Bairan stood rooted to the spot, his jaw a little slack.
'Brother...'
That stranger had called himself his master's brother. When those words first hung in the air, Bairan's mind scrambled to make sense of them. He'd thought the man meant Raizel.
But this tattered figure was nothing like Raizel. When he lifted his hat to bid him farewell, that snowy white hair instantly reminded Bairan of his master.
He knew little about The Void Lord, as he called him. His master's foundation was murky at best—his parents weren't really his parents, he seemed to come from elsewhere, and somehow the present version of his master had existed before in another world.
It was a tangled web of nonsense too complex for any single human to comprehend.
Yet all this made his master an extraordinary and superior being in Bairan's eyes.
The realization that his master's brother had casually revealed himself sent a thrill through him. His heart leaped at the thought of sharing this news with Northern.
But that wasn't even the most significant part.
What truly mattered was that his master's brother supposedly came from the Central Plain's mightiest nation—the continent's undisputed powerhouse.
And if rumors were true, he wasn't just from there; he was a prince, wasn't he?
Then there was the terrifying aura he radiated. Bairan sensed the might of a Paragon, certainly, but this was something far more sinister.
His power carried a different depth and potency than other Paragons—even the two currently locked in battle.
Something about this man triggered a flash of memory—an opponent who once made Bairan's skin prickle with icy goosebumps, though the face was not clear.
'What is he doing here? Have they started to move?'
The idea that this prince had journeyed all the way to Fhugal just to meet Northern seemed absurd. Pure nonsense.
Northern had been alive this whole time, yet none of them had made the effrontery to meet before. Why now?
Bairan considered his master's rising fame as Rian from the non-combative school. But his instincts whispered otherwise.
In the massive ripple effect caused by Dante's revolution, his master's newly emerging fame seemed too fragile to attract attention from a powerhouse like Reimgard—enough to send their prince.
Besides, if seeking Northern was the goal, he wouldn't come to Fhugal; he'd go to Verulania.
Bairan rubbed his dry chin, his thoughts churning. Unease settled in his gut like a stone.
If Reimgard became involved, wouldn't the situation spiral beyond control? Was his master prepared to face his brothers?
Was his master strong enough? Or did the young lad need more rigorous training?
The questions swirled like autumn leaves in his troubled mind. And not having answers at the moment troubled him even more.
The earth-shattering clash between the two Paragons drowned out everything else from Bairan's vantage point.
Raizel's business was Raizel's to handle. Unless Northern commanded otherwise, Bairan had no right to interfere or make decisions that encroached upon his master's authority.
Bairan exhaled deeply and rested his hand on his sword. His brows suddenly shot up, head tilting in alert.
He stepped away cautiously—and in that instant, something crashed onto the spot where he'd been standing.
The already-weakened ground and debris exploded skyward. A cloud of dust billowed outward, shrouding the area in a thick, impenetrable veil.
For several heartbeats, Bairan could see nothing. Then gradually, the dust began to settle, revealing a silhouette advancing through the haze.
As the figure emerged from the dust cloud, Bairan's face hardened into a frown.
Before him stood a remarkably tall man with a pale face and dark irises—like twin pools of midnight. His delicate lips appeared sculpted, his features arranged in flawless harmony. Devastatingly handsome.
His raven-black hair flowed long and free in the hot, tension-filled winds that swept through the ruined city.
The stranger studied Bairan for several seconds, his own brow furrowing. Then his rough voice sliced through the silence.
"What is a relic of the old age doing living in a new age?"
A knowing smile curved Bairan's lips.
"You are dangerously powerful—not too powerful—but what I sense from you does not conform to the concept of power in this world. What are you?"
The black-haired man blinked in surprise, his face draining of what little color it had as he stared at Bairan with newfound interest. Then, slowly, his mouth curled into a smile.
"They call me... The Prophet."
Bairan's expression remained stone-cold, unimpressed.
The Prophet's gaze swept across the destruction surrounding them.
"It seems I am late to the party."
He exhaled softly, the sound almost musical, and took a step forward.
Bairan shifted his stance, blocking the path with a deceptively casual movement. A smile played at the corners of his mouth.
"I am not sorry, but you cannot go there."
The Prophet's eyebrows arched elegantly as he met Bairan's steady gaze.
"And why would that be?"
"Well, since I am an ally to one of the gentlemen over there—an expensive ally—I make it my business to prevent anything from disturbing them."
Bairan's smile widened.
"Out of choice, though... not out of necessity."
The Prophet studied him, eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed the man before him. Finally, he sighed.
"What did Paragon Raizel promise you? Money? We have more to offer. We can give you authority in the new world we will carve upon the surface of Tra-el."
Bairan dismissed the offer with a flick of his wrist, as if swatting away an annoying insect.
"I've held those treasures too many times. They've grown... inconsequential."
His eyes glinted with anticipation.
"If there's anything you can give me right now, it would be a worthy fight. Haven't had one in a long long time."
The Prophet regarded him strangely, his midnight gaze dropping to the sword at Bairan's waist.
He winced visibly.
"I am no swordsman."
A mischievous smile danced across Bairan's face.
"It doesn't take one to fight one. All it takes is one hell of a strong man."