Chapter 336: Magic Tide
“Oh, Your Holiness the great Pope, I never thought I’d live to see you again.” Oscar’s tone rose and fell, his praise sounding more like sarcasm.
“You seem to be adapting well to your current life,” said Corleon. “At the very least, you can still get that sentence out in one piece.”
Oscar had no intention of discussing his speech problems. He said, “I assume you’re not here just for old times’ sake.”
Corleon smiled slightly. Then, space and time shifted—the four figures vanished from Oscar’s office and reappeared inside the Hall of Heroes.
“Where is this?” Oscar’s eyes gradually lit up. He was enhancing his vision with magic, trying to discern every detail here. Yet, no matter how he looked, all he could make out were the materials he had already suspected.
“The Hall of Heroes,” said Corleon. “It exists within time itself, spanning the past, the future, and the present. Time moves forward, and the Hall of Heroes remains eternal.”
“So you're saying... we’re inside time right now?” Oscar asked, glancing around. But in his eyes, it looked no different from the ordinary world.
“Yes,” Corleon nodded. “There’s no need to keep looking. You’re only Tier Four. To perceive time requires at least Tier Seven, and as for touching time, that’s something only a few Tier Eight deities are capable of.”
“But mystery leaves behind traces—even if unseen, it can be detected by its impact on the world. It would never be completely imperceptible like this.” Oscar's eyes dimmed as he looked at Corleon. “You did this?”
“Mystery that one cannot withstand will become undetectable and untouchable. From the will to the soul to the body—it will all be restricted,” said Corleon.
Oscar frowned, the light in his eyes flickering rapidly. He was using magic to stimulate his brain for deeper thought.
Soon, he understood what Corleon meant and asked, “You rewrote the rules?”
Corleon nodded and said, “When the New Year’s Bells rang, all places where the bell of a church bearing the Cross could be heard became covered by this rule.”
“What about the curses from before?” Oscar asked.
“Half were erased the year before last, and now, the remaining half are dissipating,” Corleon replied.
In his eyes, he could already see that some mages were starting to touch the curse of Aivas and were continuously unraveling it.
The light in Oscar’s eyes began to flicker wildly until the veins on his forehead bulged—only then did it settle.
His gaze turned slightly crazed as he asked, “Time was cut away? Is that why Cicero and the other one were in so much pain? They were struck during the time that was removed?”
Corleon raised his hand, holding a small crystal orb between his fingers.
“Twenty-one seconds of time from across the world is contained within this,” he said. “Not just from the land we’re on, but from beyond the endless void.”
Unlike the calm Agamemnon and the dazed Melia, Oscar’s entire body was trembling. His hairs stood on end, his eyes filled with both yearning and fear.
Unable to resist, he rubbed his hands together and said, “Ah, Your Holiness the great Pope, Your loyal believer XXX (Oscar) is willing to serve you—for example, by studying the essence of time.”
Corleon chuckled lightly and tossed the crystal orb to Oscar. Oscar’s gaze was burning with longing, like a pilgrim reaching out devoutly to receive it. But just before his hand could touch it, the crystal orb suddenly vanished from his sight.
Oscar froze.
“Mystery that one cannot withstand will become undetectable and untouchable,” Corleon repeated. “And time is not something a Tier Four like you can perceive or touch.”
Oscar understood. His face turned irritated. Finally, with a pitiful look, he said, “Oh revered and great Pope, you said the rule would only apply once the bell rang at the end of the year.”
With a surprised expression, Corleon said, “In fact, the moment you entered the Hall of Heroes, you had already been subjected to the rule in advance. Didn’t you regret missing the bell last year, which delayed your resistance to mystery by an entire year? So this time, I gave it to you early.”
Oscar stood in stunned silence, his face turning bright red in anger, though he didn’t dare curse out loud.
Corleon finally added, “Time is not something you can touch.”
Oscar said gloomily, “Then why did you bring it out?”
“To let you see it,” Corleon answered.
“…” Oscar fell silent.
Agamemnon and Melia stifled their laughter.
Corleon no longer looked at Oscar. Instead, he gazed upward at the ceiling of the Hall of Heroes and slowly began recounting the beginning of creation—from the birth of the sun to the appearance of death. Finally, he said, “But aside from the Twelve Pillar Gods of creation, there was also the magic of the False Pillar Gods. Now, however, the False Pillar God is dead, and magic has been released.”
