Chapter 9

The Alchemist's Elixir

Roberta recoiled in shock and pulled her hand back, staring at the fingers that had probed the lord's wound. Not a single drop of blood clung to them—despite the chillingly vivid sensation of tearing through flesh.

As soon as her fingers withdrew, the wound closed instantly. It left not even the faintest trace that it had ever existed. If not for the hole pierced through his clothing by the dagger and the blood the monster had spewed, no one would have sensed anything amiss.

She felt both astonishment and confusion at once.

How is this possible?

Those were injuries that should have meant instant death. His neck had been torn open wide enough to fit a fist, his side twisted and pierced deep into his organs—wounds so severe there was no time even to consider treatment.

And yet Ulrich lived, and his wounds had healed in an instant.

Could wounds ever heal this quickly?

Roberta thought of Alonso. If it were him—the master of healing magic, counted among the highest ranks even in the Pantheon—it might have been possible. Even so, he could not restore spilled blood or heal without leaving even a scar. Alonso's healing magic merely accelerated the body's natural recovery.

Ulrich, on the other hand, felt as though he had returned to a state before he was ever injured. As if time itself had been reversed—or as if his existence were fixed at a certain point.

"Hh… hh…"

At the sound of ragged breathing, she turned her gaze.

An old man named Rashid lay collapsed beside the corpse of the monster that had once been his son, staring up at the lord. The white-haired elder bled endlessly from wounds carved by blades, staining the office floor.

Ulrich approached him and knelt on one knee.

"Do you still believe that thing was your son?"

Rashid let out a long breath, his half-lidded eyes fixed on the ceiling. The man who had once held an obsession strong enough to attack the lord now finally let go of it, appearing like a frail old man on the verge of death.

"My son… is he dead?"

"Yes. He died a long time ago."

"Then what is that?"

"A worm. Like a parasite, living inside a host."

"A worm…" Rashid repeated, mulling over the word. "It's hard to understand. How could a worm become a human…"

"You know the Doll of Yoanina, don't you? It's the same thing."

The Doll of Yoanina—an ancient paradox.

In the era of humanity's Second Empire, there was a mage named Yoanina. It was said she saved her homeland by commanding a doll made of steel.

After her death, the citizens displayed the doll in a square, though no one could control it anymore. But since it was made of steel, it corroded over time. Whenever it did, the corroded parts were removed and replaced with newly made ones.

The citizens would boast to passing outsiders that they still possessed the original relic intact. Then one day, an outsider, hearing this, asked:

—The Doll of Yoanina is from centuries ago, is it not? How many times have you replaced its parts? If every component has been replaced, and not a single piece remains that once touched the hands of that ancient mage—can you still call it her doll?

As if recalling the story, Rashid let out a short sigh.

"Has my son… been replaced?"

"More precisely, it was the corpse that was replaced."

Ulrich picked up one of the monster's tendrils from the floor.

"You said it yourself. After your son stopped breathing, you gave him the medicine—and he did not wake immediately afterward. Why do you think that was? Because this had to grow, take root, and gain control over the body. That takes time. Your son was never revived. A parasite used his corpse as a host and merely used the remaining memories to manipulate you."

"I… have been wrong all my life."

Rashid struggled for breath as he continued.

"I believed my son had come back to life… but he was never my son from the very beginning. It wasn't that something went wrong—he was never my son at all…"

"..."

"I couldn't let my son die twice. I couldn't bring him back because of my greed, only to let him die again… So I committed those acts against you, again and again."

His wrinkled hand grasped Ulrich's arm.

"I have sinned. But if it wasn't truly my son—if it was only a monster wearing his shell—then my son bears no sin… is that right?"

"If it wasn't your son, then the sins aren't his either."

"Then… did my child go to heaven? Like his mother?"

There was no answer.

Roberta recalled what Ulrich had said the day she first met him: rather than speak a lie, he would choose not to answer.

"Please… tell me."

The hand gripping Ulrich's arm trembled violently.

"There is no such thing as heaven. Death is simply the end."

"The end… you say?"

"There is nothing after death."

"But the soul? Does the soul not reincarnate?"

"That too is not as you believe."

"…That's hard to accept."

The trembling spread through his entire body. He struggled against the death before him, desperate to hear what he wished to hear. Ulrich gently removed the old man's hand and placed his own upon his forehead. Only then did the trembling subside.

"If there is no god, no heaven, no soul… then what is this world?"

"A cruel one. In a world where the masters of the heavens have departed and the order they created runs rampant without restraint, it is only natural that you are deceived by the illusion of eternity."

Ulrich spoke softly.

"But do not worry. Your son died only once. The sins committed afterward were not his, and he suffered no pain."

"I… see."

Rashid let out a breath of relief, and the strength left his hand. His breathing faded.

"I should have listened…"

The light drained from his eyes, and his mouth fell open as it slowly dried. The death he had long postponed finally claimed the old man. Ulrich closed his eyes for him. Then a long silence settled over the office.

