Chapter 527: Arete

Tower Master Castro of the Order of the Gray Owl had not been wrong when he told Argrave that he was not famous. He endeavored a great deal to ensure that was not the case, because he much preferred a calm life beneath the shade than one where he was cooked by the scrutiny of the sun. His A-rank ascension was not known even among the upper echelons of the Order. Castro had never needed to—and never dared to—call upon it against his foes. He had considered offering to use it for Mozzahr, but in the end, he knew Argrave would refuse. Now, times were different, and Castro’s conviction was stronger.

After living for well over three hundred years, Castro had left his mark in magic, in his apprentice Ingo, and now hoped to leave his last mark here in defense of a rising sun.

When Argrave’s eyes again fell upon Castro after a long period of silent contemplation, he knew that the decision had been made. He was proud of the young king for making the choice he viewed as most pragmatic, if a bit guilty that his death would weigh on the young man’s conscience. He had tried to impart some lessons of leadership onto Argrave, and there was some irony that those selfsame lessons would lead to his death in this moment. It was for the best.

The plan was made, but Castro didn’t need to pay much attention. His role was exceedingly simple, and so it needed no special attention. He was reminded of a conversation that he’d had with Rowe the Righteous, strangely enough.

Castro remembered sitting in his office in the tower, staring at that arrogant and tall wizard from Veiden. Then, he proposed a game for each to guess the other’s A-rank ascension.

“We’ll play word games, like proper old men. I can give you a one-word riddle. You’ll give me one in turn. We’ll guess.”

“Interesting. Go ahead,” Rowe leaned back in his chair.

Castro thought on it for a long time, then said deliberately, “Age.”

“Hmm...” Rowe tilted his head. “Limits.”

He didn’t think either of them had ever came near discovering the other’s secret, but that didn’t matter overmuch. Neither had the intention to tell the other, anyhow.

Once the plan was delivered, Castro and Argrave set off alone through the tunnels that Argrave had explored thoroughly. They headed for the heart of the city, where the Shadowlanders appeared most densely. Argrave showed him an exit, leading up into a bakery that was partially destroyed. Castro could hear the chaos and screams above, but Argrave stopped him.The birth of this content finds its genesis in Nøv€lß¡n★

“Castro. Maybe... maybe we’re being hasty,” the young king said, no confidence in his tone. “Sophia’s shown to have the power to restore things, to revert them. If we could make the Alchemist turn into the Smiling Raven, and then turn him back with her power... all of this could be avoided.”

Castro put his hand on Argrave’s shoulder. “Are you sure it’ll work? And can you bear the consequences if you tamper with things beyond their ken, only for all to go awry?” When Argrave couldn’t answer, Castro took his hand away, his point proven. “To allow the hope of beating Gerechtigkeit forevermore roam free, to save a child that the world itself has deigned to doom... I cannot think of a more fitting end. I will join with my wife and child in the afterlife, if there is one. And if not, this was still a life well lived.”

When Castro developed his A-rank ascension, the only thing that allowed him to break through that barrier was one of the worst years of his life. It was the year his son perished from an incurable withering illness, and his wife killed herself not long after. His magical advancement had stalled for a long, long while after this occurrence. Confronting it squarely decades after it happened proved to be the catalyst. In his contemplations into life, death, and the meaning of existence, Castro found an answer of sorts.

Castro had long lamented the life he might’ve had if things had gone differently. If he had been kinder to sweet Hazel after their child passed away, perhaps she might’ve had willpower enough to carry on. Perhaps more children would’ve followed, and perhaps Castro’s life would have been more fulfilling. Or perhaps if his son had not been afflicted with the withering disease to begin with, things would’ve been so inconceivably different that his life would be impossible to recognize to the Castro of today.

In a word, Castro lamented lost potential. His ascension was that potential, bundled inside of him as an energy kept dormant for hundreds of years. It embodied the whole age of his existence, both present and future. Focusing on what was lost... too often, it led only to pain. Castro intended to unleash that pain. His A-rank ascension was an idea, a concept, made manifest: [Arete].

Castro walked out of the basement not with a hunched back but a posture proud and rigid. People took shelter here in this city, and he walked toward the closest Shadowlander. His body was filling with every bit of strength that he could possess for the rest of his life. The black humanoid creature seemed totally ignorant of him, the tentacles hanging from its mouth consuming people of the city indiscriminately. Castro held his hand out and prepared a spell. It was an F-rank spell called [Flare] that merely conjured a small spark of flame.

A raging inferno burst out from Castro’s hand—a spark of compressed fire so intense that, in less than half a second, the Shadowlander was only ash, and all the stone around it had been turned to liquid. Every [Flare] that Castro could ever cast for the rest of his life manifested in that one moment. Thus, Castro lost [Flare]. He could never again use the spell, and a small portion of his [Arete] was consumed to fulfill this mandate. When all of the energy of his [Arete] was expended, his potential would be fulfilled and he would perish.

Castro jumped up into the air, rising dozens of miles above. He could see all of the Shadowlanders, all of the golems, and he knew his duty. [Arete] fueled his righteous purpose. He had intended to use his ability in the crusade against Gerechtigkeit... but this was a far nobler purpose, he felt.

“A B-rank spell should suffice, I think...” Castro looked back. “So long as it doesn’t kill them.”

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To call Castro’s final feat a supernova was no exaggeration. Argrave had seen gods fight, and it seemed like one had descended among them. Raging tornados of fire rose up hundreds of miles into the sky. His lightning disintegrated Shadowlanders seconds after touching them. Even miles away, the winds were strong enough to push Argrave back. The ward that he conjured to block the gusts shattered in a few moments beneath the sheer intensity of this man’s [Arete].

The ground beneath them shook and split, Castro’s power transforming the land itself. All were relatively well-prepared for this, having been amply warned by Castro himself, but few genuinely expected the mayhem to reach them miles away. The demons had been screaming in joy, yet now there was only a singular droning howl of destruction. The golems, too, despite their immunity to magic, could not fully be spared the tremendous impact of Castro’s power.

Argrave felt a strange tension in his chest, as though his body was being stretched and pulled. Then, a final, tremendous force slammed down upon not just Sandelabara, but the whole of this pocket realm. Argrave fell to his knees, and barely managed to keep his head up. When he raised his eyes... the entire city was shattered, turned to mountains and valleys. Argrave saw not a soul—not a human, not a Shadowlander, not a golem.

But not Castro, either. Argrave accepted that the tower master—that indomitable, assuring presence—was gone.

Argrave looked at Sophia briefly as she clung to him, trembling, and didn’t waste time in declaring to everyone else, “We move!”