The mist was deep. After crossing the Koetori Pass, the quality of the air had changed. Not dampness, not heaviness—but a sensation that something was "too much." The density of atmospheric magical essence—the magical power drifting through the air—was many times greater than in normal places. The scar on Raid's left arm throbbed with a faint heat. The circuit burned by the use of magical fusion was reacting on its own, sensing the excess magical essence. A quiet, but unmistakable alert. (This is a bad place.) Thinking that to himself, Raid walked through the mist. A black short blade swayed inside his cloak. This blade—the "summoning wedge" once handed to him by a mysterious figure—had begun to pulse clearly around the point where they crossed the Koetori Pass. There was direction. He was being drawn. Forward, forward, and forward. The outline of the ruined city emerged from beyond the mist just after dawn. Collapsed city walls. Toppled stone towers. Only the skeleton of what had once been a city remained, sinking into the gray mist. No bird calls. No sound of wind. Only the footsteps of three people and the occasional low sound of something crumbling in the distance. "This is an unpleasant place," Lilia said quietly. Her silver short bob was slightly damp from the mist's humidity. Her odd eyes—pale purple and light amber—stared intently toward the city gate. The usually curious girl had unusually come to a stop. The collapsed city gate at the entrance—the remains of a stone arch, more than half of its upper portion fallen—had ancient patterns carved into it. Worn away by wind and rain until nearly illegible, only the outlines remained. Lilia's eyes stopped at one point of that pattern. For several seconds, she remained silent. Raid noticed this and said nothing. There was something between Lilia and this ruined city. That much he understood. Whether he needed to ask for details was something he couldn't judge yet. Aira silently took position beside Lilia. Her green eyes traced the pattern on the city gate, then turned to Lilia's profile. After confirming Lilia's expression and apparently making some judgment, she returned her gaze to the gate. She didn't say a word. That was Aira's way of showing consideration. Raid, while checking his stride, quietly grumbled to himself. (My back is already near its limit.) Ever since crossing the Koetori Pass in the Hekuhou mountain range, it had been nothing but rocky terrain and steep slopes. A forty-two-year-old's back was honest about such things. Painfully honest. Raid thought to himself that this was the current state of the man once called the Empire's highest-ranking wizard, and felt a little exasperated. The three passed through the city gate. Inside the ruined city, the mist was even thicker than outside. Grass grew through the gaps in the stone pavement, and ivy crawled up the walls of buildings. The old streets maintained their rough shape while being slowly reclaimed by nature. At least a hundred years or more must have passed since this city became a ruin. The black blade's pulse grew slightly stronger. Lilia approached the wall of a corridor. Something was carved into the crumbling stone surface. Ancient characters—written in a script two or three generations older than the Empire's current writing system, the kind that only specialists from the Illumination Institute could read. Lilia's fingertip gently traced the outline of the characters. "It leads to the center," Lilia said with certainty in her voice. There was no hesitation. "You can read it?" Raid asked quietly. "Not all of it. Just fragments," Lilia said, moving her finger over the characters. "It overlaps with the ancient language of the demon race. What's written here is a sentence meaning the path continues to the center. I think it's like a signpost." Raid quietly absorbed that answer. The ancient demon language and the Empire's ancient script overlapping. This ruined city was either older than the Empire's history, or—a relic from an era when both had mixed. Either way, it wasn't a simple matter. Aira, keeping her gaze forward, spoke quietly. "We should hurry. The magical essence density is increasing further from here." It was an accurate observation. Raid felt it too. The throbbing in his left arm's scar was gradually intensifying. His magical circuit continued to react to the excess magical essence. The longer they stayed, the more they would be drained. The three proceeded down the corridor. The joints of the stone pavement created steps in places. Due to years of ground shifts, the floor that should have been flat was undulating. Raid walked carefully, checking his footing with each step. That was when his foot caught on a step. For a moment, his weight tilted forward. It wasn't a significant step. In his youth, it would have been nothing. But for a forty-two-year-old man whose back was already near its limit, that slight shift resonated far more than expected. As his body tilted, it happened. A hand came. Aira's hand grasped Raid's arm. It was reflex. His body had moved before his mind could process the next action. With a firm grip, she caught his tilting weight. A beat later, Aira herself became aware of what she had done. Her fingertips were on Raid's left arm. On the edge of the scar from magical fusion—the wound on the skin's surface discolored a pale blue—Aira's fingers were touching. A wound she had treated before. The memory of that night by the campfire, when she had checked Raid's back, surfaced unconsciously through her fingertips. Aira's fingertips stopped for just a moment. "...Forgive me," Aira said. Her hand withdrew immediately. Her voice was calm. But that single beat—just barely—was longer than usual. Aira turned forward and began walking as if nothing had happened. Her expression didn't change. She pretended not to notice the fact that something had wavered faintly in her chest. Lilia watched from behind. She said nothing. But her odd eyes—pale purple and amber—traced the space between Aira's back and Raid's arm for just a moment. Raid said nothing. The words "nearly falling on a step" surfaced from within and quietly sank away. He felt both embarrassed and grateful. He had no intention of showing either. The three continued walking. ──── At the end of the corridor, there was a wide space. In the mist that drifted thinly, a large stone chamber—probably the former throne room—appeared before the three. