Before the night deepened, Alon returned to the camp with Celaime Mikardo, who no longer had a reason to continue his research after the Hermit’s Hideout opened.

“…Are you asking about how to ascend to the next rank?”

“That’s correct. I assumed there would be some information about that there.”

As they conversed on their way back to the camp, Alon contemplated Celaime’s response.

“There probably isn’t anything beyond the 8th rank.”

According to Alon’s understanding of the Psychedelia system, a mage capable of using Origin magic would reach the pinnacle at the 8th rank.

“I see.”

“Indeed. Although it wasn’t as significant as I expected once we got there, it wasn’t a waste. I gained plenty by studying the magic circle at the gateway.”

Alon quietly nodded at Celaime’s cheerful laughter. He didn’t want to dampen Celaime’s enthusiasm for exploring magic to ascend further, even though he found it unnecessary.

‘Then again, just because the system doesn’t mention anything beyond the 8th rank doesn’t mean the 9th rank couldn’t exist.’

The thought crossed his mind.

‘Speaking of which, what happened to Celaime Mikardo in the original story?’

Celaime Mikardo had never appeared in the original work Alon remembered. Even during conversations with the hysterical Penia in the original story, topics related to the Tower Lord were never mentioned.

‘Did I forget? It’s been so long, and my memory might be getting fuzzy unless I check my notebook.’

Alon recalled the notebook he had kept, jotting down useful knowledge about this world in his spare time to prevent forgetting crucial details.

‘Still, I’m certain Celaime didn’t appear in the original Psychedelia story.’

His certainty grew as he replayed every relevant moment in his memory.

“By the way, may I ask you something?”

“What is it?”

When Celaime cautiously inquired about how Alon had found the true key for the second gateway, Alon firmly refused to answer.

“I’m afraid I can’t share that.”

In the mage community, it was considered impolite to ask about magic developed by someone else outside the established magic hierarchy. Alon used this etiquette to confidently decline.

‘Not that it matters. My magic is mostly flashy tricks without any substance.’

As Alon pondered why his little white lie had worked, Celaime continued to smile.

“Haha, apologies. I was just too curious.”

“It’s fine.”

“Well, perhaps if we grow closer, you might share the basics with me someday.”

“…?”

Celaime laughed heartily, and Alon briefly puzzled over the word closer.

“Well then, I should get going.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Yes, I have a lot to do. Even two bodies wouldn’t be enough.”

Celaime excused himself as soon as they arrived at the camp, which relieved Alon. Being around Celaime had an inexplicably uncomfortable air.

“See you next time.”

“Sure.”

Alon gave a casual reply to Celaime’s polite farewell and watched him vanish into the distance.

“Whew.”

He let out a heavy sigh.

“That’s the second task done.”

As he walked toward the inn, Alon reviewed his next steps.

“Now, only the final task remains.”

To prepare for the Forgotten One, he reflected on the main reason he had come to the jungle. A presence—more than an item—was essential to his plans.

“Everything’s ready.”

With that thought, he fiddled with the ring he had received from Heinkel and returned to the inn.

“You’ve returned, my lord.”

“Deus?”

“Yes, I’m back.”

The moment Alon entered, Deus greeted him with a respectful bow. Another figure, however, eyed Alon with a mix of disdain and irritation.

“Hmm, so you’re the Marquis?”

The man, tall and menacing, stood out. Alon immediately recognized him. Reinhardt, who was meant to be Caliban’s greatest swordsman, had finally appeared.

‘Huge. I knew he was tall, but he’s definitely over two meters.’

Without realizing it, Alon tilted his head back to look up at Reinhardt. Even with Alon’s own considerable height, Reinhardt’s towering presence was imposing.

The rough and intimidating face of the man contrasted sharply with the noble-sounding name Reinhardt, amplifying the tension in the air.

Adding to the overall disarray, Reinhardt’s clothes had been reduced to near-rags after spending an extended period in the jungle before Deus found him. In his current state, Reinhardt resembled nothing more than a bandit—no more, no less.

‘In Psychedelia, even with his rough features, he had a clean, noble appearance that fit the image of a dignified knight.’

As Alon found himself staring at the stark contrast between the Reinhardt he knew and the one before him, Reinhardt frowned and spoke.

“What are you staring at? Since I introduced myself, you should—”

But before he could finish, a loud smack interrupted him, forcing his head to jerk forward.

“Mind your manners,” Deus interjected.

“You bastard!” Reinhardt growled, glaring fiercely at Deus after being struck.

Deus, however, remained calm and repeated, “Mind your manners.”

