Chapter 248: Regret

“Since you know what the Lords are planning, why did you still accept my rating assessment?” Oscar’s smile vanished from his face as he asked.

Alva laughed. “Hahaha, that’s why you’re no warlock. Oh, or perhaps you are—but you’re the academy kind, not like us wild mages.”

He spread his doll-like arms. “To personally experience a curse of origin initiated by a Lord, and even receive special permission to watch it unfold—how could I miss such a chance?

“From the conditions required to activate it, to myself enduring its consequences—a complete Mystery presented in front of me. How could I pass it up?”

Valo glanced at Alva in silence. Host, the mage who looked more like a human than the others, showed an intrigued expression. “Hearing you speak like that, I’m starting to not want to be sold out by you.”

Alva replied, “It’s fine. The Lord of Dominion won’t descend for another three years. I believe you can live till then. As long as you accept their rating system, even if you’re not present, you’ll still be able to feel the curse directly.”

Host reluctantly said, “But I could already trade for half a divine body. I should be worth more than you guys. Why should I be in the same rating?”

He looked at Oscar. “Oscar, can I be rated as an Engraved? Of course, I wouldn’t mind being called a legendary mage either.”

Oscar shook his head. “You’re still not up to the standard of an Imprint-tier.”

Host asked, “Then what’s your standard for an Imprint-tier?”

Oscar answered, “To carve a magic mark onto one’s spirit, mimicking the bond between magical beasts and the earth veins.”

Host frowned. “That’s just increasing the amount of magic, not actually researching magic.”

Oscar explained, “The grading of magic is based on magical capacity. Magic research belongs to researchers—that’s a separate system.”

Host shook his head. “Then what kind of mage does that make you? Whatever, Arcane it is. As long as I get to feel the curse’s effects.”

Oscar was just about to introduce the research grading system when Agamemnon interrupted.

“It’s starting,” he said.

Oscar closed his mouth.

The three mages also turned their eyes to Agamemnon.

Agamemnon asked, “If I approach within three steps of a believer, will they be able to hear the sound? Can it be done?”

Host replied, “No problem. Of course, you need to make sure they’re actual believers, not just in word.”

Agamemnon responded, “They will be believers. At least those who continue forward are true believers.”

Host smiled. “Alright then, you two, let’s begin.”

Alva and Valo nodded.

Then Host pulled out a dagger and slit his throat. Crimson blood, bright enough to glow, flowed out.

Alva reached out and tore open his chest, revealing a beating blue heart unattached to any veins. Pure magical power flowed from it.

Valo made no move; dark magic simply oozed from beneath his black robe.

The three types of magic were drawn together, mixing and eventually becoming the same blue color as Alva’s, sketching a circle on the ground between the five of them.

Host said, “Alright, we’ve connected to the earth veins of Viscount Youn’s territory and embedded the concept of believers. Now you just need to stand inside the formation and blow the horn. Everyone who meets your criteria of a believer will not hear the sound. Those who aren’t believers and are within three steps will hear it.

“But if your criteria misfire, everyone in the area will fall asleep. Priests are special—they won’t be within range. You don’t need to worry about the one currently being well taken care of.

“And of course, this array has a sound-blocking effect. This is the power of the God of Dreams, after all. Not something small mages like us could resist.”

Agamemnon nodded and decisively stepped into the formation.

Once it was confirmed that Agamemnon couldn’t hear them, Host looked at Oscar in surprise. “Your church folk are really insane. Alva clearly said we’ll be enemies in the future, and he still walked right into our array.”

Oscar chuckled. “You’ve probably forgotten what human noble children are like. Their willpower is iron. And besides, he was chosen. He doesn’t trust you, or me—he trusts his faith.”

Alva said, “His faith, huh? If looking at it wouldn’t kill me, I’d really want to see it for myself.”

“Ever since brushing against the power of the York Territory a few years ago, seven mages have been completely erased. It’s terrifying.”

