Chapter 744

"It’s finally over..."

Peace had returned to the battlefield. The darkness and tide of blood had vanished, and Malekith, who had sought to plunge the entire universe into eternal darkness, had been completely consumed by the shadow storm unleashed from Clea’s holy spear.

All that remained of the Dark Elf was the Aether. In the instant before Malekith disappeared, the liquid energy had separated itself from its former master. It now floated in the air, twisting and curling into a small, fluid mass.

"Malekith spent his entire life pursuing darkness. Now he’s finally become one with it." Evenson sighed at the fall of a king. "I suppose you could say he got exactly what he wanted."

His solemn tone might have fooled someone who didn’t know him. Unfortunately, everyone present seemed convinced he was enjoying the occasion a little too much.

"Still, I never expected your background to be quite so illustrious, Sorcerer Supreme."

Evenson turned toward the Ancient One, a knowing smile playing across his face.

"Arthur Pendragon herself. The legendary King Arthur! Now that I know the truth, should I be bowing before you whenever we meet? Perhaps I ought to start practicing my royal greetings."

"What do you think, you Germanic barbarian?"

The Ancient One glared at him. A moment later, however, her expression softened into a wry smile.

"Forget it. King Arthur..." She shook her head. "I’ve never liked that title. If circumstances had allowed it, I would have preferred to keep that part of my past a secret forever."

"Oh?" Evenson raised an eyebrow, affecting an expression of genuine admiration. "Ruling a kingdom is something most people can only dream of. Actually pulling it off is the sort of achievement your descendants could brag about for generations. Yet you seem determined to bury the whole thing. Such humility. Such indifference to fame and fortune. Truly, a model of enlightenment."

"Model of enlightenment, my foot."

Zahaid suddenly turned his head away, his tone dripping with mockery.

"She doesn’t want to talk about it because she was a spectacular failure as a monarch. Other kings managed to be tyrants, fools, or both, and at least left their kingdoms standing long enough for their heirs to inherit the mess. Her Majesty managed to lose the entire country practically overnight."

The Ancient One’s smile froze.

Zahaid either failed to notice or simply didn’t care.

"Back then, I took on the guise of Merlin, dressed myself in white robes, and helped her establish a kingdom. Do you have any idea how much work that took? Scheming, planning, overcoming one crisis after another. We were supposed to build something that would endure, something powerful enough to protect the mortal world and flourish for generations."

He sighed theatrically.

"Then I went away on a little errand. When I returned, the kingdom had collapsed. The entire organization we’d painstakingly built was dead, scattered, or running for its life. And the reason behind the whole disaster was so absurd that I still don’t want to dignify it with an explanation."

Evenson couldn’t help himself. A laugh escaped before he could suppress it.

He quickly swallowed the rest when he noticed the Ancient One’s expression. Her face had darkened to the point where the atmosphere itself seemed to have grown colder.

Still, the story was almost impossible not to laugh at. Arthur Pendragon, one of the most celebrated figures in legend, undone by a failure so embarrassing that even Merlin would rather pretend it hadn’t happened.

"You know," the Ancient One said, fixing Zahaid with a murderous stare, "nobody would mistake you for a mute if you simply kept your mouth shut."

"Really?" Zahaid pointed at his own face. His features were completely concealed beneath layers of bandages. "You think so? Given my current appearance, people might reasonably assume I don’t even have a mouth."

He paused.

"Which, as it happens, is true."

"Hmm." The Ancient One studied him for a moment, her expression suddenly thoughtful. "Those bandages look a little loose. Come here. Let me tighten them for you."

Zahaid went still.

"Why do I suddenly feel as though I’ve made a terrible mistake?"

The exchange was hardly unusual for the two of them. The Ancient One and her former mentor had known each other long enough that neither bothered maintaining a polite fa?ade around the other. Even someone with her composure had limits, and having an old humiliation dragged into the open for everyone’s amusement was certainly one way to find them.

Evenson, meanwhile, had turned his attention to a different treasure.

A white, circular stone slab lay on the ground nearby. He had witnessed its defensive capabilities during the battle and had been thoroughly impressed.

"Considering you used to rule a kingdom, I suppose it makes sense that you’d have better equipment than I do." He crouched to examine the object. "What’s the story behind this thing?"

The Ancient One followed his gaze. For a moment, her expression grew distant.

"It’s a piece of the old walls of Camelot," she said quietly. "I kept it because I wanted something to remember those days by."

Ruins may crumble, but their stones remain.

Evenson looked at the slab with renewed interest.

A genuine relic from Camelot. The thing might be worth half the Louvre.

Then he took a closer look.

The surface wasn’t exactly pristine. Several areas were blackened, and patches of grease clung to the stone.

Evenson stared at it.

"Say, Sorcerer Supreme... are you sure you’ve been taking proper care of this artifact? I’ve run a shop dealing in mystical curiosities for years, and I’ve dabbled in the antique trade. Granted, most of the items I sell are bought in bulk by weight, but even I know a thing or two about preservation."

