Became the Patron of Villains Chapter 285 : Treatment (4)

A thunderous boom echoed as the mountain gave way, collapsing into a void until it seemed as though nothing had ever stood there.

The destruction occurred with such terrifying speed that not a single cry for help could be uttered.

“Unbelievable.”

Evan’s soft whisper cut through the ensuing stillness, vibrating in the ears of the group like a clap of thunder.

No one present had the heart to disagree with his assessment.

The reasons for their shock varied among them.

While some were simply stunned by the sheer scale of the phenomenon Ria had unleashed, Alon’s astonishment stemmed from a different source entirely.

As a fifth-tier mage, Alon possessed the ability to see the world differently.

Since his initial encounter with the Apostles, he had developed the skill to visually track the lingering trails of mana.

Yet, staring at the path of Historia’s sword strike, he could detect no mana signature at all.

It appeared as though she had achieved that level of destruction without using mana.

He glanced toward Penia and found her wearing a matching expression of bewilderment.

Her face clearly asked: “How is that even possible?”

Even for the most skilled swordsman, the utilization of mana was considered a fundamental requirement.

While Alon stood frozen by the mystery, a gentle sensation brushed against his waist.

It was Historia.

“It is finished. Let us move.”

She showed no hints of fatigue or strain.

Observing her calm demeanor, Alon found himself spiraling into deeper confusion.

He had always recognized Historia’s strength.

She was, after all, counted among the seven most powerful beings in Psychedelia.

However, the display of power he had just witnessed far exceeded any of his previous estimations.

As Alon continued to watch her, Historia tilted her head, her ears twitching slightly before she softly retracted her tail.

“I shall return shortly.”

“To where?”

“One remains.”

“...In that mess?”

Alon looked toward the valley where the settling dust revealed a landscape so ruined it no longer deserved the name. He followed Historia down into the wreckage.

There, they discovered a man.

His broken form was pinned beneath a massive heap of debris.

“!”

The sight was gruesome enough to make even Alon recoil.

The man’s lower half had been utterly obliterated, crushed beneath a boulder several times larger than a human, leaving nothing behind.

Yet, the physical carnage was not the most shocking part for Alon.

The Martyr of All Things.

This was the leader of the Martyrs—fanatics who sought self-sacrifice. If left to his own devices in Psychedelia, he was destined to transform into the monstrous entity known as the “Starvation of All Things.”

That was the true identity of the man dying before them.

“Gahk—!”

A spray of dark, viscous blood erupted from the martyr’s lips.

He was hovering at death's door.

Despite his state, Alon felt no sympathy.

The Martyrs were a group defined by cruelty and fanaticism.

They were capable of slaughtering masses without a second thought for their rituals.

They would even consign infants to the flames if they believed it served their cause.

Setting aside his disgust, a nagging question plagued Alon’s mind.

He was well aware that the original flow of history had been warped multiple times.

He understood that the future he once anticipated had shifted into something entirely new.

Nevertheless, it defied logic for the Martyr of All Things—who belonged in the Allied Kingdom—to be present at this location.

As he puzzled over this discrepancy—

“Curse it all—”

The dying man, still coughing up black blood, looked up with eyes full of spite.

And then—

“If not for those blue eyes...”

His voice, thin and saturated with grief and malice, faded into a dull, grey tone.

“Hope still remains—”

With those final, bitter words, he fell silent.

Thud—

Before his resentful rambling could conclude, the Martyr of All Things breathed his last.

Alon, staring blankly at the corpse,

“Blue… eyes?”

He softly repeated the phrase he had just heard.

Having dealt with the Martyrs so efficiently, Historia and the rest of the group proceeded toward the High Lord.

Later that evening.

“So, rather than a lack of mana, she condensed it to an extreme degree? And she controlled that pressure through sheer Skill alone...?”

“Exactly.”

“Incredible...!”

Alon watched in silence as Historia explained the mechanics of her swordplay to Penia, who had practically demanded the lesson.

“Marquis.”

“What is it?”

“That beastkin, Historia—she is the one you mentioned meeting in the past, correct?”

Evan, seated nearby, spoke in a hushed tone.

“Well... yes. Why do you bring it up?”

Evan wore a peculiar expression as he continued.

“I have encountered several people you claim to have known in the past by now.”

“That is true.”

“But doesn't she seem… less dramatic than the others?”

“I understand your point.”

“Right?”