“It’s not me who’s rude! Don’t you have eyes? He’s the one who—”

“Weren’t you the one who first spoke disrespectfully?”

“I’m allowed to!”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am!”

“You may, but only if you can defeat me.”

“Grrk—”

Deus’s words struck a nerve. When he mentioned an apparent agreement between the two—something Alon wasn’t aware of—Reinhardt let out a guttural yell of frustration.

“Fine! I apologize for my rudeness, Marquis Palatio,” Reinhardt said with no sincerity, his voice laced with irritation.

“It’s fine,” Alon replied nonchalantly.

Reinhardt, displeased by the indifferent response, grumbled as he sat down, leaving Alon with a strange sense of unease.

‘He was supposed to be a reckless character who’d never bow his head to anyone… seeing him like this feels awkward.’

Alon briefly shrugged off the memory of the promise Deus had casually mentioned earlier before shifting the conversation.

“Let’s save the discussion for later and rest for today.”

That night, despite the persistent, sticky humidity, Alon managed to fall asleep quickly, as though he had grown accustomed to the discomfort.

***

The following day, a light drizzle greeted Alon as he looked outside the inn. Soon, Deus shared some background on Reinhardt.

“…He came to the jungle to train?”

“Yes. He mentioned spending time in the Selvanus region and the northern zone.”

“The northern zone?”

“That’s correct.”

It was unusual. The Selvanus region was not a place one would choose for training, as it was rife with powerful mutated creatures. While a newly-minted sword master like the prodigiously talented Fillian might survive, it would still be an arduous experience.

‘Training in a place like that… it’s possible because it’s Reinhardt, but even so, the northern zone seems extreme.’

The northern zone, also known as the Territory of the Hundred Ghosts, was a place even Deus would struggle with. The mutated creatures there were only slightly stronger than those in Selvanus, but the real problem lay elsewhere—the subordinates of the Hundred Ghosts.

“From what I’ve heard, though, he didn’t seem to spend much time in the northern zone.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It seems he spent most of his time in the Selvanus region.”

Nodding at the timely explanation, Alon couldn’t help but marvel at Reinhardt’s strength. Yet his gaze drifted back to Deus.

‘And Deus defeated someone like Reinhardt…’

“Is something wrong, Marquis?” Deus asked, noticing Alon’s lingering stare.

Contemplating his response, Alon eventually spoke calmly.

“It’s good to see.”

The sentiment carried a sense of paternal pride, as if watching a son achieve greatness. But saying so outright felt awkward, so Alon chose his words carefully.

“…Is that so?”

“Yes, you’re doing well.”

“Understood.”

Deus, perhaps feeling some sense of pride at Alon’s words, displayed a rare, slightly smug expression. After some time passed in conversation, they finished a simple breakfast with Evan and Reinhardt, who had also joined them on the first floor. Then Alon broached an important question.

“Deus, are you heading back now?”

“I am. …Will you not return with me, my lord?”

“I have somewhere else I need to stop by.”

“Then I’ll accompany you.”

“…Haven’t you accomplished your purpose? Shouldn’t you be heading back?”

“A few more days won’t hurt.”

“In truth, I was going to ask you to join me if you didn’t mind. Thank you for offering.”

“It’s no problem.”

Deus’s straightforward response prompted Reinhardt to interject.

“So, am I supposed to wait here?”

“Come along.”

“Why should I do that?”

Reinhardt retorted sharply, his tone defiant.

“So you don’t run off again.”

“What? Me? That’s absurd!”

“Did you think I wouldn’t figure out you fled to the jungle to avoid calling me brother?”

Reinhardt clamped his mouth shut at Deus’s pointed accusation, his reason for escaping to the jungle—one Alon hadn’t cared to know—laid bare.

Witnessing the spectacle, Alon, who had been quietly enjoying the rare scene, cleared his throat. Evan, watching alongside him, leaned closer to ask softly.

“So, where are we going?”

“To the Thunder Serpent tribe.”

“The Thunder Serpent tribe? …Wait, you mean the one in the east?”

“Yes.”

At Alon’s confirmation, Reinhardt frowned deeply.

“What? You’re heading there? Marquis Palatio, do you even know what that place is like?”

“Of course.”

The Thunder Serpent tribe’s territory lay in the eastern zone, one of three areas the jungle camp had mapped. It remained the least developed region because of the tribe’s strict policy of rejecting outsiders.

“…You’re aware they’re there and still intend to go?”

“Yes.”

“Hah—”

Reinhardt couldn’t hide his disbelief, which earned him another smack.

“Ow! You bastard!”

“Mind your manners.”

“Do you have a death wish?!”