Roberta stood there blankly. Despite the commotion, the corridor remained quiet. Whether no one had heard, or they had heard and chosen to ignore it, no one came. Wondering what she should do now, she looked at Ulrich.

"Roberta."

"Yes, my lord."

Ulrich slowly rose to his feet as he spoke.

"If you have questions, ask them now. It's not a pleasant matter to speak of later, so I'd rather finish it here if possible."

Questions? She had a mountain of them. The mysteries surrounding the lord only grew, never shrinking. How had he seen through the boy's identity? How had his wounds healed? And above all, his remarks about heaven and the soul.

According to the scriptures, heaven was the place the gods had departed to, and hell was where the evil gods had been cast out. When a person died, their soul was divided into good and evil, sent to heaven or hell accordingly.

Ulrich had denied it. If not the soul, then at least heaven—he had declared outright that it did not exist. It was a matter far more serious than performing a baptism on his own authority.

But after a moment of thought, she shook her head.

"No. It's alright."

"You must have more than a few things you're curious about."

"That's true. But… I don't think I should know right now."

He lifted his head, and their gazes met. No matter how many times she looked, his appearance was that of someone her age, yet she increasingly felt the weight of time in that face.

That was why she did not ask.

Perhaps this was what it felt like to stand before a snake's burrow. You had to reach your hand inside to catch the snake—but you had no idea if a snake was really there, or what kind it might be if it was. You could only find out by thrusting your hand in.

And if she asked—if she reached in like that—he would answer truthfully. The problem came afterward. Could she accept it? Knowing what kind of answer might come? If, here and now, he were to reveal something that shattered her entire understanding of the world, then what would she do?

She decided to postpone it.

At least not yet. Even if the time would come when she had to decide, it was not now—not while she still did not truly understand him. She calmed and suppressed both her desire and her sense of duty.

"You really are alike."

Watching her, Ulrich gave a faint smile.

"I told you before—you resemble Alonso. That child was the same. So full of curiosity, yet always cautious about asking me. Said it felt like putting a hand into a snake's burrow."

She flinched.

"Come to think of it, everyone who stayed by my side for long was like that. Hilde only asked at the very end. To me it was nothing, yet… all of you were always careful about asking."

Ulrich lightly rang the bell on the desk. Immediately, as if waiting, the sound of footsteps approached briskly from the end of the corridor. Roberta was certain it was the butler, Bernhard.

"Roberta, do you know how many priests there were between your predecessor and Alonso? If you don't, find out. I think you might stay for quite a long time."

The incident passed quietly.

The event in which the lord was attacked by a guest in his office caused little stir, even though the office had been turned into a sea of blood. Had such a thing occurred in the Great Temple of Noire, even the serfs would have been gossiping endlessly, but Dithmarschen remained quiet.

It wasn't that word had been perfectly suppressed. Roberta had seen servants exchanging stories about that day among themselves. Yet their reactions were underwhelming.

"I heard the lord was attacked."

"Oh, really?"

What kind of place is this?

That was the weight of the incident to the people of Dithmarschen. She had worried it would cause a great uproar, but it seemed she had been the only one making a fuss, which left her feeling awkward.

Do they take after the lord?

Why were they so calm? Was it because they lived near the Ice Peninsula, where the violent flow of mana exposed them to all kinds of strange phenomena? Or was it because the lord himself was such a strange existence?

She thought both were true—but the lord weighed more heavily.

Because he truly was a strange man.

"..."

And in the spring of the following year, a letter from Alonso arrived.

The letter began with pleasantries and continued halfway through with reminiscences of his time when he had been appointed to Dithmarschen. Even she, who had been glad to receive it, grew indifferent at the lack of substance in the opening.

.

.

.

… I have read the letter sent by Lord Ulrich. He praised you. Well done. Roberta, though it pains me to say this, I hope you remain by his side for a very long time. If he has taken a liking to you, then he will remain in that place for as long as you are there.

I will not answer the questions you sent. Your predecessor, Clemens, knew too much. I do not wish for you to meet the same end.

We often become so absorbed in answers that we forget the enlightenment found in the process. Why do you think thirteen priests passed between me and you? Of them, twelve either failed to find the answer or could not accept it. Only one, Clemens, learned the answer and accepted it—but that was because His Holiness taught him the answer. And because of that, he lost his sight.

Remember that you are in that position as a result of that outcome.

You are likely beginning to grow accustomed to life there and think you understand enough. But what you know is only a very, very small part—less than touching an elephant with your eyes closed.

So do not try to steal the answer rashly. Do not try to see him through the answer. Instead, I hope you come to understand what kind of person he is through the process of seeking it.

You resemble me more than your mother, so I believe you can do it. And please write often. Lord Ulrich writes more frequently than you do.

In the autumn of Noire,
Alonso.