What was magic? From the capital of any great house to a backwater as remote as Hisaril Hill, where Turan had lived, the answer would probably be the same wherever one asked: magic was power derived from the blood of the great Freyans.

This book was flatly denying that fact. It claimed that what descended through the gods’ bloodlines was merely false magic, and that humanity had originally possessed a separate, true magic.

Even the phrase “those who call themselves gods” was outrageously blasphemous coming from anyone in this land, whose people revered the Freyans.

So great was Turan’s shock that he forgot to breathe for a moment, his eyes fixed on the book. Resting beside him, Solif asked in puzzlement,

“What is it? Found something?”

“Hold on.”

Turan drew a deep breath to make up for the air he had missed, then lowered his gaze to the next passage.

[Mana was originally a power possessed by strange beings, not a force humans were meant to wield.

The true magic practiced by humans derives its power from manipulating souls.]

‘... Souls?’

Surely spirit arts, which dealt with souls, were the specialty of Elves. Did the author mean Elves when speaking of “humans”? Steadying his shaken thoughts, Turan turned another page.

[For those who have yet to understand, magic that manipulates souls is entirely different from the White Elves’ Living Spirit Sorcery.

Living Spirit Sorcery extracts living souls and manipulates them at will, much as Dark Elves handle wraiths. Soul magic, however, awakens the true self to attain spiritual awareness, thereby exerting influence over the spiritual world.]

Thankfully, the author meant the same thing by humans that Turan did. Once he knew that, his heart began pounding anew. A technique for manipulating souls—a realm that remained largely unknown to humanity!

Even a little imagination suggested countless possibilities. Capturing a god’s soul after its vessel died, for instance. Or perhaps, combined with Ravista’s Holy Relic, it might reveal the secret of eternal life...

‘No, perhaps not.’

This book had not been hidden away in some remote wilderness. It had come from the Baraha House Head’s study. If it contained a secret to eternal life, surely they would have made use of it long ago. They would have had more time than they could stomach to practice such things.

[True magic holds boundless possibilities, but unfortunately, the gulf between the spiritual world and reality is so vast that it could effect little change in the physical world.

What use is conversing with the dead or glimpsing the future against mighty monsters and other races?

Even its most useful application amounted to fighting in the body of an animal. It was only natural that humans, enslaved even before the Freyans appeared, should gradually lose their true magic...]

A technique for fighting in the body of an animal. The moment he read those words, Turan felt as though lightning had struck his head.

‘Could it be?’

Until now, Turan and his companions had assumed the Freyans captured White Elves and used Living Spirit Sorcery or something similar to switch bodies. Everything they knew, including what they had learned from Lida, had led them to believe that the White Elves’ Living Spirit Sorcery was the only secret art capable of interfering with souls.

But what if they were instead using this true magic to enter human bodies just as they entered animals? Mastering this art might bring them a step—no, dozens of steps—closer to the gods’ secrets.

After reading on for a little while, Turan cleared his throat and called to the librarian, who had been occupied with something else.

“Sir.”

“What?”

“Could you help me interpret this?”

He had managed to understand the opening section explaining the book’s background, but what followed was a stream of terms like the earlier “true self” and “spiritual awareness.” He could read the words, but their meaning simply would not sink in. Turan was exceptionally well-read for a young man his age, but his reading was meager compared with that of a genuine scholar.

“You should have spent more time studying.”

As the librarian grumbled and read the book, Solif came closer, apparently wondering what all the fuss was about.

“What? What is it?”

“It calls itself true magic. Did you ever hear anything about it back at your house?”

“True magic? Not a thing.”

“Then let’s read it together for now. We might figure something out.”

Since the book had come from Baraha, Turan had wondered whether its contents were widely known here. Solif’s complete ignorance suggested otherwise. Though his interests were somewhat narrow, he was hardly poorly read himself.

Just then, the librarian gestured for Turan’s attention.

“Come here. I’ll explain from the beginning.”

“I’m listening.”

“First, the true self is a concept proposed some nineteen hundred years ago by Esol, a scholar of House Garba. It began with the question of whether what defines us is simply our body, or the memories of our life...”

What followed was nothing less than a lesson in philosophy: metaphysical subjects involving the self and personality, which Turan did not ordinarily favor as reading material.

Now, however, even these subjects demanded his eager attention and memorization. Listening quietly beside him, Solif frowned and shook his head as though his own head were aching.

For the next several dozen minutes, the two pored over the introduction to this self-proclaimed “true magic,” listening to the librarian’s explanations. After they finished the last page, Solif let out a quiet sigh.

“We really got our hands on something unbelievable...”

As the author had stated earlier, this “soul magic” could scarcely exert any meaningful influence over the physical world. The spiritual world, where souls primarily existed, was strictly separated from the physical world, connected to it only through the medium of the body.

