Step to paradise

Hypothesis after hypothesis.

Each clue was like a torn map, stacked on top of each other, but none of them pointed in the right direction.

Flauros walked along the leaf-strewn slope that crossed the memorial garden. A black crow flew out of the treetops, like an uninvited shadow. He looked up at it for a second, feeling a strange feeling in his heart.

But then... he could only sigh.

The feeling was there, the facts were gone.

"If I'm wrong… then I'll just die."

He smiled faintly. No one saw, and no one needed to see.

Flauros finally turned off the lightly misted slope, back to the old neighborhood, where the apple pie shop was, where the kids were kicking mana balls like they were playing soccer, and where he had started the day by trying to pretend he was a normal person.

The atmosphere here was still the same, peaceful to the point of being deceitful.

But Flauros… no longer felt relaxed.

Flauros stopped in front of the inn door when the smell entered his nostrils.

He didn't know where it came from, he didn't know when, but he knew it had crept into the air, as if a creature was hiding in the breath of the city.

It wasn't rotten flesh.

It wasn't the smell of congealed blood.

It was a deathly aura that carried an ancient aura.

For another wizard, this might have been overlooked.

But Flauros, being a cat-man, a species with the blood of nocturnal beasts, had a near-absolute sense of hearing and smell. Moreover, he was a person with the forbidden Knowledge magic, capable of perceiving things that had not yet formed.

And he knew…

that something was gradually "forming."

"It's not like a corpse. It's not like a cursed corpse."

"It's not a spirit either."

"This…"

"…it's like…resurrection?"

A memory that was ripped out of someone's soul, twisted, cut, and then forced back into a living body.

And when it existed, it exuded this smell.

"Forced memory…forbidden art…"

Flauros muttered.

At first, it was just a cold, pungent smell, like rusty metal soaked in ash.

But when Flauros took a few more steps, the air suddenly became heavy as if the mana pressure around him had increased in an instant.

That deathly smell was now clear. And it also carried a spine-tingling familiarity.

"…dragon race?"

Flauros's eyes darkened, his entire body tensed like a bowstring.

His instincts screamed wildly inside, but his appearance was still calm and cold, only his palms were slightly clenched, mana stirring at his index finger.

This ancient and calm aura was unmistakable. Flauros had come into contact with the person carrying that aura, and had come into contact with him for a long time.

'This aura is unmistakable, isn't he preparing to revive the dragon race?'

'Could it be that he succeeded in such a short period?'

'That's absurd... no, this aura...'

'It's different. Isn't it him? Then who? Who would dare to use the forbidden dragon bone revival technique here?!'

'Could it be that he's planning to create an army of dragon bones?'

Flauros couldn't help but mutter.

This was the mana of resurrection.

And only the madmen who pursued the god of decay could do it. The Necromancers.

Flauros's expression changed for real.

Not because of panic, but because he understood what was happening.

If all the bones of the dragon here were to revive, a disaster that could destroy an entire continent would be inevitable. It must be known that this place had the highest concentration of dragon corpses on the continent.

Flauros did not hesitate.

As soon as he realized the scent of death was getting stronger, he immediately turned on his heel, dashing away in a movement as light as the wind brushing past the roof tiles.

The dark gray shawl fluttered behind him, brushing past the magical lampposts that had begun to flicker erratically, a sign of the deviating magical aura.

The scent was no longer faint.

It was thick and heavy, as if something was being torn from the realm of death by force.

The closer he got to the western suburbs, the more chaotic the aura became.

It was not just death.

Flauros stopped behind a collapsed wall, his eyes slightly narrowed.

Someone else was coming.

On the rocky slope in the distance, several dark figures were moving.

A tall figure, wearing a long cloak, his movements decisive, but he did not create any residual mana.

Royal wizard.

Flauros caught a glimpse of the small symbol of a fire tower inlaid with silver on the hem of the royal crest of the Ozone Kingdom.

They weren't that stupid.

They had smelled it too.

And they knew something was trying to pull them away from death.

Flauros took a step back, hiding in the shadow of the wall.

He didn't intend to be discovered.

Not now.

The royal wizard could be cannon fodder. Or a decoy.

But certainly not a friend.

Especially not one as hunted as he was across the continent.

Just as he passed the low trees on the mountainside, Flauros suddenly stopped.

Before his eyes, a sight so overwhelming that even someone who had tried countless spells was stunned.

A giant magic formation, vast and winding like a hellish lotus, was opening up, layer by layer, entwining with each other like a magical galaxy.

The outermost layer was a hazy green light ring, flickering like the eyes of a living corpse. The middle layer was an ancient dragon's secret inscription, smoldering like acid etchings on a dead dragon's skin. The innermost core was as deep as a vortex, yet it did not move at all.

