Chapter 304: Will
Just as the birth of magical beasts originated from magic, the birth of Phantasms originated from will.
It was not human will, but the will of the world itself. Because of this, Phantasms were almost no different from deities.
Or rather, the difference lay in that deities could establish a connection with the world, while Phantasms could not.
Thus, when Castag crossed the Northwind Mountains and caught sight of the Greenwood, the Will of Frost instantly spread across everything within his line of sight.
The temperature plummeted. A chill so biting swept through that one could not help but shiver. White mist clouded each breath, while the greenery of the land instantly froze under a veil of frost.
Olivia leapt down from the cannon barrel, a flick of her arm summoning a sword into her hand.
She swung her blade forward and shouted, “Aim for its eyes, fire!”
Immediately, the men behind the three magic cannons bustled into action.
Two laborers hired by the monastery, under the command of black-robed apprentices, rotated the barrels of the magic cannons. Once the alignment was set, one black-robed man drew forth a red gemstone. With magic, he ignited it until it twisted and burned like fire before he shoved it into the barrel.
The apprentice promptly threw himself flat on the ground, clutching his head with both hands.
Inside the barrel, power gathered, a pure blue magical glow shimmering within. The cannon’s surface blazed with densely woven blue inscriptions, restraining the power from bursting prematurely.
Very soon, the force within condensed to its peak. In that instant, the cannon mouths roared to life with a sharp buzz. Three blue rays blasted forth, striking the Frost Giant’s face. Explosive surges of magic tore bloody gashes across its flesh, singeing its hair black.
The Frost Giant shook its head violently, faintly aware of pain across its face.
Once the volley was fired, the apprentices scrambled up and fled without sparing another glance at the cannons.
“Looks like the power of these magic cannons is still not enough,” said Priest Agamemnon.
“It’s only because this Frost Giant is far too strong,” said George, sweat trickling down his forehead.
When the cannons discharged, the force had chilled his body to the marrow. He was certain that if he had taken a direct hit, he would not have withstood it either.
And though the three shots had merely carved shallow wounds into the Frost Giant’s face, one had to remember—its face alone was wider than York City’s gates. As a Phantasm, the Frost Giant was even tougher than any city wall.
Olivia’s eyes gleamed as she shouted, “When we return, have Oscar build more! Make me a hundred of them first! If we had a hundred this time, this beast’s head would have been blasted apart already!”
Priest Agamemnon ignored Olivia’s excitement. With a wave of his hand, he signaled Bishop Claudy and the eleven priests from York City to begin reciting the Divine Word.
“The Lord is one, and He is all. The Lord is past, present, and future. The Lord created the heavens and the earth, and with His Word He set the world’s course of motion…”
The priests chanted loudly, their eyes burning with fervor. The bolts mounted on the thirty ballistae shimmered with golden light.
These were the latest models of ballistae, each capable of loading three bolts at once. Forged entirely of steel, in trials a single bolt had pierced three meters of compacted earth wall, with an effective range of eight hundred meters.
Though they were stationed far beyond that distance now, once the bolts were bestowed with Blessings, range was no longer an obstacle.
As the golden light filled the bolts, the priests’ fervor waned into exhaustion. Their bodies weakened, collapsing to the ground gasping for breath—save for Claudy, who alone completed the last syllable of the chant.
“Fire!” shouted Agamemnon.
Those crouched by the ballistae pulled the triggers. In an instant, ninety bolts laced with golden radiance soared toward the Frost Giant.
Most of Castag’s massive frame had already crested the Northwind Mountains. As he beheld the ninety golden bolts raining upon him, he was about to sneer when suddenly his fur bristled. The bolts pierced into his chest, exploding in sprays of blood.
Only then did he let out a roar.
“Roar!!”
The sound carried pain, anger—and above all, ecstasy.
Yes, there was power here capable of opposing the Lords of Annihilation.
He could feel invisible forces eroding the wounds torn through his chest, stripping away magic and will alike until they became nothing more than ordinary flesh and blood. Blood poured forth, frozen in place by his own frost, yet even his Frost Domain could not reclaim the essence devoured from those wounds.
But Castag pushed forward. The bolts, thinner than his hair, were nothing more than scratches upon his colossal body.
His gaze shifted to the fleeing figures.
Swift, strong in stride, with only a few being carried by their companions.
So, this power came from those being carried. And yet, Castag could tell—it was not their own.
Was it some object? Something they had stolen a fragment of?
Castag pondered.