Conversely, however, it could accomplish an extraordinary range of things so long as they did not affect physical reality. Besides the previously mentioned conversations with the dead and visions of the future, there was even a technique for reincarnating with one’s memories intact.

This also gave them a rough idea of how the fallen gods preserved and transferred their souls. The book mentioned a technique more advanced than inhabiting an animal’s body: eating away at another person’s spirit form and possessing them.

It even helpfully explained that the more closely the vessel’s upbringing, personality, and mental disorders resembled the caster’s, the higher the synchronization rate and the easier the body would be to control.

There were also secrets concerning the lifespan of souls. Reading them, Turan realized that Ravista’s knowledge, though imperfect, was quite close to the truth. Perhaps the house had obtained fragments of a soul-magic tradition whose transmission had been interrupted somewhere along the way.

The gods must have used this magic to live forever while eliminating every inheritor of the art among ordinary humans, even erasing the records. Unless they had been that relentless in stamping it out, the librarian, at the very least, should have possessed some related knowledge.

“More importantly, this is what matters most.”

“Soul imprinting?”

“Right.”

Soul imprinting. It involved transforming oneself into a spiritual being, something close to a spirit, and then binding oneself to a particular place. Much as the librarian had once been bound to the library and was now bound to the jewelry box.

Even in that state, one could act freely by inhabiting another person’s body. Upon leaving that body through death or other means, however, one would immediately return to the place to which one was bound. For the Baraha nobles, that imprinting site probably lay beneath the Temple of the Sun.

If they destroyed the medium there, then killed the vessel and captured and annihilated the soul, they could inflict a final, absolute death.

“If we learn this, we could hunt those bastards down one by one...!”

“Yes. The problem is how to learn it.”

“Oh.”

Solif, who had grown thoroughly excited, froze at Turan’s words.

As he had pointed out, initiation into soul magic required some very demanding rituals. One could ingest drugs manufactured through complex processes to enter a hallucinatory state, or induce a near-death experience through meditation...

Not only was innate talent enormously important, but there was also a chilling warning: without the guidance of someone who had already attained enlightenment, there was a high risk of damaging one’s soul.

When their discussion reached that point, Turan closed the book, put it in his pouch, and stood.

“Let’s leave it there for now. We’ve replenished our mana, so we should get moving. This isn’t something we can solve just by thinking about it right now.”

“Sounds good. Let’s go meet the others.”

* * *

“Another checkpoint here.”

“They’re not messing around.”

The Land of Five Lakes was densely populated even compared with the territories of other great houses. Perhaps only Arabion’s Dakayn Plains could match it. That meant avoiding other people entirely was impossible, however hard they tried.

Traveling along the main road among the crowds, Turan and Solif saw knights and nobles—people rarely glimpsed in ordinary times—moving about. Having lent his mask to Solif, Turan could not check, but they probably belonged to vassal houses rather than Baraha’s main house. More than a hundred police officers blocked the road and controlled the crowds under their direction.

“They must have used light signals, right?”

“Of course. How else could news have traveled this far in a matter of hours?”

House Baraha had established a signaling system throughout its territory called the Watchtowers of Light. Wizards stationed at regular intervals transmitted signals through flashes and colors of light.

The key to the system was the Baraha nobles posted at those intervals. Since they also possessed the light-manipulating power of the Illusion bloodline, they could project and perceive light over greater distances than others.

Naturally, however swiftly Turan and Solif fled, they could not outrun light.

“Detain any party containing young men between twenty and thirty with short silver hair or brown hair! And detain every man traveling alone, regardless of appearance!”

The noble’s description was, of course, aimed at Solif and Turan. The order to detain lone men regardless of their appearance was plainly a precaution against the disguise mask. Since they were not searching for gray hair, Turan’s identity either remained undiscovered, or those who knew had not made it public.

“W-what is going on? I haven’t done anything...”

“Please let me go! If I don’t deliver this cargo to Seto today, I’ll be ruined!”

Brown hair was common everywhere, and silver hair was fairly common in Baraha’s lands, so quite a few people had been detained beside the road. The noble frowned at the terrified young men and gave an order.

“Test them.”

“Yes, sir!”

The mobilized police drew short knives and slashed the prisoners across various parts of their bodies. The young men screamed as though they were dying, but none dared resist. How could they, with exalted nobles and knights standing right before them, glaring fiercely?

Mercifully, once a cut had been confirmed to bleed, its victim was allowed to continue on. The detainees hurried away, pressing clean cloths and the like to their bleeding wounds.

‘I wondered how they would tell us apart... Quite clever.’

It was common knowledge that an ordinary knife, rather than a magic tool, could not pierce even a weak noble’s body. Passing that test would be difficult without deliberately exhausting one’s mana. And anyone who did that would look visibly worn out.

Since they lacked Turan’s ability to perceive mana, this was the surest method of verification available to them. Of course, if they actually found their targets, everyone present would be as good as dead.

