Chapter 199: Salvador

Corleon did not meet Piero. He merely had someone tell Piero that the construction of a fortress and port was permitted, that the development of cargo ships was allowed, but that negotiations with the Fishmen were forbidden.

As for himself, he had already left the Clock Tower, heading toward the depths of Lake Salvador.

No one knew how deep Lake Salvador truly was. Those who lived by its shores would say it was deeper than the sea itself.

And now, Corleon could say with certainty that while it might not be as deep as the ocean’s deepest trench, its depth of nearly three thousand meters was enough to shroud the lakebed in utter darkness.

But now, that dark lakebed lit up with light.

Protected by a golden Light Orb, Corleon could see strange and misshapen fish at the bottom. Deprived of sunlight for so long, they had lost their eyes, and their bodies had developed deformities—making it feel as though cooking and eating them would require considerable courage.

Corleon paid them no further attention. He simply took out a golden Light Orb.

It was a memory he had stripped from Oscar.

With a gentle release, the orb sank and vanished into the depths.

Soon, the lakebed began to tremble. The fish, as though seized by the deepest terror, scattered in all directions.

But there was nowhere for them to flee. The lakebed split apart, and a landmass far larger than York Town began to rise. Its sheer mass alone crushed the fish into pulp upon contact.

The churned-up silt and swirling currents obscured all vision, until countless dark red orbs of light began to glow.

“Buzz…” The sound wave was beyond the range of human hearing. Under its resonance, the waters seemed to boil and thrash, as if to grind everything in the vicinity to dust. The Light Orb surrounding Corleon rippled like water under its influence.

Corleon merely waited calmly within the orb, his gaze meeting the countless dark red orbs without emotion.

Soon, those dark red lights dimmed and closed. The turbulent waves gradually stilled, the silt and bubbles dispersing to reveal the giant beast that dwelled in these depths.

The magical beast, Salvador.

Magical beasts were magical lifeforms born of pure mana—a form of Mystery. Some had the nature of social creatures, like griffons, hippogriffs, or unicorns, possessing tribes and the ability to reproduce.

Others, like the one here at the bottom of the lake, were utterly unique in the world—only one existed.

Its body alone dwarfed York Town in size. It was shaped like a massive whale, but its back was covered with thousands of densely packed eyes, and along its belly ran several faintly glowing lines—Earth Veins that channeled the mana of the region into it.

Lake Salvador did not belong to any noble’s territory—not only because of its danger, but because the lake itself was the magical beast’s domain.

“…” A will stirred. From it, Corleon drew forth meaning.

“Human, I have not provoked you. Why have you invaded my domain?” Salvador’s will questioned.

“That is why I have not erased you—only awakened you,” Corleon replied.

Salvador’s will grew agitated.

It slowly raised its head, opening the foremost—and largest—of its eyes. “Are you declaring war on me?!”

“I simply want you to do me a favor—kill the Fishmen that enter this lake,” Corleon said.

Salvador slowly rose until its gaze was level with Corleon. “I refuse your request.”

“I have not given you the right to refuse.”

Salvador’s tail swept through the depths, each motion stirring a deadly undercurrent. “Then you are declaring war on me.”

“This is merely a notice.”

All the eyes on Salvador’s back snapped open, countless dark red lights flaring as mana began to gather.

But abruptly, its body froze. Every eye on its back burst, scarlet blood dyeing the waters red.

Salvador’s will, tinged with weakness, spoke: “You are not merely human—you are a god!”

Yet almost immediately, it contradicted itself. “No… impossible. The gods are long gone, and humans are forbidden from becoming gods!”

Its voice was laced with accusation. “What exactly are you?!”

Corleon waited until it had finished before replying evenly, “That is not something you need to know. What matters is that I want you to kill every Fishman that enters this lake. I do not want a single one swimming here.”

The lakebed fell silent. Darkness held still. Only the Light Orb around Corleon shimmered faintly.

The ruined eyes on Salvador’s back began visibly regenerating. Far away, fish were starting to gather—drawn to the scent of its blood, yet too afraid to approach the magical beast.

At last, Salvador responded: “I require a time limit.”

“You have no other choice,” Corleon said flatly.

Salvador’s will flared with anger. “Human! Do not go too far!”

Half of its massive brain suddenly swelled—and then exploded, flesh scattering as its damaged brain throbbed and the Earth Vein lines on its belly blazed, drawing in mana to heal.

Corleon only watched.

When the shuddering of its pain finally ceased, Salvador was silent for a long time before saying, “As long as you live, I will follow your request.”

Corleon nodded. “Good.”

He extended a hand, and a Light Orb flew from Salvador’s body into his palm.

Salvador was powerful—its sheer bulk could raise waves to drown a barony—but it was still merely a High-grade Mystery, the same as Oscar.

The memories of authority Corleon possessed could erase Oscar with ease—Salvador had no hope of resisting.

