“Divination Spell…”
Of course, El was proficient as well. Arcane arts of the Fate school were notoriously difficult, but as Anthony’s apprentice, he had been exposed to these types of spells.
At the scene, Ude the Magma Dragon’s blood had been left behind—a perfect catalyst for a Divination Spell. He tried to glean clues from the threads of fate, but all that filled his mind was a dense fog.
“It’s Lust.” Angell said, “She can even fool the world’s will; concealing the traces of fate is nothing for her.”
“Besides, the fragments of information gained from a Divination Spell are never entirely accurate. Fate is like the surface of water—once you try to observe it, it’s already rippling. The course of destiny changes every moment.”
“You’ve dabbled in Divination Spells too?”
El asked in surprise. Although this was just basic theory of the Fate school arcane arts, he couldn’t help but marvel at the Demon’s breadth of knowledge.
One of the great theorems of Divination Spells was: ‘What is seen is not the truth.’ The caster can never observe the true trajectory of fate.
“Who do you think I am? With my power…”
The Demon saw the suspicion deepening on El’s face and finally admitted, “Alright, fine, you win. Everyone has things they’re not good at. All I need to worry about is crushing my enemies. There’s someone around me who’s always tinkering with these mysterious arts anyway.”
“Surprisingly honest.”
That made more sense now. El had thought his own skill was lacking, but even Anthony’s Divination Spells failed—clearly, the problem was on the other side.
“So, what should we do next? I’ve had enough of these stupid students, their nauseating innocence, and their self-important arrogance. The order of the human world is suffocating—I say we go and create some chaos!” Angell was excited.
El left the academy and walked silently along Commercial Street in the upper district.
“Tonight, the Demon Cult has a secret event in the lower district. Maybe I can pry some clues from their mouths.” He recited silently to himself.
Old Mike’s message wasn’t just a status update—it also revealed a critical piece of information.
Tonight, a slave market would be held in the lower district, with cultists taking part.
He didn’t understand exactly what role they played, but El knew one thing: if your enemies wanted to do something, the best thing to do was to make sure they didn’t succeed.
“Look at the people in this street—dressed to the nines, their faces brimming with happiness. Look, that lady’s skin is so soft it could probably be pinched to produce water.”
“El, you’re a noble too. You don’t have to work, yet you enjoy all the glory and riches. All you have to do is seize the wealth of the lower classes. Isn’t this order perfectly reasonable?” The Demon’s tone dripped with mockery.
If the streets of the lower district could be called clean, then those of the upper district could only be described as prosperous.
Broad streets were frequently crossed by luxurious carriages, their polished stone surfaces so gleaming that El could see his own face, intricately carved with ornate patterns.
Magitech was everywhere, and every now and then, the magical pulse of a magitek train starting up would roll through the air.
No matter where you looked, there would always be an armored knight in view—their tall, sturdy presence gave a sense of safety and pride.
Look, this is the Leon Empire—the birthplace of ‘knights’—and I am a distinguished citizen of the upper district.
El could hear the Demon’s derision.
He retorted, “Watch your words, Angell. I admit, the nobility’s wealth comes from the commoners. But we’re not just parasites living off others—we shoulder the responsibility of governing our fiefs. The capital’s nobles are tasked with making wise policies.”
“We drive the development of magitech, making the lives of the Empire’s people better, so they no longer need to worry about food. The nobility may indeed stand above the rest, but we make greater contributions than the commoners as well.”
El was identifying shops along Commercial Street as he argued with the Demon in his mind.
“Such hypocrisy, boy. Should I call you naive, or something else? You just happened to be born lucky, so you can say this as if it’s only natural. I can’t be bothered to argue with you anymore.”
After saying that, the Demon fell silent, seemingly unwilling to speak with El any further.
El’s values weren’t something that could be shaken by a few words from a Demon. For them to change, El would have to experience things himself, to see with his own eyes—not merely listen to sermons.
At last, El’s gaze settled on a blacksmith shop, its sign reading “Forge of Jagger”.
The owner was a Dwarf with a thick, reddish-brown beard. At the moment, he wasn’t busy at the forge, but was instead seated behind the counter with a quill, writing on a scroll.
Jagger Copperbeard, a well-known blacksmith in the upper district, and also notorious for his bad temper.
Almost all citizens of the Leon Empire were human—other races were rare. In contrast, to the southwest in the Draca United Kingdom, there was a diversity of races: Beastkin with animal ears, Elves, and others…
When El approached, the Dwarf didn’t even look up, speaking in a gruff voice, “Hello, customer. What do you need? Materials, armor, or a trusty weapon? No, wait—I’m muddle-headed. These days are a bit sensitive; weapons are temporarily not for sale. Thank you.”
The blacksmith shop was tiny, as if custom-built for Dwarves. Even though the forge hadn’t yet started running, El could feel the heat radiating from the setup.
El got straight to the point. “The mouse stole a piece of butter.”
Jagger’s head jerked up. He squinted and quickly sized up El. “Where did the butter go?”
“In the tabby cat’s belly.” El recalled the passphrase Old Mike had given him.
“Follow me.” Jagger stood and led El into the back of the blacksmith shop, his height barely reaching El’s waist.
El had to bend down to get through the little door.
“This place is warded—a perfect private space. The letter that old mouse gave you is here; it was delivered about half an hour ago.”
The Dwarf was Old Mike’s contact in the upper district. Normally, when Old Mike stole something valuable, he would bring it to the Dwarf to fence.
El had been surprised to learn of this. How had the king of the slum thieves gotten mixed up with an upper district Dwarf?
Old Mike was unwilling to say much, only mentioning that the Dwarf had shared life-and-death experiences with him and was completely trustworthy.
Since the Demon Cult’s operation started in the afternoon, there was no opportunity to use communication stones.
Thus, Old Mike used the oldest method—passing written messages for the next step.
El accepted the letter and said, “Thank you.”
The Dwarf didn’t respond, instead muttering to himself, “That old mouse won’t serve the nobles anymore… What did you do? Threaten him? Use those street urchins? But that’s impossible… Strange, the things you see living this long.”
He mumbled, “I don’t care about any of that, but just a word of advice, you’d best keep out of dangerous affairs. The mouse… never mind.”
The Dwarf hesitated, then finally forced out, “If you ever need help, you can come to me, even if I’m just a blacksmith. Old Mike won’t say it, but I figure you know what to do.”
“Hope everything goes well.”
El listened in silence, hand tightening around the letter.
“It will. I promise,” he said.