Oscar’s expression returned to normal. He asked, “So, the concentration of magic will increase?”
“This is the resurgence of magic—not merely a rise in concentration,” Corleon corrected him.
“So extracting magic from the soul will become easier?” Oscar asked with a serious expression.
“It will be like blood—a part of the human body. But unlike blood, some people will have only faint traces of magic, while others will possess great reserves,” Corleon said. “Magic will strengthen the body, and those with greater magic can use it for battle.”
“Like how already powerful knights will become even stronger once they can harness magic?” Oscar asked. After asking, he closed his eyes.
Soon, he opened them again, raised his hand, and clenched his fist.
“After purely enhancing with magic, my strength increased by one-third,” he said. “And before this, let alone using magic in battle—even performing spells often required it to be supplemented with tools or rituals.”
“Did this change also come after the bell rang?” Oscar asked, lowering his arm.
“No. The moment he died, magic had already begun to awaken,” Corleon answered.
“In that case, things will get chaotic,” said Agamemnon with a grim expression.
Originally, knights relied on physical power to succeed. But now that magic had become another source of strength, the entire power structure would undergo a dramatic shift.
“This will take time. It’ll reach a peak six years from now—not an immediate outburst. But in the grand river of time, six years is already considered a sudden surge,” Corleon said.
“For us, it might just be a Magic Tide,” Oscar said.
“Six years…” Agamemnon frowned, deep in thought.
“Magic is a gift from the world—but such a powerful gift must be mastered,” Corleon said. “The Knight Academy needs to begin offering courses on magical combat.”
“I’ll make arrangements,” Oscar nodded. “But what about the Academy of Magic?”
“Perhaps we can sit on this side of the lake and watch the magical fireworks bloom on the opposite shore,” Corleon said.
Oscar asked, “You’re not going to interfere?”
Corleon replied, “They are mages.”
Oscar said, “The monastery also has magical disciplines.”
Corleon replied, “You’ve done very well.”
Oscar hesitated, but in the end still asked, “Then what about the other mages?”
Corleon said, “Their ideology no longer fits the present.”
Oscar dared not press further.
But Corleon called out, “Agamemnon.”
Agamemnon froze for a moment, putting aside the thoughts in his head about how to deal with the Magic Tide, and responded, “I’m here.”
“You still have two years before adulthood. In these two years, go and enjoy your childhood properly,” Corleon said. “The affairs of the Church will be handled by me.”
Agamemnon recalled the recent period when he had been unable to contact Corleon and muttered, “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, you’ve done very well.” Corleon turned his head to look at Agamemnon, smiling as he said, “But after all, you are not yet an adult. And now that the curse has been fully cleansed and the threatening presences no longer dare to show themselves, I must fulfill my duty as the Pope. So, you may freely enjoy the remainder of your childhood.”
Agamemnon appeared somewhat stunned. He did not feel any relief from having a burden lifted—only a bit of confusion and helplessness.
Melia, seeing the look in Agamemnon’s eyes, hesitated, then reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, smiling as she said, “Now you’ll have time to go out and have fun with me. Maybe you could even bring your fiancée along?”
Agamemnon finally snapped back to reality and managed a strained smile.
Corleon said, “You could visit the Northland. Things are almost wrapped up there. To the east of the Northland, there’s an iceberg—and inside that iceberg is a dragon’s corpse.”
At the mention of the word “dragon,” Oscar’s eyes lit up.
Agamemnon replied, “I think I’d like to go home first.”
Corleon nodded and said, “You are free.”
Then Corleon looked toward Oscar and said, “Stop dreaming. You can’t leave the Church of the Sanctuary.”
Oscar’s expression fell, his face twisted in a grimace, though he dared not speak a word of complaint. He feared that if he did, he might not even be allowed to leave the monastery next time.
Corleon raised his hand and gently hooked a finger toward the light orb above the central statue. A faint, illusory thread appeared in his hand.
“What is that?” Oscar asked curiously.
“This is the only Heroic Spirit currently in the Hall of Heroes,” said Corleon.
“The only one?” Oscar said. “But isn’t the Hall of Heroes supposed to exist within time? Following the flow of time, there’s no way there would only be one heroic spirit, right?”
Corleon said, “Because you all exist in the present world, what you see here in the Hall of Heroes is limited to the time you currently occupy.”
Magic shimmered in Oscar’s eyes as he quickly pieced the logic together. He asked, “Who is it? Caleb? Or Nyx?”