Host nodded. “I have a 30% chance of escaping if a Lord targets me. But if that person comes for me, I’m dead for sure.”

Oscar asked with curiosity, “Is that why you can calmly listen to news of being purged by the Church?”

Host and Alva exchanged a glance and smiled, but didn’t answer.

Oscar didn’t press further, turning to look at Agamemnon, who had already lifted the horn.

Agamemnon’s heart wasn’t as calm as it appeared.

The believers he had judged himself.

Agamemnon tried not to think about what defined a believer.

Under the guidance of the Sacred Scriptures, everyone had freedom of faith—a value the Church always upheld.

As long as one pursued goodness, the Lord would bless them.

Most of the priests in York Territory hadn’t responded directly to the Absolute Punishment, as they believed it lacked compassion. But they didn’t voice opposition either, remaining silent.

The priests in the Adrian Territory who supported the Exomunicationu did so as a warning to the gentry nobles, since preaching the Lord’s teachings had been extremely difficult there. They urgently needed force—or the symbol of force. So their support had been fervent.

Agamemnon knew all this, but he didn’t blame or criticize them. Their unwavering faith had told them what to do.

But that was exactly what he feared. He feared that his innermost judgment about who was truly devout might lead to harming the wrong people—might harm those who followed him.

Because of this concern, he hadn’t followed Corleon’s suggestion to come early and see with his own eyes. He feared that seeing too much would burden his mind and skew his inner judgment.

So he acted immediately.

But… was he truly devout?

Even though the Bishop often called him devout, Agamemnon knew the Theocracy well. That fervor, that unity of voice, that faith where even someone like Alice, pregnant and all, would fight anyone who called them “Theocracy lunatics”—he couldn’t do that.

He knew he was more like Marl, someone who weighed decisions and sought solutions, not like Alice who would die in zeal for the Church.

Just like now, he knew these mages were violators of the Sacred Scriptures, yet still had Oscar contact and work with them.

Just like now, he wanted to lie to everyone—to claim that this was the power of ordinary people. But lying is a sin.

Also like now, he was about to place a key into the world that might cause countless deaths.

He took a deep breath. As the moment neared, his mind grew more chaotic. He forced himself to calm down and empty his heart.

Since the Bishop believed in him, since the Bishop had given silent approval, he only needed to act. Then it would succeed. Then it would be right. So all he needed to do was empty his thoughts and blow the Slumbering Horn.

But how could one empty a complicated mind on command? He felt his thoughts grow ever more tangled.

Then his pale-blue glowing eyes quivered. He saw priests holding up the Sacred Scriptures, roaring as they led believers charging at armored knights.

There was no more time.

He urged himself.

So, he lifted the Slumbering Horn, opened his mouth, and blew with all his might.

A muffled hum rang out—the sound of the horn.

Agamemnon felt his body no longer his own, as if controlled by the horn. He couldn’t let go. His blood and even his consciousness were being drawn into it.

His body weakened. His heartbeat became painfully distinct.

“So this is what it truly feels like… activating a Holy Relic? This feeling of offering everything?”

He suddenly remembered waking up once, only to find himself transformed into a bird in a cage.

That time, he felt nothing. He just closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he was a bird.

Now, his body still weakening, he couldn’t stop blowing.

His blood, his thoughts, continued to be devoured by the horn.

Was he… going to die like this?

Agamemnon suddenly felt calm.

What is death like?

Is it like his father’s—bleeding out, peacefully, never to awaken?

What would Ando have thought in his final moments?

What about Granny Terry? He hadn’t yet left behind descendants. He hadn’t yet become the Head of the Adams Family like she wished, to carry on the family.

And the Bishop? If he died, was there anyone else who could replace him and keep the Church moving forward?

Melia still hadn’t found her home. Phil hadn’t grown up yet. Cicero was still running. Olivia was still lost.

He remembered the recorded conversation between the Bishop and Knight Wolf about death.

“So… death feels like regret.”

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