It was a valid observation.

While Alon’s reunions hadn't all been theatrical, there was usually a certain level of emotional weight to them.

“But isn't this the sort of reaction you'd expect when seeing someone after a long interval?”

“I mean... it has been 700 years. Shouldn't there be more impact? I did see her use her tail to hold you, but even so.”

“...I suppose?”

“Exactly!”

Alon merely shrugged at Evan’s persistence.

“Well, Historia has always been that way.”

“Truly?”

Alon thought back to the Historia he had known centuries ago.

She was never one for many words.

Even when he had rescued her, she gave only a fleeting smile; she was usually unreadable and stoic, even when surrounded by others.

Reflecting on it, he realized he hadn't shared nearly as much conversation with her as he had with Magrina or Nangwon.

...Or rather, it was simply impossible.

She rarely offered more than three sentences at a time, regardless of the topic.

Perhaps that was why their interaction felt so understated.

Even so—

“Yeah.”

Alon didn't feel the need to force a long dialogue with her.

He knew that their bond didn't require words to feel natural.

“It is time for rest.”

After observing Penia and Historia for a while longer, Alon made his announcement and settled down to sleep.

Soon, the world was blanketed in the deep silence of midnight.

Penia, who had been tossing and turning with a look of discomfort, eventually let out a quiet groan and sat up, rubbing her lower back.

As the vice-tower master of the Blue Mage Tower, she had traveled extensively, but sleeping on the hard ground was still an unwelcome rarity.

She had done it before, of course.

During their journey through the past with Alon, even a simple carriage was a dream; they had slept on the bare earth.

That didn't mean she enjoyed it now.

As she surveyed the sleeping camp with a grimace,

“?”

She noticed that Radan and Historia were missing from their bedrolls.

Curiosity piqued, Penia felt a spark of interest.

She instinctively released a faint pulse of mana to catch the distant sound of voices.

Then, she moved quietly toward the source.

A short distance away, she spotted Radan and Historia standing together under the moonlight.

And then—

“Allow me to offer some advice.”

“?”

“Stay away from the marquis.”

Penia felt a strange sense of familiarity as she listened to Radan’s stern warning.

She tried to place where she had seen this play out before.

“And why should I?”

“Just don’t. It is for the best.”

“Why?”

“......Because you are not a suitable match for him.”

Watching Radan go silent as if he had run out of logical arguments, Penia finally realized why this felt so familiar.

It reminded her of a romance novel she had read out of boredom.

It was a typical story of a commoner and a noble, which accounted for its fame.

In that story, a noble mother—realizing her son was smitten—confronted the commoner girl, telling her, “My son is out of your league, so leave!”

The current scene was almost a perfect mirror of that trope.

The only twist was that Radan was currently playing the part of the overbearing noble mother.

Penia wondered why Radan felt the need to issue such a warning to Historia.

Even considering his loyalty to Alon, this seemed excessive.

As she pondered the bizarre situation, a theory began to form in her mind.

She searched for a reason why Radan would pull Historia aside specifically for this "advice."

Penia recalled recent events.

Ever since Historia appeared, Radan had been uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes constantly tracking her movements.

His behavior had definitely shifted since her arrival.

Her theory, which began as a mere thought, started to feel more like a certainty.

Penia’s jaw dropped in realization.

In reality, Radan wasn't bothered by Historia’s proximity to Alon; he was unsettled by the ominous glow of the brooch on Alon’s chest.

But Penia had no way of knowing that.

And so—

“...Mark my words. Staying near him will only lead to trouble.”

“I refuse.”

As she continued to eavesdrop on their exchange, Penia began to hatch a plan.

A plan to assist Radan.

...More accurately, a perfect scheme to help Radan in exchange for full access to the relic he held.

Before Radan could retort, Historia turned and vanished into the shadows without another word.

“This is a disaster....”

Radan groaned, clutching his head as if a migraine had struck.

Penia suppressed a mischievous grin and crept back to camp as quietly as a cat.

The following morning—

“Just put your faith in me.”

“?”

“...?”

“No need for those looks. I understand everything. Hehehe~”

Approaching Radan with a sudden burst of energy, Penia made her presence known with a mysterious, knowing smile.

Radan was internally confused but chose to look away from her unsettling gaze.

Two weeks later—

“We have arrived.”

“Ooh~”

Alon and his companions finally stood before Sunju, the capital city of the Eastern Nation.