic system, you couldn’t have packed in more meaning than that.>

<Do you mock the primordial order?>

<I’m just stating facts. Languages show clear developmental trajectories. Any system grows old with time, and old systems inevitably lose meaning.>

What a mess.

Abel sighed inwardly.

Dragon and mage could never harmonize. Epezaria was a world where dragons had waned, yet Abel had seen countless worlds where dragons and mages had clashed.

Dragons sought stable identity; mages pursued chaotic progress. Where dragons secluded themselves as primordial beings among ancient hoards, mages sought advancement through spirits—products of the primordial. Conflict was inevitable.

<Curious.>

Yet Lar-Prasriti must have perceived it: that Märchen was not merely a mortal—

<Where are you, mage?>

A being dwelling in isolation, something closer to a dragon.

<You are not here. Not here, nor anywhere in this world. You have merely borrowed a crude illusion to appear before me; your true body lies beyond this world.>

<Exactly right. Sharp, Mr. Dragon.>

Märchen grinned, rubbing her chin.

<Abel probably gave you a rough explanation? Abel, me, and our companions crossed over from another world. Usually, we traverse worlds through reincarnation. But not me. I’ve got… circumstances.>

She was right.

Between worlds lay a distance no mortal lifespan could bridge. Thus the “Left Hand of the Mother God” departed for other worlds through reincarnation—everyone except Märchen Blackmore.

<How should I put it…>

Märchen scratched her temple.

Even so, this was only an illusion. The real Märchen Blackmore did not exist in Epezaria.

<I’m imprisoned, you see.>

In the world where she had lived her first life, she remained confined—unable even to die.

Unable to commit suicide.

<But it’s fine. I can’t move my body, but I can cast spells toward other worlds. I’ve reached the ultimate realm of magic, after all.>

She spoke through communication spells, observed through identification spells, and manifested through illusion spells.

On the surface, it was a simple method—but Märchen was exercising magic across the gulf between worlds, a realm unreachable even to the Empire’s Tower Lords, or to dragons, creatures closest to the Creator among all beings. Realizing this, Lar-Prasriti fell silent for a moment, then—

<…Intriguing.>

He soon laughed.

<Very well, mage. I hope you remain confined forever. As dragons dwell eternally in their nests, so too should you never step into the world.>

<Right. That’s how it should be.>

Märchen agreed readily.

<I don’t particularly mind. When you get too strong, you only bring harm to the world. It’s better for me to stay locked up like this. I still get to peek into other worlds now and then.>

<Good. You said you required my aid.>

What do you wish to ask?

Lar-Prasriti asked Märchen.

‘He seems to like her.’

Abel thought, expression unchanged.

Naturally so. A dragon who willingly confines himself to his nest, and Märchen, thoroughly imprisoned as she was—their existences were equivalent. Among all humans, perhaps only Märchen could converse smoothly with a dragon.

<Vianchiel Kingdom.>

Märchen spoke, erasing the smile she had worn.

<I want to know precisely why it fell. Modern historians say it was due to excessive use of mana stones. That could be true—but Abel and I suspect some unsavory characters were involved.>

“The Phantasmic Faith.”

Abel spoke up, standing beside Märchen.

“Former cardinals who became apostates reside there, along with their followers. They seem to have settled in long ago. You must have noticed already, Lord Lar-Prasriti.”

<Of course.>

Lar-Prasriti answered without hesitation.

<Not because I wished to know. A dragon’s lifespan is excessively long, and his sight cursedly vast. Unless the dragon core is damaged, we do not die of old age—and the moment we open our eyes, we behold the entire world.>

You wish to see it, then, he whispered.

<The context never recorded in history.>

“Yes.”

Abel nodded once.

<How about it? Even the strictest dragon helps mortals from time to time. Sharing treasures, letting them ride upon your back. We want your wisdom. You can spare us that much, can’t you?>

It was not easy to guess.

How the Phantasmic Faith had survived on the far side of history.

A clergyman elevated to a cardinal’s throne who then fell into apostasy would wield immense power. Even so, to amass strength beyond the tides of history for nearly a thousand years was impossible. Someone should have noticed. Someone should have opposed them.

<Dragons do not interfere with the world—unless the world’s continuance itself is threatened.>

Lar-Prasriti said.

<That is the sole law my kind has upheld. The apostate group you oppose is still weak. They might destroy a nation, but they are far too crude to bring about the world’s end.>

Therefore, I cannot help you.

That is how it must be, he murmured—then,

<…But I will grant you the chance to bargain.>

After a moment’s silence, he intoned:

<Have you ever traded with a dragon?>

“Of course.”

Abel replied.

He knew the price. To trade with a dragon, one must offer the oldest and most precious thing one possessed—whatever would furnish the dragon’s nest. An object, a memory, or existence itself. Abel knew what was oldest and most precious to him.

He reached for the hilt of his beloved sword—

<I’ll give whatever you want.>

Märchen swung her arm without hesitation.

<I won’t miss it.>

Clack.

An ornament fell onto the stone floor.

It had been summoned from her pocket dimension. At a glance, it was nothing more than a crude necklace, bearing no power whatsoever.

<It belonged to an old companion. Was it his mother’s keepsake? I don’t remember clearly. But it’s the oldest and most precious thing I have.>

Probably…, Märchen added softly.

“Can you really give that away so casually?”

Abel whispered to her.

<Is there a problem? It belonged to someone who’s already dead, anyway.>

Märchen tilted her head, utterly puzzled.

<…Very well, mage.>

Lar-Prasriti perceived it easily.

He probed the object’s essence and felt the memories nested within. And he acknowledged it.

<Indeed, this ornament is the oldest and most precious thing you possess. From this moment on, it is my property. Will you not regret it?>

<Of course not.>

It’s completely useless to me.

Märchen whispered.

<──Then hear this.>

Suddenly, radiance engulfed Abel and Märchen.

Lar-Prasriti’s draconic gaze spread, enclosing them. The cavern walls, once mere stone, began to flood with crimson hues.

<Our bargain is concluded.>

GROOOOM—

Abel’s ears rang.

Sound dulled; his vision blurred and wavered. A normal mortal would not have endured it.

<Thus, I shall share a dragon’s memory.>

It feels like passing through a warp gate, Abel thought, frowning.

As though his soul were instantly disassembled, then reassembled far away.

<Behold.>

At last, Lar-Prasriti’s voice faded,

<A fragment of the distant past.>

Abel’s vision was swallowed by complete darkness.

.

.

.

<Abel.>

Swipe, swipe—

A translucent hand brushed past Abel’s cheek.

He stared blankly ahead.

<Are you awake, Abel?>

The first thing he saw was Märchen’s face.

My stomach’s churning, Abel thought, stepping forward. He passed straight through Märchen’s form and pressed a hand to his own forehead.

‘This place is….’

Abel narrowed his eyes.

The scenery of a remote city spread out before him.

It was not an architectural style used by the Empire. The clothing of passersby around him was the same—garments fashioned in foreign styles.

<Right.>

A voice came from behind him.

Abel turned toward Märchen.

<Dragons really are something else.>

Märchen shrugged.

<Even showing the past, they do it so…>

So vividly.

She murmured.

<It’s like time travel.>