Inwardly impressed, Turan stayed in line, then approached the officer conducting the inspection and bowed his head.

“You’re working hard, officer, sir.”

“What’s your name, old man?”

“This humble fellow is called Rabus. This is my grandson, Rob.”

“H-hello.”

The officer glanced at Turan and the stammering Solif behind him, then clicked his tongue. A shabby old man and a boy who looked to be in his mid-to-late teens. Neither remotely matched the wanted men.

“What’s your business here?”

“I run a small stall in Senzra, up north. We’re on our way back from praying at the Temple of the Sun. It was this old man’s lifelong wish.”

The Temple of the Sun held great significance for worshippers of the Silver Sun. It was hardly strange for even poor commoners to visit once on a “pilgrimage.” They had often used similar excuses during their earlier visit to Helio.

As expected, the officer tilted his head briefly, then gave Turan a kick in the shin.

“Urgh!”

“Grandfather!”

“Get moving! People are waiting behind you!”

“Thank you, sir.”

Playing the flustered old man nursing his kicked shin and the concerned grandson, Turan and Solif fooled the police and passed through the cordon. They encountered several more such checkpoints as they continued north, but no one recognized them.

Their closest brush with trouble came during a baggage inspection. Being nobles, they traveled without flint, blankets, and several other supplies essential to ordinary travelers, which aroused an officer’s suspicions. Fortunately, Solif managed to talk their way out of it by claiming he had lost the supplies from his bag.

After three days of traveling north, Turan and Solif finally reunited with Maysa’s group, who were hiding in a mountain cave.

“Turan!”

“Are you hurt?”

“Of course I’m not... What about you?”

“Perfectly fine, naturally.”

After a brief embrace with Maysa to assure themselves that they were both safe, Turan picked up Vije, who was hopping anxiously beside them, and vigorously stroked her head.

“Have you been well?”

[I was scared! But I waited patiently!]

“Good girl. Thank you so much for bringing everyone here safely.”

At his thanks, Vije gave a little harrumph and pointed toward Solif, who had already gone farther inside. After exchanging a few words with his parents, who had been resting there, he was now embracing them.

[His dad and mom worried lots about the idiot too! Just like me!]

“I’m sure they did. He’s their son.”

Had Turan’s mother been alive, she would surely have worried a great deal about him too. Just then, Vije tapped his head with her beak.

[I’m Turan’s mom! So I worry about my son!]

“I’m your son, am I?”

[Turan’s mom is Vije, and I’m Vije too!]

For a moment, her astounding logic—that sharing a name made her his mother—left him speechless. Then something in him relaxed, and Turan chuckled as he sat down at one side of the cave.

Several dozen minutes later, after sharing some of the stories and feelings that had accumulated during their time apart, Solif returned. His parents followed him and bowed deeply at the sight of Turan.

“You have our deepest thanks, Turan.”

“If not for you, we would have lost our son without ever knowing why. Truly... I don’t know how to express our gratitude.”

Tears welled in the eyes of Solif’s mother, Romi, as emotion overwhelmed her. Understandably so, after learning that her son’s personality had nearly been replaced by the House Head’s without anyone knowing.

Until now, they had probably harbored at least some resentment toward their son for abruptly leaving the house. Revealing the full story had been necessary, if only to dispel those lingering feelings.

“I’m grateful for your thanks. But... I think we need to discuss something more important now.”

“More important?”

“I’m sorry to say this, but having you continue traveling with us would present a number of difficulties.”

The middle-aged couple nodded calmly at his words. Godis and Romi were strong enough to become the heads of ordinary houses, but to the group as it stood now, they were little more than a burden. Any one of the upper-tier nobles whom Turan and Solif had each led around in groups of a dozen or more could easily kill the pair.

Nor could they simply be treated as ordinary fighting strength. If either died or was captured, it would gravely harm Solif’s state of mind, just as this incident had. Baraha would probably persistently target the easier prey of his parents rather than the elusive trio.

What the couple needed, then, was a refuge where no one could interfere with them at all. Ideally somewhere far from Baraha, outside every great house’s territory, where even Zahar’s House Head would have difficulty finding them with a tracking medium.

Turan’s words prompted much the same question from everyone.

“Does a place like that... exist?”

“I don’t think that’s possible by ordinary means.”

Even Turan, who was likely several levels weaker than Zahar’s House Head, had sensed Godis in the east from Ravista’s lands in the world’s southwest. How, then, could there be a land beyond the tracking reach of Zahar’s House Head, who resided in the middle of the Enril Desert at the center of the world? Unless they went deep underground or soared high into the sky, surely it was physically impossible.

“There is one place. Just a little farther west than my hometown.”

“You don’t mean...?”

Turan’s home was Hisaril Hill, at the western edge of the world. West of it stood the world’s boundary: the Sky Mountains, towering so high that no one had ever crossed them.

The unexplored land beyond was the refuge Turan had in mind.