Dimpelmoser realized that something was going terribly wrong.
‘What is this? Normally, Lotheron would never step forward like this.’
What kind of man was Lotheron at the New Mage Tower?
He was a Sixth-Circle mage, but not the type to flaunt his authority because of it.
His tone of speech was stiff, but he always treated others with respect, no matter who they were, and that earned him much goodwill.
Even when someone picked a fight, he would never rush into conflict. He preferred to settle matters rationally.
Some said that was merely a mask to conceal his true self, but judging from his usual conduct, that didn’t seem to be the whole truth.
That was why Dimpelmoser had taken this situation lightly.
He had accepted the Bourgeois faction’s request, thinking it was only a matter of detaining Lotheron for a few days.
Of course, there was a risk in touching the Proletariat faction, but the Bourgeois side had assured him they would handle the aftermath, and he had no choice but to believe them.
‘If this were the usual Lotheron, he would’ve stayed calm and just waited a few days before leaving.’
But what was this scene before his eyes?
What was this overwhelming aura flowing from Lotheron? And for what reason had he revealed the true nature he had kept hidden all this time?
That he was a beastkin was shocking enough, and the fact that a so-called “savage race” beastkin had achieved the Lexuror rank was astonishing. Even more surprising was that the man who had designed the very foundation of the mage’s prison-like interrogation chambers was him.
But what shocked Dimpelmoser the most was the sight of Lotheron himself now.
Behind him loomed the figure of a giant—a muscular man with a long, flowing mane-like beard.
Beast ears, the mark of his race.
And that unique-type magic: [Origin].
A spell that borrowed the strength of ancient heroes’ souls to fight alongside the caster.
‘That’s... unique-type magic.’
At first glance, it seemed similar to [Necromancy], which conversed with the dead, but in truth, it was completely different.
Necromancy conversed with the lingering thoughts of the dead, or forcibly subdued wandering spirits to wield their strength.
[Origin] magic went far deeper—something closer to the sacred.
It connected to the Great Flow, inheriting their strength and resonating with their souls in profound harmony.
For this reason, as a user of [Origin] magic, Lotheron carried a special title:
[Channeler].
A title granted to one whose communion with souls had reached the utmost extreme.
People once wondered how a human could hold such a title—but after learning he was a beastkin, it all made sense.
The beastkin were known as those who could commune with the spirits of their ancestors beyond even nature itself.
If the power he wielded was the “Spirit” that beastkin controlled, then it was perfectly possible.
[Origin] magic was Lotheron’s own creation—his fusion of Spirit and magic.
“You deceived us from the very beginning!”
Dimpelmoser shouted, trying to drown out his fear.
To that, Lotheron replied with a snort.
“Deceived? There was never a rule forbidding beastkin from entering the New Mage Tower.”
The New Tower had welcomed the membership of other races to distinguish itself from the Old Tower.
Of course, it was mostly for show—few non-humans ever joined.
Still, some had, and Dimpelmoser had no real grounds to accuse Lotheron for revealing his identity.
“And did you really think you could keep me here?”
The giant figure behind Lotheron stretched its arms toward the ceiling.
If that had been ordinary magic, the moment it touched the wall, the mana devices embedded within would have absorbed it.
But this was both magic and Spirit.
Crackle—crunch!
As the giant exerted its strength, the ceiling shattered, and the inner mechanisms were crushed to bits.
[Origin] magic wasn’t ordinary sorcery—none of this chamber’s devices could contain it.
“N-no!”
Dimpelmoser’s face turned pale. If things continued like this, the entire plan would collapse.
Now that it had come to this, he had to do something—anything—so he gathered mana into the staff he was holding.
The inspectors waiting outside the interrogation chamber, hearing the commotion, rushed inside.
They froze in horror at the sight of a translucent giant tearing the chamber apart with its bare hands, then immediately began casting in response.
“Stop him!”
Spells were unleashed toward Lotheron.
But Lotheron met their attacks with a scoff and moved swiftly.
His movements were as quick and sharp as a beast’s.
Even in such a confined space, he slipped through a storm of high-density magic like an eel—it was unbelievable even to those watching.
It was like trying to strike a ghost or illusion: visible to the eye, but untouchable.
Even for a beastkin, known for their superior physical ability, his agility was beyond comprehension.
Then Dimpelmoser noticed the strange energy surrounding Lotheron’s body.
“Don’t tell me—that’s also the power of [Origin] magic?”
“You realized it, but it’s too late.”
Not only had the giant form appeared behind him—Lotheron had also summoned another hero’s soul and fused it into his body.
The result: explosive physical strength, lightning reflexes, and deadly combat instincts.
Lotheron’s fist crashed into Dimpelmoser’s jaw.
“Y-you dare use your fists inside this sacred Mage Tower!”
“The savage nature of your kind shows itself after all!”
The inspectors shouted in outrage, but Lotheron didn’t even bother to listen.
Only a short while ago, he would’ve hesitated to act like this, afraid his beastkin identity might be exposed.
But Lotheron had changed.
The battle beneath the Imperial capital.
The beastkin kidnapping incident in the southern plains.
And now, all that was happening here in Isla Machia.
Lotheron had always hidden behind a mask—but he had come to understand that he could no longer do so.
If you just endure, you’ll eventually get your chance—he had realized that thought was wrong.
If you want a chance, you must fight for it.
So he had accepted it.
His weakness.
His identity as a beastkin.
He had taken off his mask, to face the world as he truly was.
“Wasn’t freedom and openness the symbol of the New Mage Tower?”
Lotheron rolled his shoulder, loosening his fist.