He pointed at the greasy surface.

"Since when does maintaining a stone relic involve rubbing cooking oil into it?"

"You mean that?" The Ancient One gave him a disdainful look. "Have you seriously lived this long without eating stone-grilled meat?"

Evenson blinked.

He studied her face for several seconds, waiting for the punch line.

There wasn’t one.

Finally, he shook his head.

"No. I can’t say I have."

What a level of wealth.

Some people used historical artifacts as decorations. Others locked them away in museums. The Ancient One apparently preferred to cook dinner on hers.

Compared with that, the sort of nouveau riche idiot who lit cigars with hundred-dollar bills barely qualified as wealthy.

"Come on, Senior Sister Ancient One. You’re being a little harsh."

Clea stepped beside Evenson, seemingly taking offense on his behalf.

"He might not have eaten meat cooked on an ancient stone slab, but I can personally guarantee he can afford ordinary meat."

Evenson turned to look at her.

Was that supposed to be a defense?

He met her clear, earnest gaze and immediately decided to play along.

"Exactly! I eat the dehydrated beef in instant noodles all the time. And occasionally, when I’m feeling extravagant, I even throw in a hot dog."

The Ancient One and Zahaid exchanged a glance.

Neither said anything. Their expressions, however, conveyed everything.

Evenson sniffed.

What was wrong with instant noodles? They were practically divine cuisine. Give it a few years, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Asgard started serving them at royal banquets.

Once he’d settled that matter in his own mind, he turned to examine Clea’s armor.

"Speaking of expensive equipment, that suit of plate armor you’re wearing must have come from the Sorcerer Supreme, too. Is it the armor of one of the Knights of the Round Table?"

"It’s mine," the Ancient One replied. "The Lion King Armor. I wore it during the Battle of Camlann."

She regarded the armor with a trace of nostalgia.

"Both the armor and my holy spear were originally pure white. For reasons I’d rather not discuss, they’ve since turned black."

Armor worn by Arthur Pendragon during the Battle of Camlann...

Evenson eyed the suit.

Something about that combination sounded ominous. Then again, if this really was the armor Arthur had worn during her final battle, its value was almost beyond calculation.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Clea abruptly crossed her arms over her chest and took a wary step backward.

"Let me make one thing clear. You can talk until the end of time, but I’m not selling this armor. I’ll need it for future battles. I mean..." She stumbled over her words. "For future... important occasions."

"Not every important occasion has to involve fighting."

She shot him a look.

"Don’t change the subject!"

"That’s not what I meant!" Evenson hastily protested.

He withdrew his gaze, then glanced between Clea and the Ancient One. A new thought had occurred to him.

"I was just wondering... Is that really the Ancient One’s armor? I mean, does it actually fit you? Isn’t it a little tight in certain places?"

Clea snorted.

"Shows what you know. It’s enchanted armor. The size adjusts automatically to fit whoever wears it."

"Oh. That explains it."

Evenson nodded thoughtfully.

Of course. Magical equipment. The laws of tailoring were apparently beneath its notice.

Watching Evenson and Clea bicker, the Ancient One could only shake her head with a helpless smile.

People really do tend to find their own kind.

Then something caught her attention.

The Aether, which had been floating quietly nearby, suddenly began to move.

Its liquid form stretched into a shimmering ribbon and drifted away from the spot where Malekith had perished.

At the same moment, someone began to clap.

Slow, measured applause came from a woman who had been watching the battle from the sidelines. She had short black hair and wore a fitted purple dress. As she approached, the Aether curled around her wrist like a domesticated animal, obediently following her movements.

Yet it never dared to merge with her body.

"Interesting," the woman murmured. "Very interesting indeed. What a splendid little performance."

She continued walking, seemingly oblivious to the tension that had suddenly seized everyone around her.

Then, without warning, she produced a half-empty bag of potato chips and tipped the contents into her mouth.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

She swallowed, took out an oversized bottle of cola, twisted off the cap, and drained the entire thing in one long pull.

"Ah, that’s the good stuff!"

A moment later, she began to shiver with unmistakable delight.

"Nothing beats the sensation of stuffing your mouth with salty, crunchy snacks until your throat goes dry, then washing it all down with a huge gulp of carbonated sugar. Perfect."

Her behavior was so casual that, at first glance, she might have been an ordinary woman enjoying a snack after an evening at the movies.

But not one person present was fooled.

Everyone had gone on guard. Even without an overt display of hostility, the woman’s very presence demanded caution.

Her demeanor was relaxed. Her movements were unhurried. And yet, nobody dared to lower their defenses.

"Allow me to introduce..."

The Ancient One took a breath and stepped forward, hoping to clarify the stranger’s identity before a misunderstanding turned into something disastrous.

She didn’t get the chance.

By now, Evenson had already figured it out.