Worse still, he felt his Frost Domain spreading far more sluggishly than before. Normally, to stretch to the horizon required only a few breaths. Now, it would take half a day.
Phantasms were indeed powerful, beings born nearly equal to gods. Yet they lived in constant fear.
Born of the world’s will, they inherited fragments of its history—and therein glimpsed truths of greater, terrifying existences above them. Once, in an age long past, there had been one such being who hunted Phantasms. In that time, countless Phantasms were slaughtered to extinction.
Only after that age did new Phantasms begin to appear again.
Castag knew well: the bone lodged in his chest was from a Phantasm slain in that bygone era, forged into a nail specifically to pin down his kind.
Thus, he lived in fear. The stronger he was, the clearer he knew how cruelly greater beings could destroy him.
At times, he envied Aureus. That human, ignorant of such truths, dared to speak of rebellion. But Castag knew. The moment such beings’ names were spoken, their will could descend, birthing new life infused with their presence.
Each day, he endured the suffocating oppression of that knowledge.
Yet the moment he stepped into the Greenwood, the crushing weight of will vanished.
Relieved, he roared with exhilaration.
“Roar!!!!”
Grinning, he thought: the power was here, in this land. All he had to do was follow those fugitives, seize it, devour it—and perhaps ascend to a rank equal to the Lords of Annihilation.
Surely, that power did not belong to any greater being. If it had, he would have been struck dead the instant he entered this land.
So he would gamble. Better to risk a chance at survival than die for certain at the hands of the Lords of Annihilation or the Progenitor Gods.
…
Priest Agamemnon covered his ears as the Frost Giant roared, the sound stabbing painfully into him.
George stepped in front, shielding him from the brunt of the noise.
“You’d best leave,” George said. “Once battle starts, we won’t be able to look after you.”
Agamemnon nodded. “I will prepare food for you at the church.”
“I want white doves! Ten of them!” Olivia shouted.
Agamemnon’s eye twitched. Gritting his teeth, he replied, “Fine!”
But Olivia’s ruby-like eyes spun mischievously as she cried, “No, I meant thirty!”
Agamemnon ignored her and left. The ballistae and cannons had served their purpose—proof of concept was enough.
Now that the Academy of Magic had been established, weapons would continue to be developed, with new models emerging every few months through exchanges with apprentices unlisted in the monastery’s official records.
Olivia shifted her stance, magic bursting forth as armor naturally materialized over her body.
George’s eyes glowed gold, faint holy light flickering across his form. “Olivia, I’ll try him first.”
Her expression grew grave as she nodded. In her ruby eyes, the shadow of a lion stretched its limbs.
With a thunderous crack, George charged forward, his body sheathed in golden holy light, a streak of radiance rushing toward the Frost Giant.
The sheer force of his momentum drew Castag’s gaze.
A powerful warrior! One who had mastered the power of will!
Castag instantly perceived the essence of George’s strength.
Suppressing the urge to laugh, he growled low, then raised his palm to meet George’s golden streak.
The clash sent George hurtling back at even greater speed, a sonic boom tearing across the frosted ground in his wake.
With just a single blow, George’s fate hung in the balance.
Olivia’s face darkened, the lion in her eyes faintly roaring.
For those at the rank of Hero, the giant’s palm had not moved quickly—but against the Frost Giant itself, it was more than enough.
Its body was far too strong. Even George’s full-force charge could not pierce its palm. At this level, no mastery of martial technique could bridge the sheer disparity of size and strength.
Only greater power could contend against it.
Olivia’s ruby eyes flared. Pressure rippled outward as torrents of blue magic surged from her heart, inscribing luminous marks across her skin, rising into the sky as a column of blue light.
Castag felt unease.
Not at the sheer quantity of her magic—it was far less than the torrent he had drawn from the northern earth-veins while tearing free the bone nail.
But this was no beast, that much was clear.
In this age, only magical beasts, born of magic itself, could channel such overwhelming power. Not even Phantasms could.
His own Frost Domain was merely will, not magic.
Thinking of the warrior he had swatted aside—
That warrior had indeed left a mark upon him.
It was will, but not only will.
If the bolts earlier had borne nine parts of that power, then the warrior’s strike had borne one part.
But even that one part was enough to unsettle him.
Because unlike the borrowed power in the bolts, this was that warrior’s own will.
Could it be, then, that this warrior was drawing closer to that power?
The warrior, and now this woman erupting with impossible magic—perhaps this land was not as simple as Castag had thought.