“Then I should be free to throw a few punches, shouldn’t I?”
* * *
“They’ll handle their side well enough. We should get moving too.”
“Yeah! We need to catch that sneaky bastard and beat the truth out of him!”
As Ludger and Phyron prepared to leave, Gariel stopped them from behind.
“Wait.”
“What is it?”
“Take me with you.”
At those unexpected words, Ludger’s eyes flickered slightly, and Phyron let out a whistle.
“Hah! Feeling sulky after being called weak, are you? Admirable spirit, but unfortunately, you’ll be useless in the fight ahead. You’d only hold us back.”
Phyron’s words struck Gariel right in the heart.
It might’ve seemed harsh, but in truth, Phyron was saying it for Gariel’s sake.
In real combat like this, vague encouragement couldn’t steady a person’s resolve.
It was better to face reality directly—even brutally.
Gariel bit his lip.
He already knew he wasn’t of much use, but hearing it aloud cut deeply.
He knew it.
He was weak.
Though he had mastered the unprecedented magic of time itself, it was of no use in battle.
The only thing he could do was stop time and run away.
If he were ambushed before he could cast, he couldn’t even react.
He had nearly died to poison because of that weakness.
“I know I’m not of much help. But that doesn’t mean I can just stand here and watch.”
“You might die. You’re fine with that?”
To Phyron, Gariel was a frail man.
Calling him weak wasn’t just about his untrained body—it was about what he saw inside him.
Phyron never looked down on someone merely because their body was weak.
A frail body could be strengthened through effort.
But a rotten spirit could not.
To Phyron, Gariel was the latter.
A man chasing only a safe, comfortable life.
If he had no talent, that would be one thing—but Gariel had potential, yet shackled himself out of cowardice.
Even if he said he wanted to fight, such a person was never an asset in battle.
“Even so, I have to go.”
“Why?”
“Because staying here, there’s nothing I can do.”
“So you’d rather jump into the fire? Don’t you realize that’s even more foolish?”
“I...”
“Don’t speak with half-hearted resolve!”
Phyron barked angrily.
Seeing that Gariel wouldn’t back down, he even considered restraining him by force—but Ludger raised a hand to stop him.
“Professor?”
When Phyron looked at him questioningly, Ludger shook his head and fixed his gaze on Gariel.
“Don’t hold him back.”
The words were brief, but their meaning was clear.
Gariel froze, clearly not expecting Ludger to allow it—then smiled faintly.
“Get ready and come.”
Leaving those words behind, Ludger stepped outside.
As he looked over the city lights, Phyron approached him from behind.
“Professor, why’d you let him come? You know that weakling won’t be any help.”
“He won’t be useless.”
“Sure, maybe he’ll help somehow—but he won’t survive. For his own sake, we should’ve stopped him. You know that as well as I do.”
“I know. But... I couldn’t bring myself to refuse.”
“Huh. I didn’t think you’d be the sentimental type. I expected you to cut him off cold. Or is it because of your past with him?”
Phyron already knew that Ludger and Gariel were acquainted.
He’d seen the look in Gariel’s eyes every time he glanced at Ludger—conflicted, burdened.
“That man’s just confused. He doesn’t know what he should do.”
“In battle, confusion means death. Or do you believe he’ll find his path?”
“Not believe... just hope.”
Ludger thought of Gariel.
And of his past.
The man who had lost the woman he loved and wept in grief.
Who had taken in her daughter, now without memory, and lived burdened with silent sorrow.
Who hid the truth and buried his pain deep in his heart.
Ludger knew.
Better than anyone.
“Twelve years ago, he lost the woman he loved. And ever since, he’s done everything he can to save her daughter. A man who always begged to be left out of fights now said, for the first time, that he wants to fight.”
Ludger turned to Phyron and asked quietly,
“Tell me—how could I refuse him?”
“You feel guilty toward him, don’t you?”
“I feel guilt toward everyone I’ve wounded.”
“Everyone, including yourself?”
Phryon’s words struck true.
“Of course not.”
Ludger denied it, but Phyron could see through him.
The one suffering the most was Ludger himself.
Even so, it was that guilt toward Gariel that made him allow the man to come.
And on the other hand, Gariel, though he resented Ludger, understood him as well.
“Well, I shouldn’t meddle in something so personal... but I hope this ends well.”
“I appreciate the sentiment.”
At that moment, Gariel stepped outside, ready.
In truth, all he carried were a few artifacts.
Ludger had given him time only so he could collect his thoughts before the battle.
“I’m ready.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Gariel and Ludger exchanged no further words.
But even without speaking, they understood each other through their eyes.
Ludger, Phyron, and Gariel walked forward, into the island’s rising steam.
From now on—it would be a head-on confrontation.
* * *
The wolf continued to run across the sea.
How long had they been racing over the endless waves? In the distance, dense steam-filled mist rose from the water.
It wasn’t strange for morning fog to appear, but to Freuden, it felt far too artificial.
Soon, he saw a dark silhouette taking shape within the mist.
“That’s...”
Gradually, the ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) figure revealed itself—a colossal mountain, or perhaps a fortress.
Moments later, a horn-like blare echoed across the ocean.
As they drew closer, the outline of the island became clear through the mist.
“That’s Isla Machia.”
It looked like a massive living creature, wrapping itself in a cocoon of fog to hide its body.
He hadn’t thought much when he’d heard it was a mechanical island—but seeing it with his own eyes, its sheer scale was staggering.
‘Rine is there...’
With a hardened expression, Freuden gripped the mane of the wolf spirit.
Sensing their destination ahead, the spirit accelerated.
One man and one beast.
They landed upon the island of machines.