"Praise be to you, great Nyarlathotep."

The clues had been impossible to ignore: the timing of her arrival, the strange behavior of the Aether, and the unsettling ease with which she treated the aftermath of a battle that had threatened the universe.

There could be little doubt.

The woman before them was Nyarlathotep, the Black Pharaoh, messenger of primordial chaos and one of the Three Supreme Gods.

Evenson began to bow.

Nyarlathotep immediately raised a hand to stop him.

"I’d strongly advise against that."

Evenson froze halfway through the movement.

Was she simply being considerate? Or did she consider him so insignificant that he wasn’t even worthy of offering her a proper salute?

"Don’t misunderstand," Nyarlathotep said with a bright smile, as though they were discussing the weather. "It’s just that, in certain worlds, kneeling and bowing your head are actually ways of challenging someone to a duel."

Everyone stared at her.

What kind of world had a custom like that?

It was completely absurd.

"See, this is the problem with interacting with things you don’t understand." Nyarlathotep’s smile widened. "The safest approach is usually to do nothing at all. At least then, you have a chance of surviving the encounter."

She looked around at their frozen expressions.

"I trust you understand what I’m trying to tell you."

"Of course."

Evenson nearly nodded, then caught himself.

For all he knew, nodding might constitute an obscene gesture somewhere in the multiverse.

He decided that keeping his head perfectly still was the wisest course of action.

"Great Black Pharaoh, your presence is an extraordinary honor for our world," he said with a deferential smile. "However, there is something I cannot quite understand. What makes this particular world so special that an existence of your stature would take an interest in it?"

"Honestly? I didn’t particularly want to come."

Nyarlathotep furrowed her brows, looking mildly troubled.

"A few days ago, one of my worshippers suddenly appeared in this part of the universe. He began praying to me incessantly. It was like receiving one of those irritating calls from a telemarketer who refuses to take no for an answer."

She sighed.

"He kept telling me that a grand tragicomedy was about to unfold and that I simply had to come and watch. Given my interests, I suppose you can understand why I eventually gave in. Curiosity got the better of me."

A few days ago? A grand tragicomedy?

Evenson rubbed his temples.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

He could already see the problem. Someone had been so desperate to attract Nyarlathotep’s attention that he had practically begged a cosmic horror to attend a performance whose ending had been anything but kind to him.

And now that the performance was over, the guest of honor had arrived.

"Well," Nyarlathotep continued, "I must say the show was quite good."

She smiled and gave an approving nod.

"Really?" Evenson scratched his head. "I thought you might be disappointed. After all, the worshipper who invited you didn’t exactly have a happy ending. I assumed you hadn’t taken a liking to him."

"Why would I take a liking to him?"

Nyarlathotep looked genuinely puzzled.

"Well, from what I understand, ever since he learned of your existence, he went to considerable lengths to win your favor."

"Is that so?"

She tilted her head as though this were the first she’d heard of it.

Then her expression abruptly cooled.

"I hate it when people presume to know what I want."

The words were mild. Her smile was gone.

"I enjoy watching stories unfold. There are so many worlds, so many people, and so many things happening across creation. They’re endlessly entertaining. But when someone starts guessing what I want and tries to force events to develop according to their assumptions..."

She paused, searching for a suitable comparison.

"How should I explain it in a way you mortals will understand?"

"It’s like looking forward to a movie for weeks," Clea said, stepping forward, "only to have someone spoil the entire plot before you get the chance to watch it."

"Exactly!"

Nyarlathotep’s face lit up.

"That’s precisely it. I hate spoilers!"

She clasped her hands behind her back and resumed her explanation, her earlier irritation giving way to genuine enthusiasm.

"The appeal of a tragicomedy lies in its uncertainty. It satisfies my curiosity. It gives me something to anticipate. Until the mystery is finally resolved, I never know exactly what will happen next. That’s what makes the experience worthwhile."

She glanced around at the assembled sorcerers and adventurers.

"My interference in the affairs of the world is generally limited to giving events a little push at the beginning. Think of me as an investor who provides the funding for a film."

Her expression turned almost cheerful again.

"It’s perfectly natural for directors, screenwriters, and producers to want to please their investors. If they know what kind of stories I enjoy, there’s nothing wrong with trying to make something in that spirit. That’s their job."

She lifted one finger.

"But if they start trying to anticipate my every preference, and then arrange every single scene to match what they imagine I’m expecting, the entire experience falls apart. I watch the opening, recognize the pattern, and immediately know how everything will end."

Nyarlathotep grimaced in disgust.

"Ugh. Imagine sitting through a film like that. Predictable, boring, tedious, completely devoid of surprises..."

She shuddered.

"What a terrible movie!"

For the first time since her arrival, her smile sharpened into something genuinely threatening.

"So, as both the investor and the audience, I think I’ve shown remarkable restraint by not strangling the director, screenwriter, and producer with my bare hands."