"A cloud that looks like a sky fortress?" Bart was skeptical. He couldn't fathom any cloud resembling such a thing. "Someone must be spreading rumors on purpose. Still, this disaster seems unnatural, doesn't it?"
Mr. Conner arched a brow, neither confirming nor denying. "It certainly doesn't seem like a natural calamity, but the precise cause is still under investigation. Right now, it's crucial to quell any speculation that could lead to panic."
Bart agreed wholeheartedly. Rumors could spread, but panic was unacceptable. Amora, however, felt the suppression wasn't aimed at rumors but at the truth. If the sky fortress's destructive power wasn't acknowledged promptly, rescue and rebuilding efforts would be delayed, leaving countless civilians to perish in the empire's hesitation.
Moreover, it remained unclear whether the empire even recognized the incident as the work of St. Lanskart's sky fortress.
Military strength among the three empires was relatively balanced, and the chaos created by the Emerald Spear at the border was far from subtle. It was implausible that Planman was unaware. If the empire's leadership knew of the Emerald Spear's aerial assault yet chose silence, it likely signaled political concessions made at the expense of civilian survival and awareness.
Amora couldn't agree with such governance. A regime that failed to protect its citizens' lives and safety was utterly inept.
"I hope the rescue teams arrive quickly, though it's already too late," Bart lamented. "By the way, Mr. Conner, you have a watch, don't you? Can you tell me the time?"
"One o'clock in the afternoon," Conner replied, opening a simple pocket watch. Its design was understated, with modest engravings—surprisingly out of place for someone as finely dressed as this gentleman.
As Amora pondered the incongruence, the watch emitted a gentle, rhythmic glow. The flicker was too rapid for the naked eye to discern fully, but Amora noticed something: an encrypted communication-type magic formula. Evidently, the pocket watch was a magical device, its design prioritizing simplicity—perhaps even to a fault, neglecting aesthetic considerations.
"Capture it. Analyze it," Amora instructed the Divine Realm system. This was precisely when a magical system would prove invaluable. The flicker was too quick for human perception, and simultaneously recording the light patterns while deciphering the formula would be an impossible task for anyone.
Amora hesitated briefly before issuing the command. Unlike the Root system, the Divine Realm lacked additional attachments and was minuscule. Could it even capture the light signals?
The magical platform's inscriptions shifted once more, and as the golden letters materialized, the Divine Realm's serene voice resounded in Amora's mind: "All luminous souls are born for you. Even if subjected to your scrutiny, they cannot resist."
The system began rapidly recording the light's fluctuations, but Amora couldn't see where the analysis was taking place.
"Where's the analysis?" she muttered, frustrated. Was she supposed to solve it herself? What was the system even for, then?
The Divine Realm reiterated, "All luminous souls are born for you. Even if subjected to your scrutiny, they cannot resist." Its voice was tranquil and devout, its script trembling slightly as though glowing with sacred intent.
Feeling an ominous premonition, Amora glanced at Bart outside, who was engrossed in loud conversation, then whispered the phrase under her breath: "All luminous souls are born for me… Even if subjected to my scrutiny, they cannot resist."
The Divine Realm continued calmly recording the light patterns, with no sign of initiating the analysis.
Reluctantly, Amora repeated the phrase louder, her words tinged with irritation. "All luminous souls are born for me… Even if subjected to my scrutiny, they cannot resist."
With each word, the inscriptions on the platform flickered in golden luminescence, like divine sanctity manifested. A faint choir echoed within the Divine Realm, its melody indistinct yet profoundly moving, as it had been during Amora's first encounter with it.
The Divine Realm's voice rang out with solemn reverence: "Your divine decree has been received. Relieving your burdens is the highest honor of the Divine Realm."
"Decoding magic formula… Decoding complete."
Amora: "…"
She couldn't fathom what had gone through Menger's mind when creating the Divine Realm system. Somehow, the most advanced magical casting tool now featured the oldest incantation-based casting method—and the chants all seemed to be quotes from religious scriptures. Worse still, Menger likely invented their effects on a whim.
This was as absurd as using a sky fortress to transport lumber for building houses.
Menger, the madman, clearly intended to make anyone using the Divine Realm system appear like a literal goddess. Imagine shouting at enemies, "All crimes of the world shall dissolve in my light!" and watching them disintegrate in a radiant burst. Exciting? Hardly.
Amora closed her eyes in frustration, swearing to rid herself of the Divine Realm system and replace it with a normal magical system.
For now, she examined the decoded communication magic formula. It was unlike any she'd encountered before—overcomplicated yet ultimately reducible to a standard communication pattern. The intricacy seemed unnecessary, leaving Amora baffled as to why the caster chose to complicate it.
The decoded message? A single line: "I'm on my way."
It seemed the magician in question was Conner's contact for rescue. Judging by the formula, the magician had an obsessive streak and poor time management. Conner had already complained about the delay, yet the communication lacked urgency—or even a hint of apology.
A textbook example of a scholar-type magician: eccentric and easily lost in their work.
Amora doubted she'd get along with such a person. Menger was proof enough of that. She began to worry whether she could smoothly accept Conner's rescue and use his influence to integrate into society and obtain legal identification. Briefly glancing at Bart and Conner, she noticed Bart grumbling about the arduous journey, while Conner subtly inquired about the disaster's impact in the region.
