Imprisoned for a Trillion Years, I Was Worshipped by All Gods!

As soon as Alan's words fell, a chilly breeze swept through the air as if to echo his sentiment. It whipped Blanche's long hair into disarray and made her shiver involuntarily.

"You should leave. This place… isn't suitable for the living to linger in."

Alan issued the cold dismissal without emotion. Blanche, wisely choosing not to argue, quietly left the area without a word.

Once she was gone, Alan slowly made his way deeper into the cemetery, stopping before the largest gravestone. He sat down at its base, gazing at the words carved solemnly into the stone:

"Here lies Gayle, a devoted Headmaster and a great mentor in the magical arts."

Alan took out a silver flask and poured all its contents onto the ground before the grave.

Then, he pulled out a second bottle, raised it to his lips, and took several large gulps.

Hiccup...

"Headmaster… I never understood why you liked this stuff," Alan muttered, eyes slightly glazed. "It's spicy, bitter… even if you lower the alcohol content and make it a wheat brew, it still tastes like crap."

He took another swig, grimaced, and continued, "But now I get it. It tastes awful, sure, but it helps you forget. Just for a while. All the burdens, the worries, the pain... they blur away. It really is the cheapest form of stress relief there is."

Unknowingly, several empty bottles now littered the ground around him, clinking as he shifted.

Alan's face was faintly flushed from the alcohol. He swayed a bit, then forced himself to his feet, mumbling, "That's all for tonight… I've got things to do. Headmaster, seniors… we'll catch up another time."

By the time Alan walked out of the Second Cemetery, it was already past midnight. The moon hung high in the sky, casting a pale and ethereal light over the mountains, as though some divine presence was silently watching all beneath.

Wrapped in moonlight like a silver cloak, Alan walked slowly down a winding mountain path.

The alcohol had dulled his senses and suppressed his soul's activity to its minimum—a technique he discovered helped him recover from the mental strain accumulated through recent intense training sessions.

"Nine hundred ninety-seven… nine hundred ninety-eight!"

As Alan made his way back toward the Grand Hall, planning to rest, he unexpectedly encountered Francis, who was just finishing up his last set of training.

No sooner had they locked eyes than Alan summoned Lumen Sancta—his sacred blade—and slashed at Francis without hesitation.

"Whoa!" Francis jumped back, hurriedly disengaging the gravity fields wrapped around his limbs. "Are you nuts, Alan?! What the hell are you attacking me for?!"

He was furious. He had just wrapped up his workout and was planning to enjoy a hot bath before bed. Instead, Alan had ambushed him like a madman.

Hiccup.

Alan burped again and raised his head. His eyes were unfocused, his expression unreadable—somewhere between sober and utterly wasted.

Francis couldn't help but wrinkle his nose at the strong stench of alcohol clinging to Alan.

"You picked up drinking too?" Francis sneered, disgusted. "What, is alcohol abuse a new requirement for being Headmaster now?"

"Shut up."

Alan raised Lumen Sancta, pointing its gleaming tip straight at Francis's vulnerable throat. His voice sharpened like a drawn blade.

"Let's fight, Francis!"

"Fight?! What the hell for?! If I could beat you, you think you'd be the Headmaster instead of me?!"

Francis snapped, visibly annoyed.

But Alan only grew more fired up by the provocation.

"Heh… You're right. I don't want to be Headmaster anymore anyway. If you win tonight, the title's yours. I'll give it to you right now. Come on!"

"Oh, piss off!" Francis scoffed. "Go sleep it off, will you? I was just talking shit—I'm not actually gunning for your job. Greater power means greater responsibility, and I know damn well I'm not cut out for that role."

"No, I think you're perfect for it," Alan slurred with a smirk. "This kind of job? Best given to someone as shameless and carefree as you. You won't feel the weight."

Alan didn't wait for more back-and-forth. Without warning, he lunged forward, his blade flashing again.

"You are out of your damn mind!"

Thanks to the dual enchantments from his magical gear, Francis had lightened his body weight to the bare minimum. He barely managed to dodge Alan's strike.

But Alan wasn't done. His attacks came one after another—like a man possessed—each swing filled with emotion, desperation, and a brutal desire to vent. Blades of light lashed toward Francis, some even carrying the echoes of elemental sword techniques.

Francis was drenched in sweat. Alan's onslaught was relentless, and he simply couldn't keep up.

If this keeps going, Francis thought, I'll be chopped into meat cubes before dawn.

"Damn it! You drink and suddenly forget how to hold back?!"

"Fine! You asked for it—I'm calling backup!"

Just as he shouted this, Alan suddenly stopped attacking. He folded his arms, leaned against a nearby tree, and watched Francis in silence, the sword tip gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

His posture clearly said: "Call whoever you want. One comes, I cut them down. Two come, I'll kill them both."

"Fort! You done training yet?! Get over here, Alan's lost it again!"

Francis's voice carried over the mountains like a lion's roar, summoning Fort from the other side of the hill.

When Fort finally arrived, he was greeted by the tense scene of Alan and Francis standing face-to-face, locked in a dangerous standoff.

"What's going on?" Fort approached cautiously, already assuming the worst.

He figured Francis had probably done something to provoke Alan again.

But just as Fort stepped within five meters of Alan, a blinding light-element slash sliced past his ear, severing a few strands of hair.

Fort froze. His entire body went rigid.

He recognized that technique—Light Sword Art—Alan's signature killing move.

So many assassins and bounty hunters had fallen to this exact slash, and now Fort understood why.

It wasn't that those victims hadn't wanted to dodge—it was that they couldn't.

The sword carried a devastating magical presence, like a mountain of destruction crashing down on you. It triggered such primal fear that your body refused to move.

In that split second, Fort understood.

"Don't just stand there—move!" Francis shouted.

He swiftly manipulated the gravity field around Fort to reduce his weight, then dove forward and tackled him out of the way.

The place Fort had just been standing now bore a massive crescent-shaped gouge, ten meters deep and still sizzling with fading energy.

"Oh my god… Alan's really lost his damn mind this time. Who attacks their own teammate like this?!"

Fort mumbled, stunned and pale.

Francis, meanwhile, was sweating bullets.

"Well… he's not completely insane," Francis grumbled. "He just drank a lot. And now he's wasted and not thinking straight."

He sighed heavily. "Until he sobers up… we've got no choice but to keep humoring him. And don't even think about running—like hell we could outrun him anyway."