“If you’d like to see who dies first, be my guest.”

Reinhardt erupted in anger after being struck again by Deus, but Alon remained composed as he watched the scene.

‘If he knows about the Thunder Serpent tribe, that reaction is expected.’

In the game and its lore, the Thunder Serpent tribe was an exceptionally challenging foe. Each member of the tribe was at least as strong as a knight, and their combat efficiency doubled in the jungle.

Adding to the difficulty was their mastery of curses. From the moment one became hostile to the Thunder Serpent tribe, over ten different debuffs would start afflicting the intruder, persisting until they left the eastern zone.

Even so, Alon wasn’t overly concerned—Reinhardt and Deus were by his side.

Still, there was one reason for caution: the Thunder Serpent tribe had an absolute being they revered, a god-like presence.

…And that being was Alon’s target.

With that in mind, Alon stood up.

“Since we’re done here, let’s head out.”

“To meet the Thunder Serpent tribe.”

By the time the rain had stopped, Alon’s party began their journey toward the eastern zone—a region avoided by even the most daring explorers and mercenaries.

About an hour or two after entering the zone, Reinhardt glanced ahead at Marquis Palatio with faint irritation.

Truthfully, Reinhardt didn’t like the Marquis. Not because Alon had wronged him directly, but because Reinhardt often suffered incidental “collateral damage” because of him.

‘What’s so great about him that Deus gives those long-winded speeches during meetings?’

Reinhardt couldn’t understand why Deus always spoke so highly of Alon, almost as if it were second nature.

Sure, he had heard through the knights about Alon’s significant contributions during the northern campaign years ago, but surely that story had been milked long enough.

The Alon he saw in person didn’t seem particularly extraordinary, contrary to the tales. If it weren’t for the knights who endlessly praised the Marquis after their northern expedition, Reinhardt would have assumed the rumors were exaggerated.

Already annoyed at being dragged out here instead of returning to Caliban, Reinhardt was grumbling to himself when he suddenly drew his sword.

They appeared.

Draped in white animal pelts and wearing masks made of animal bones, a group of unknown individuals emerged like mirages in their path.

Reinhardt frowned deeply as he took in the sight.

“We’ve already fallen victim to their curses.”

He could feel his senses dulling as if submerged in water.

“Be warned, outsiders. This is the land of the Blue Serpent. Leave.”

The one speaking wore a mask adorned with four horns, and their guttural growl carried an undeniable weight of authority. Reinhardt, unable to stop himself, let out a low whistle of admiration.

‘Not a Sword Master, but close. To think someone without formal martial arts training could reach this level.’

Fascinated by the unexpected prowess of the masked figure, Reinhardt’s observation was short-lived.

“We’ve come to meet your chieftain.”

“You dare ignore my warning.”

What Reinhardt saw—or rather, was forced to see—was a breathtaking display.

The moment Marquis Palatio finished speaking, a tribe member lunged forward, their long single-edged blade slicing through the air with deadly precision.

Crack!

In an instant, everything froze.

Not just the blade.

Around Marquis Palatio, the world began to crystallize with frost, as if nature itself was recoiling from his presence. The drizzle turned to ice. The surrounding plants shimmered with frost.

Even the blade that had been thrust forward froze solid.

And then, the hand that held the blade followed, encased in a glistening shell of ice.

Everything froze.

Reinhardt, stunned by the spectacle, could only watch as his pupils widened uncontrollably. But it wasn’t just the frozen surroundings that rattled him—it was what he saw behind Alon.

Two eyes glimmered in the void behind the Marquis. They radiated an ominous presence, one that seemed to deny even the concept of recognition itself.

The sensation clawed at Reinhardt’s mind, gnawing at his sanity in an instant.

Yet, what truly shocked Reinhardt wasn’t even that.

It was the figure before him: Alon, his fur-lined coat billowing, and the two glowing eyes hovering ominously behind him.

The image was hauntingly familiar.

Somewhere deep within Reinhardt’s subconscious, it struck a chord—a scene he couldn’t place but which felt seared into his memory.

Compelled by instinct, Reinhardt frantically searched his mind for the source of this familiarity. And then, it came to him.

A year ago.

When Reinhardt had ventured boldly into a place of whispered rumors—only to flee in utter defeat.

A single attack had shattered his sword mercilessly, leaving him with a crushing sense of failure greater than anything even Deus had inflicted.

…The statue?

Yes, it was the statue.

Behind the Hundred Ghosts, seated upon a massive boulder, was a towering sculpture carved into the face of a sheer cliff.

And now, the image of that statue and the figure of Marquis Palatio standing before him were eerily, hauntingly identical.