The magic formation not only covers the ground.

It crawled up the cliff, slithering into the air, each magical incantation ring sparkling like dragon scales turning into stars, slowly revolving around a central point, and all of it was coming to life.

Flauros felt like the ground itself was breathing, and that breath had the scent of ancient blood, mixed with death energy.

At the foot of the mountain, the royal wizards had gathered into formation.

They cast spells continuously, and the moves to break seals, tear barriers, and cut off the flow of mana were all launched.

But all of them dissolved into nothingness.

The formation was not damaged at all.

It was like a beast that had awakened, everything that hit it was swallowed without resistance, only absorbed.

Flauros squinted.

He saw that the flow of mana had completely closed. This formation was no longer in the process of being activated. It was complete and was calling out to something under the mountain.

Green light shone on the clouds. The entire sky at the foot of the mountain was dyed in the color of a dead sunset, as if another era had just emerged from hell to breathe.

Beautiful…

But it was the beauty of destruction.

The buzzing of magical power vibrated in the air, deep like the heartbeat of a giant monster coming to life.

And then, before Flauros' eyes, the spell began to breathe.

Each ancient rune suddenly lit up, like streams of luminescent blood flowing down from the foot of the mountain towards the sky.

They pierced straight through the layers of low clouds, causing the dense clouds below the mountainside to explode into white fragments, falling like ashes in an ancient ritual.

No longer mist.

No longer clouds.

Only the light of the runes remained, drawing an overwhelming barrier.

Those runes were not simply language.

They lived. They twisted. They knew when to connect.

Each line of letters hundreds of meters long, winding like dragons, circling each other according to a law that did not belong to this era.

They crawled up into the sky.

As if carving a chapter of scripture into the high realm.

Finally, the ancient runes rolled up, strip by strip, intersecting, breaking, knotting, connecting themselves, and merging into a giant sphere suspended in mid-air.

The sphere glowed faintly.

A green light that was dark, mysterious, and ominous.

Flauros stood in the middle of the cliff, the wind whipping his cloak harshly.

The spell had taken shape, the sphere had appeared, and in that moment, old memories seemed to rise from the ashes of time.

The yellowed pages of books that had been read under the candlelight burned away halfway up the dead forest, and the voice of Dante, the legendary wandering wizard, seemed to resound in his ears.

"When the rune rings are stacked on top of each other nine times, the summoning sphere will form from wind bone and stone blood. The more mana it absorbs, the faster it will summon the sealed soul's remains. They do not live. They only remember how to die. They only know how to obey the one who brought them back to the sunlight."

Flauros clenched his fist. The bone dragon was about to rise. He knew. He had imagined it a hundred times.

But this time, something was wrong.

It was imprisoned.

Flauros squinted, using magic to see through the thin layer.

And then he saw invisible chains, woven around the sphere, like golden nerves wrapped around a heart of fire.

They sparkled with a faint metallic light, not bright but like the sunlight of a slowly dying autumn afternoon.

Each strand seemed to carry within it a forgotten contract, radiating a calm pressure.

The giant sphere rotated silently in the sky. The death aura surged like a gray-green mist, and when the golden chains appeared and sparkled, the entire group of royal wizards breathed a sigh of relief.

"The holy seal is still there."

"It is the divine chain of the Holy Sword."

"Nothing can break your bond."

Their voices were soft, respectful, as if they were praying.

Some even knelt on one knee, placing their hands on their left chests as if to confirm their belief.

The ancient belief passed down through generations of royal wizards was that the Holy Sword of old had sealed all ancient dragons with chains of light.

Once bound, they would sleep forever.

No one, no magic, no living thing could pull them up again.

But Flauros remained silent. No head bowed. No movement. Only his eyes were wide open, sharp as a slash across the gray sky.

The golden chains were not solid. They were dim. Not distinct, not completely gone, but as if fading.

Flauros tilted his head slightly.

From his perspective, a section of the chain on the left side of the sphere had faded to the point of being almost transparent.

Scattered with streaks of golden light, not because of the dissipation of magical power, but because the magic circle was dying along with the one who created it.

The Holy Sword had long since passed away.

Not a single word was recorded in the books. No solemn farewell ceremony. Only rumors. That after the great war of the three clans, he had disappeared along with his sword, deep within the earth.

With no successor.

With no one to maintain it.

The magic circle was still there, but it was just a cage without a guard.

Swordsmen were not like wizards.

They were incapable of creating an eternal magic circle because they did not use mana.

Once they died, everything died with them.

Flauros tightened his grip on the hem of his cloak. While the royal wizards were still nodding in relief, he saw small cracks gradually forming on the holy seal's curve.

That gate… was about to open.