LTTH C35

Chapter 35

1. Britain? 

A week of freedom. After the unfinished business in America, Hansol found himself with time on his hands, though, unfortunately, he was unable to leave the Mage Tower.

‘Damn them.’

With a deep breath, he stilled the coarsening thoughts. The blame for all this, one way or another, lay squarely at the association’s feet.

During these few days, the costs and manpower spent by the association must have plunged them into deficit, and yet, according to the Tower Lord, the association was still fervently searching for him, eyes ablaze. Enough time had surely passed for it all to subside, but they proved far more tenacious than he anticipated.

Thus it was, half by choice and half by compulsion, that Hansol remained cloistered in the Mage Tower. Not that his days there were disagreeable—far from it. He found himself awash in such luxury that he almost felt guilty. Every aspect of life, be it food, shelter, or clothing, was exquisitely provided.

“Consider this your home and make yourself perfectly at ease. I would vastly prefer if you did so, Hansol-nim.”

So spoke the Tower Lord, when Hansol’s reticence was met with encouragement for any requests. Surely, he did not mean it with full sincerity.

“Yes, there is nowhere safer in Korea than here, so rest with peace of mind, Darling.”

“I for one wish you were a bit less comfortable.”

The Tower Lord could not hide a scowl as James openly wandered about the Mage Tower as though it were his own domain once more. Hansol regarded them with a weary glance, bracing himself for another round of their familiar antics.

In some ways, James’s imperviousness—his remarkable placidity—was enviable. No matter how often Hansol was told to relax, the awkward discomfort clung to him. Still, it was at least some relief that his luxurious stay would last only a little longer.

Hansol gazed down at the pocket watch in his palm.

To travel to Britain, he needed the watch to be fully charged with magical power. Thanks to the Tower Lord’s cooperation, he did not need to rely on the association’s magic circle, which was a blessing in itself—but the problem lay elsewhere.

According to the Tower Lord, Britain and Korea differed in mana density, making the magic circle’s energy demands exceptionally high. Liquid magic crystals alone would not suffice. As a non-mage, Hansol wondered how much mana could possibly be necessary, but he let the matter rest; it was a trivial concern right now.

Soon enough, the pocket watch shone with power, casting a small radiance. Though not yet a full thirty days, it brimmed with energy thanks wholly to the Tower Lord’s skills.

“The association might have supplied it, but it was originally crafted here in our tower. Adjusting it is hardly a challenge.”

The Tower Lord accompanied his words with a smile that might have seemed arrogant to others; Hansol, having witnessed his skills firsthand, nodded in trust.

“Moreover, it is inscribed so only you may use it. Even if you are required to return it to the association, it will be nothing but an ornament.”

‘No, I never asked for such a service…’

With this unexpectedly generous gesture—and the Tower Lord’s whispered offer to sell him off to the association if trouble arose—Hansol could not help but be bemused.

Entrusting it for enhancement had, for reasons unknown, rendered the item soulbound—like something plucked straight from fantasy. Hansol stared ruefully at the pocket watch and necklace.

‘Is this truly alright…?’

He would have to return the item in one year. Would he have enough standing to ignore the association’s demands when the time came? With faint hope, Hansol decided to avert his gaze from such future worries.

“Very well, I shall input the coordinates.”

Clad in the Mage Tower’s symbolic robe, the Tower Lord swept the garment aside as he mounted the magic circle.

Would all be well? Would they, in fact, yet live? After all, these were survivors of countless gate breaks—they were not ones who would perish easily. Hansol forced such rational reassurance, but thoughts of the monstrous foe once battling beneath turbulent skies left his heart uneasy.

With anxiety and anticipation in equal measure, Hansol stepped onto the circle, watching as the Tower Lord deftly engraved Britain’s coordinates. In a rush of blue light as with America, Hansol drew a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly.

As with the association’s magic circle, nausea rose up. This hadn’t happened when he traveled to America; perhaps something was different. Setting aside his doubts, he rubbed his stomach and blinked into the altered air, straining to refocus his eyes. It was a familiar landscape that greeted him.

No—wait.

‘Where are the two of them…?’

He should have arrived with both, yet, puzzlingly, he stood quite alone. The desolate surroundings added a dash more bewilderment.

The air hung heavy with the scent of smoke and iron, mingled with something strange and unidentifiable. As when he first arrived in Britain, a ruined battlefield welcomed his return.

Had he grown accustomed to such scenes? He swept his gaze over the bleak terrain, finding it impossible to feel at ease. Scattered corpses—men, monsters, hard to distinguish—littered the earth, surrounded by shattered tents and camps mingled with the dead.

Among the wreckage, a flash of soiled white cloth caught Hansol’s eye.

“That is…?”

It was no mere deja vu, nor simply the result of repeated visits.

It was the place where Hansol last lingered—where Cassie’s magic soared, and arms were raised against that terrible foe.

Hansol stood now at the heart of the battlefield he remembered.

“…Surely not.”

A wave of dread quickened his steps. It could not be—surely, these would not be so easily slain? Rushing faster, Hansol scanned the grisly visages of the fallen, praying desperately, Please, please!

As the count of unfamiliar corpses grew, oddly, Hansol found relief.

They were not there—the youth, nor the near-corpses, nor the Duke, nor Cassie. Of those who lay scattered on the ground, none were familiar to him. Thank heavens. Mourning the dead, Hansol exhaled selfish relief.

“Thank goodness….”

Truly.

With a lighter heart, Hansol gazed once more across the scene. Now none were left alive. It was the same battlefield, but unlike last time, not a soul survived.

This journey would be long. Hansol checked his inventory and, cautiously, moved onward.

First, he would follow the traces left by survivors. Silence reigned, and while monsters were not likely to burst forth swinging blades, haste would remain wise. But what stopped Hansol in his swift stride was a tiny voice.

“Who’s there…?”

“……!”

‘Is someone alive?’

The voice he never expected had him looking once more at the scattered dead. Surely no living person remained…?

“Saint?”

The familiar title—a term he would correct if given the chance—made Hansol turn sharply.

“Truly, are you the Saint?”

Like a watercolor layered over the backdrop, a translucent figure emerged—a youth, his arm torn away, once weeping in agony.

Was he now a ghost? Had he died without Hansol’s sanctuary saving him? Or had some unkind monster brought his end?

The questions, tinged with heartache, pressed Hansol to bite his lip. But the boy’s outline sharpened by the moment.

“Saint!”

In an instant, the young man, now whole, charged forward before halting at a respectful distance, his eyes trembling as he gazed at Hansol.

Then, clutching his robe tightly, tears welled up in his eyes.

“It truly is you, Saint!”

“Are you alive…?”

Seeing the young man’s tearful gaze, Hansol stepped back, wary—his eyes settling on the youth’s newly restored hands. Had Hansol not healed only up to the elbow? Now, both hands looked perfectly whole.

“Yes, of course. I am alive and well!”

Brandishing his left fist, he thumped his chest and drew his shoulders proudly back. Truly, it was hard to believe he had ever lost an arm at all—his hearty laugh bore witness to it.