In the end, it was a magical beast born of mana, not a Fantasy Species equal to the gods.

Before higher Mysteries, even mighty Salvador was fragile.

Having received its answer, Corleon vanished from the depths.

Salvador floated in place. Suddenly, one of its newly regrown eyes lit up, firing a crimson beam that swept through the waters, annihilating a school of fish.

“Buzz…” It released an inaudible pulse.

Then it sank once more into the lakebed.

Almost immediately, the deep-dwelling fish swarmed into the area, devouring the traces of Salvador’s flesh now mingled with the water.

But before they could revel in their feast, a swarm of over a hundred thousand piranhas surged in.

These fish were the size of a human torso, sleek-bodied, with blue-gray scales and mouths full of razor teeth.

Upon arrival, they opened their jaws—attacking both the native fish and consuming Salvador’s flesh.

As they fed, their eyes turned blood-red, and faint blue lines appeared along their sides.

Then, as though guided by some will, they devoured every fish in the area and swam east—toward the lake’s shoreline once held by the Principality of Corlay, now occupied by the Fishmen.

…

By noon the next day, three knights of the Honorary Knights Order arrived at Odo Village with their squires, establishing a camp on the village outskirts.

On the third day, the Senate hired workers to begin building a fortress nearby, while groups of local gentry came to scout for potential port sites.

On the fifth day, Rio and Vito were summoned by Corleon and returned to the Church of the Sanctuary.

The following morning, as the Morning Star rose, they rode riding horses southward with a supply convoy bound for Baron Belair’s lands. This time, a merchant caravan organized by local gentry traveled with them.

Baron Puniel sent word that a portion of the road linking to York Territory had been completed, making transport easier. With the efforts of the first batch of students from the Monastery, order was beginning to return to some villages.

Thus, with both church direction and the lure of profit, merchants were the first to connect and trade there.

And Baron Belair? Of course, he agreed to let his villages trade with York Territory—at least, Puniel’s message said he had.

This meant that the merchants could trade freely, without special Senate permits or bribes in Belair’s lands.

When Rio and Vito delivered the military supplies, Baron Puniel warmly invited them to join his warriors in advancing in a few days.

Puniel’s recruitment and training were nearly complete—once a batch of crossbows was outfitted for his elite, they could march on the werewolf positions.

However, the two declined. They had other tasks from the bishop and needed to catch up with Knight George.

Since it was the bishop’s order, Puniel didn’t press the matter. Instead, he gave them an extra riding horse, a set of armor, and a wooden box before sending them off.

At the pass, Puniel watched their departing figures. “That armor—they’re church knight armor, aren’t they?”

Cliff, at his side, replied, “Same style as Knight George’s—finest craftsmanship.”

That meant the church now had four knights—all direct, steadfast loyalists.

Cliff had become far more composed of late. Marl’s earlier words had shattered his illusions, prompting him to observe and learn earnestly. He had come to realize how foolish his group had been at the start.

Knowledge wasn’t only what was written in books—his current experiences were lessons, too.

He began treating Puniel as he did the scholar-teachers of the Monastery, almost as a mentor.

Although one was a baron and the other merely an apprentice, neither dwelled on the difference, and Puniel freely shared his experience.

Sensing this atmosphere, Cliff grew genuinely willing to serve as Puniel’s squire and learn from him.

Satisfied with the now-polished Cliff, Puniel planned to have him manage the region after the campaign.

Though Cliff wanted to join the expedition, he had learned to obey orders.

On Puniel’s other side stood a slightly stooped man—set to succeed Cliff as squire.

He had once been a local gentryman under Belair but had survived by surrendering quickly.

Now, picking up on Cliff’s words, he added, “Not only is that armor exquisite—I checked it. The two knights told us to keep it safe until Priest Marl returns for resupply, and among the supplies for him are even more advanced crossbows.”

“They have iron plates on the bow arms, and the strings are made of sturdier ox sinew. I tested them—they’re not only more durable but have twice the effective range of ours, with far greater power, nearly matching trained archers.”

Puniel and Cliff exchanged a glance and both smiled.

Puniel looked at the stooped squire. “So you mean…?”

The squire said, “The number of crossbows sent exceeds Marl’s warriors. Since your warriors are also going to fight the werewolves, I think these extras would be better put to use in their hands.”

Puniel nodded, smiling. “Sounds good.”

“I’d be honored to handle it—and I’ll do it perfectly,” the squire said eagerly.

“Then I’ll leave it to you. See it done quickly.”

“No problem—leave it to me,” the squire replied with a sycophantic grin before jogging off.

Once he was gone, Puniel asked Cliff, “You can handle this, right?”

Cliff nodded. “Don’t worry—I’ll see it done perfectly.”

“Need more men?”

Cliff chuckled. “No need. I can do it alone.”

That night, the squire’s body was found hanging outside the supply camp.

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