At the mention of her grandfather’s name, Melia looked over.
“It’s Hode. Of course, he still has some matters to attend to, so he hasn't yet appeared in the Hall of Heroes,” Corleon said—and this name drew visible reactions on all three faces.
“He’s not part of the Church anymore, right? And his name isn’t recorded in the Church’s Hall of Heroes either,” Oscar asked.
“That is the Church’s Hall of Heroes, not the ‘Hall of Heroes’,” Corleon emphasized. “Warriors who fight to the death may enter the Hall of Heroes.”
Oscar couldn’t help but curse, “Those trash from the Northland don’t deserve to be called heroic spirits. Besides, that whole idea was something Caleb and I made up!”
Corleon replied, “But it was also something I promised to the Northland.”
Melia interjected, her tone slightly anxious, “Then what about the heroic spirits in the Church’s Hall of Heroes?”
“That is merely the Church’s Hall of Heroes,” Corleon repeated.
Melia opened her mouth, her eyes full of urgency, but didn’t dare say more and held it in.
Agamemnon glanced at Melia, thought for a moment, and asked, “Since that promise was made to the Northland, what about Greenwood? Is there a separate promise for Greenwood?”
Corleon did not answer but instead asked, “What kind of person do you think qualifies to enter the Hall of Heroes?”
Melia and Oscar both looked toward Agamemnon, and for a moment, he didn’t dare speak.
They suddenly had the sense that whatever Agamemnon said now might just become reality.
Agamemnon’s breathing grew heavier. He felt pressure, yet also a strange sense that he already knew the answer.
At last, he spoke: “I believe that a Heroic Spirit should be someone who left behind deeds worth remembering during their life—someone who left a mark on human history. To recite their story is to wander through the legacy of mankind.”
Corleon asked, “Do you believe Hode is such a person?”
Agamemnon closed his eyes, thought for a moment, then opened them and said, “Even though I despise that he abandoned the faith, he is indeed such a person. He is the symbol of change in the Northland—an emblem of the Northland Hero.”
After a brief pause, he added, “I will go to the Northland. I will write Hode’s story, and that prophecy will be on the front page of his tale.”
“This is not your duty,” said Corleon.
Agamemnon replied, “It’s not a duty. It’s my learning. As I said just now, to recite the tale of a Heroic Spirit is to walk through the history of humanity. In Hode’s story, I will come to understand the history of the Northland.”
Corleon nodded and said, “Then, as you said, so shall it be.”
As he finished speaking, two aged figures slowly took form within the Hall of Heroes.
Melia’s eyes widened as she stared at the familiar silhouettes, tears welling up.
It was Nyx and Caleb.
Their eyes were unfocused as they raised their hands and touched their bodies. Then they looked toward each other.
“Scholar Caleb?” Nyx asked uncertainly.
Caleb nodded and asked, “Nyx?”
“It’s me!” Nyx said. He looked around, then fixed his eyes on the massive central statue and the light orb held high in its hands. “Where are we? Scholar Caleb, do you know?”
Caleb also looked around and slowly said, “Perhaps... this is the Hall of Heroes?”
Then Caleb and Nyx spoke about the Church’s construction of the Hall of Heroes after his death, and the matters of the Northland.
“So this is the world after death?” Nyx’s eyes began to shine.
“I think so,” Caleb responded, equally alight.
The two looked at each other, as if they could see the same fervor burning in each other’s eyes.
“Prepare the ritual! Dismantle the Hall of Heroes!” they said together.
…
“What... is this?” Melia stood behind Nyx, bewildered as she looked at her hands, then at Nyx, who had already begun dissecting his own body with Caleb to study the composition of heroic spirits.
She lunged toward Nyx, but passed right through—there was no tactile sensation.
“That is the hall of heroic spirits. It is not a place for the living to step foot,” said Corleon. “So he cannot see you.”
Melia wiped her tears and looked at Nyx, murmuring, “I see…”
Agamemnon hesitantly said, “Maybe they’re... uh, quite happy right now?”
In their view, Nyx and Caleb were now tearing into their own bodies like wild beasts—trying to rip out flesh or draw blood for research.
“If they manage to bite something off, can I take it?” Oscar asked with a look of eager excitement in his eyes.
Corleon cast a glance at him and said, “No.”
Then the figures of the four vanished from the Hall of Heroes.