Lying back in the carriage, Amora worked to calm herself, planning out a "tragic backstory"—one that didn't necessarily elicit sympathy but, crucially, avoided suspicion.
As she transitioned into her "damsel in distress" mindset, a deafening whistle shattered the quiet.
Conner immediately turned toward the river. A massive mechanical vessel was approaching—a ship so large it dominated half the waterway. As it neared the shore, the carriage was entirely engulfed in its shadow. Oddly, the ship's deck was deserted, giving it the eerie semblance of a ghost ship. It slowed and docked in silence.
"Why on earth did you bring a harbor vessel?!" Conner's voice betrayed his exasperation as he called toward the ship. His composed, gentlemanly demeanor cracked under the absurdity of the situation. "This is an inland river! You should have brought a ship that could navigate it properly!"
The ship remained eerily quiet.
Bart stood up, brushed the dust off himself, and tiptoed to take a look, but there was no one in sight.
"Slowe! Professor Slowe!" Conner called out again as he walked closer to the ship. "Slowe Lampes!"
The ship's whistle blew once more, and then a hatch opened along the side of the vessel. It was clear that the door was opened using a magic spell. Emerging from the dark entrance was a lean man wearing silver-framed glasses. His slightly disheveled black hair fell to his shoulders, and his oversized black robe gave the impression he had just stepped out of a laboratory.
His pale complexion contrasted with his healthy demeanor, and his sharp nose and narrow, striking eyes gave him an air of precision.
"Please, come aboard." Slowe inclined his head slightly, gesturing for Conner to enter through the newly opened door.
"You expect me to crawl through this hole?" Conner muttered in a low, irritated voice as he approached. "At least pull the ship back a bit and put down a proper plank!"
"If I pull back further, we'll end up on the opposite shore," Slowe replied calmly. "Quickly now, the longer you linger here, the greater the suspicion in the capital."
Conner had no choice but to relent. Clearing his throat, he re-adopted his gentlemanly demeanor and turned back toward Bart. "Bring the carriage in. We're ready to leave."
"Who's that?" Slowe asked, frowning slightly and speaking in a low voice to Conner. "There are survivors here? That's impossible. I've calculated all the impact zones of the death ray; this area is absolutely lethal."
"Survivor or not, he's an informed witness. Let's get him out first," Conner replied, patting Slowe on the shoulder before stepping into the dark opening.
The doorway was narrow but just wide enough for the carriage. Bart hopped onto the driver's seat, and the black horse pulled the carriage inside. However, as the carriage rolled over the entry step, Amora felt as though the jolt nearly made her cough up blood.
"What is this place?" Conner demanded as he stood amidst a clutter of experimental equipment.
Slowe waved his hand, and the door behind them disappeared into thin air. "A laboratory. Head left, walk to the end of the corridor, and go upstairs. The upper floors are all bedrooms—pick whichever you like."
"This is a yacht?" Conner spun around, his long coat brushing against a row of test tubes, sending them teetering.
Slowe extended his hands, and as if guided by invisible threads, the test tubes hovered in midair. He approached, carefully rearranging them, and warned, "Be careful. Some of these substances are deadly."
Amora, through her God's Domain system, saw the labels on the test tubes: magical reagents with vastly different properties. The moment they fell, Slowe had used a spell to simultaneously stabilize all of them. The fluidity and precision of his magic revealed his combat capabilities to be at least tactical-level—far from an ordinary military magician.
Conner chuckled. "What trouble could you possibly have in here? By the way, there's an injured person in the carriage. I'll head upstairs to contact others; could you check on her?"
Without waiting for a reply, Conner quickly exited the laboratory, looking as though he couldn't leave fast enough.
Bart awkwardly opened the carriage door and said politely, "Thank you. Is there anything I can help with?"
In modern society, most professions no longer enjoyed special privileges, but magicians remained highly respected. Their contributions to national security had earned them such recognition. As a veteran soldier, Bart had a natural respect for magicians, even if they didn't fight on the front lines; their magical creations often made a significant impact.
"No need. You can rest upstairs," Slowe replied courteously. "By the way, please lead the horse out of the lab—maybe to the deck or somewhere suitable."
Bart glanced at the large black horse standing amidst the delicate magical instruments, offered an embarrassed smile, and quickly led it away.
The laboratory was left with only Amora and Slowe.
Using magic, Slowe dismantled the carriage and carefully transferred Amora onto a workbench. Under the bright lights, Amora felt an eerie déjà vu, as if she had returned to Menger's laboratory.
"My dear, it's such a pleasure to finally meet you," Slowe said, removing her splints and injecting her with an anesthetic. "So, how does it feel? Are you happy Joseph's dead?"
Amora felt a chill run through her. "Who are you?"
"Happy? I certainly am. One less researcher in the world more brilliant than me," Slowe quipped, brushing aside her long hair and spotting the glittering collar around her neck. "This… what an odd choice. I'd have expected a ring or something more subtle."
"Who are you, really?" Amora demanded, her voice steady despite her unease.
Slowe smiled and wiped away the blood and grime from her wounds before carefully realigning her fractured bones. His movements were precise and professional, almost reassuring—if not for the chilling things he said.
"Slowe Lampes, current Chief of Staff of the Nightmare Legion. Joseph Menger's colleague—or perhaps… comrade?"
Amora had never imagined that Menger, who had secluded himself in a remote border town for years, could have had "colleagues."