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, and through it, the sky was visible. The gray light of dawn slanted in. In the center back of the room stood a stone chair. Rather than a throne—a single seat carved from stone itself. It had a backrest and armrests, and its entire surface was covered with countless magical patterns. They were different from the spell symbols taught at the Imperial Academy of Magic, and different from the ancient characters they had seen on the wall earlier. Even older, unfamiliar symbols were carved densely, like the patterns on skin. Lilia's complexion changed the moment she saw it. "Wait," Lilia said. Her voice carried a tone they had never heard before. Not the friendly voice of a girl, but the voice of someone who had sensed something strongly. She stepped forward and extended her hand toward the throne. "Don't touch that. Absolutely not—those magical patterns are memory imprints—an ancient sealing technique that forcibly channels the memories and soul remnants of whoever carved the spell into the magical circuit of whoever sits down. And it's not just one person. The way it's carved shows it's been layered over multiple generations—" Her words didn't reach their conclusion. Raid's back gave out. There was no intention. No recklessness, no curiosity, nothing. The climb up and down the Koetori Pass, the stone pavement of the ruined city, the steps in the corridor—accumulated fatigue made a simple, biological judgment the moment he saw the shape of the stone chair. There was a place to sit. Wouldn't it be all right to sit? His back made that judgment. With a dull thud, Raid lowered himself onto the throne. Aira instinctively reached out. Her fingertips cut through empty air. There was a moment of silence. Then the magical patterns on the throne began to glow white-hot. Light. A blinding white light overflowed from the throne's surface, spreading throughout the room. The stone chair vibrated. The floor shook. The magical essence density spiked instantly, and the air gained pressure. Aira braced herself, shielding her face with her arm. But the shockwave was larger than expected. Struck by the wave surging from below, she was sent flying backward. Lilia was simultaneously slammed against the wall behind her. A short sound escaped her. The light faded. Silence returned to the throne room. Then it began. Something pierced through Raid's entire body. It was hot. No, "hot" wasn't enough of a word. The quality was different from the searing sensation when using magical fusion. It was coming from outside. Not atmospheric magical essence, but something older—something much "heavier"—flowed into his magical circuit. Memories. Someone's memories. No, multiple someones' memories. Fragmentary, overlapping, flowing into Raid like a torrent. Memories of battlefields. Memories of commanding soldiers. Memories of hatred. Memories of solitude. Memories of the day the earth shook. The memory of someone calling his name. The memory of that voice fading away. Memories of the day a hated enemy died, yet with a completely hollow sense of accomplishment. The memories of successive demon lords—those who had once ruled this ruined city and continued to carve their memories and soul remnants into the throne. It was exactly as Lilia had tried to warn. The magical patterns carved into this throne were memory imprints—an ancient sealing technique that forcibly channeled the memories and soul remnants of whoever carved the spell into the magical circuit of whoever sat down—in their ultimate form. Directly channeling hundreds of years of memories into the magical circuit of whoever sat here. Not just one person. Multiple. Probably dozens. Each with a different voice, different pain, different rage, pressing toward Raid simultaneously. (This is bad.) That thought surfaced only in the first few seconds. After that, Raid could no longer determine where his own thoughts were. Memories accumulated. Overlapped. Each one individually was a human memory. Sadness, joy, anger, fear. But dozens of them pressed toward him simultaneously. The outline of Raid as an individual began to blur. ──── Aira, on her knees on the floor, lifted her face. Her back ached from being slammed against the wall. The hilt of her sword was coming loose from her waist. Before she could confirm that, her eyes turned toward the throne. Raid sat there. His posture hadn't changed. His weight rested against the backrest, his arms on the armrests. His cloak hung quietly. Only his eyes had changed. They were the black of an abyss. His amber eyes had completely vanished. Even the whites of his eyes were thinly stained black. Those eyes slowly—turned toward Aira and Lilia. "Raid," Aira called his name. The voice that returned was not Raid's. His mouth moved. Sound came out. But it was not language. A series of ancient, overlapping voices—sounds she felt she had heard somewhere before—echoed through the throne room. Not the Empire's language. Not the demon race's language. Something even older. Black magical power began to overflow around Raid. Aira's hand moved to the hilt of her sword. Her fingers grasped the metal sensation. It stopped. She didn't draw it. Not couldn't—didn't. For a beat, Aira herself couldn't understand why. This was a mission. Against dangerous entities, one took action. That was supposed to be her role. Yet her hand remained still. The man on the throne wasn't frightening. That muc