[13] Beyond the gate of flame, the laws governing the world were utterly different.
The drowsy night sky from before was now filled with cobalt-blue starlight—dreamlike, weightless, and full of temptation.
Beneath that cobalt sky lay a dark, silent grove of black oaks on all sides.
The shadows of the trees overlapped unevenly, branches sprawling freely overhead.
The stones underfoot were slick with moss, and pale mist drifted through the woods like silent ghosts.
“A Frontier is partly rooted in the present world, and partly exists in the form of dreams.
Sometimes mortals visit strange and fantastical worlds in their dreams.
That happens when a Frontier brushes past their dreams.” “To enter the Wasteland, one must undergo long training to master lucid dreaming.
A Frontier, on the other hand, allows apprentices to enter in the flesh—but only through exacting rituals, and only by invoking the power of higher beings…” Ripples spread slowly through Mostima’s consciousness as this knowledge about Frontiers surfaced one piece at a time.
“So who exactly are you?” Mostima stood among the trees with her brows tightly knit.
Hebe could feel her emotions.
She was nowhere near as calm as she looked.
Her intense suspicion and wariness rose and fell like tides…
she had taken Hebe for some kind of higher-order existence.
‘That isn’t important.’ Hebe did her best to make her voice sound distant and immense.
‘Keep thinking.
Other than that, explore exactly as you originally planned.’ Mostima’s question went unanswered, and her heart sank little by little.
As she started walking, she began trying to figure out when exactly she had first come under the notice of a higher being.
“My body feels normal, so this isn’t ‘parasitism’ from a subordinate Path under the Principle of Wing.
It seems able to read my thoughts, so this should be ‘indwelling’ from a subordinate Path under the Principle of Lantern…
Is it the Sage Path governed by Mr.
Day, or the Notary Path ruled by Lord Twilight?” Mostima probed at the question in her mind, but that nameless existence paid no heed to her guesses.
It was difficult to keep thoughts this secret going for long.
When no answer came, Mostima’s mind naturally drifted elsewhere.
“…This Frontier sits atop a ritual ground of the Druidic faith.
Before the Orthodox Church spread into Albion, the Druidic faith was deeply revered by both court and common folk.
Members of the Druidic faith were called ‘Druids,’ a word meaning ‘sages who know the wisdom of the oak.'” “In the tales, the most famous and greatest of those ‘oak sages’ was Merlin Ambrosius.
She helped King Arthur draw the Sword in the Stone, guided King Arthur in founding Albion, and helped Albion survive disaster after disaster.” “Legend says that when Merlin departed from the mortal world, she left many ‘trial sites’ all across Albion.
Those who pass their trials can obtain the legacies left behind from King Arthur’s age…” At that, Hebe found herself suddenly speechless.
She did remember doing exactly that back then.
Full of enthusiasm, she had dragged Arthur and Morgan along to bury all sorts of things that were unimportant but amusing, then set up tasteless little puzzles on top of them, grandly calling them “trials.” Though this place wasn’t one of the trial sites I set up myself, Hebe thought.
Hebe’s silence did nothing to affect Mostima.
Carefully, Mostima pushed aside the shrubs in her way, crossed the stones slick with moss, and passed through layer after layer of gloomy tree-shadow toward the light shimmering in the distance.
Fragments of cobalt-blue daylight spilled from beyond the far end of the oak grove, leading the way like shattered sapphires.
The nearer she drew to the light beyond the grove, the more clearly she could hear the clamor ahead.
Beyond the oak grove lay an open stretch of jagged reef.
Far off in the distance, a sea cliff stood in lonely isolation, like a section of bare bone thrust out from the land.
Thousands upon thousands of birds of the same color wheeled through the sky, wings trembling as they descended, then beating sharply as they rose in sudden gusts like whirlwinds.
In their surging rise and fall, they formed dark twin tides between sea and sky, like a heavy iron curtain, like a storm of black rain.
Andoain stood in the clearing amid the reefs, his hands tucked into his sleeves.
At the sound of Mostima’s footsteps, he tilted his head slightly and turned around.
“You made it quickly too.” He coughed lightly.
“If only you’d come a little later.
Later still, Mostima.” Before he had finished speaking, Lemuen emerged from another side of the oak grove.
There were fresh scratches on her now; clearly getting through the woods had taken a great deal out of her.
The moment she saw Andoain, relief spread across her face.
But just as she was about to step toward him, Mostima threw out an arm.
“Lemuen, don’t go over there.” Andoain let out a sigh.
“Why must you do this?” He looked at Mostima and Lemuen, sorrow filling his eyes.
By now, even Lemuen could sense that something terrible had happened to him.
“You pity me?
No.
It is I who should pity you.” “Don’t listen to him!” Mostima shouted.
But the voice was not coming from Andoain’s chest at all.
It was coming…
from every direction.
It was unmistakably the very same sound of beating wings that Mostima and Lemuen had been hearing since arriving here.
Those noisy wingbeats fell like torrential rain, while Andoain’s voice remained unnervingly clear.
Even with one’s ears covered, every word could still be heard.
He said, “When I was young, I was always filled with questions.
Why were the hardworking left without enough food or clothing, while the idle who refused to work saw their bowls overflowing?
Why did the poor only suffer more as they sank deeper into poverty, while the wealthy rose ever higher in station?…
If everything they possessed had truly been earned by their own actions, that would at least have made sense.
But why were those who gained without labor the ones enthroned above the rest?” He said, “As I grew older, those questions became like dying embers.
Never visible, yet always smoldering.
Then I learned of the Wasteland, learned of the Principles, and stepped onto a Path in accordance with my nature…
I believed the Holy Grail’s truth could save the suffering.
I believed Her abundance would surely redeem the ignorant.
And so I labored bitterly within the Orthodox Church, waiting for the day my desire could be realized.” He said, “But reality is cruel, and pitiless in the end.
Human ties, human shackles.
Society, to me, is like a bridle looped around the neck.
It does not let me run free.
It only forces me to bend and bow, to lower my head before those above me…
and then they may toss me scraps, may grant me high office and rich salary.
Not just the Special Patrol Bureau—the Orthodox Church is the same.” He said, “The incapable stand above, the capable below.
Rank and station are turned upside down, yet all of it is adorned with the noble name of order.
People always say the Holy Grail is merciful, abundant, great, and never forgets…
but they are all wrong.
The Holy Grail delights in suffering.
She delights in seeing you and me struggle like vermin in this world, churning within Her bowl.
What paradise is this supposed to be?
This is hell!” At last Andoain’s body straightened fully.
Tears of blood spilled from his eyes like living things, tearing bloody cracks down that grief-stricken face, fissures rank with the smell of fresh blood.
Within those two vertical slits, blood-red pearl-like eyes flicked restlessly from side to side.
A pair of tiny arms, like a baby’s, tore free from beneath Andoain’s ribs, punching through the ruined priest’s robe, slick with blood as they waved and clawed at the air.
“And so, I came to hate this world.
And so, I cast off my faith in the Holy Grail.
A moth found the light in the dark night.
So have I.” The birds gathered and wheeled.
Mostima’s heart sank without check.