Mahar.
The name belonged to a monster, yet it was not bestowed by anyone else. Monsters, by nature, had no names.
After sealing itself away, the creature had to create a god-like figure, a proxy that would wield divine authority without inciting resistance. Through sorcery, it fashioned such a figure. At that time, “Mahar” was a term deeply rooted in the people’s consciousness, synonymous with the world itself. By adopting that name, the monster elevated itself as the great and sole deity—a concept the people readily embraced.
And so, it claimed the name Mahar.
But no one ever addressed it as such. To the world, it was known only by its fabricated guise: Sang-je, the representative of God.
Now, with the pretense of Sang-je cast aside, the monster writhed in desperation, its existence buried deep beneath the earth. It strained against the seal binding it, pouring every ounce of its power into the effort. But no matter how fiercely it struggled, its restraints held firm.
“Alber,” it growled, its voice reverberating within its confinement. “I will repay this debt—no matter what.”
Grinding its teeth, it clawed at the sorcery that imprisoned it. The effort claimed the lives of dozens of knights in an instant. Their vitality, bound to the monster through the magical seeds they had consumed, failed under the strain. It was undoubtedly the king’s doing. Yet, despite their deaths, the spell remained unbroken.
Frustration swelled within the creature. The inability to perceive what was happening above ground was maddening. Was its domain overrun by larks? Was the king nearby, orchestrating yet another scheme? The darkness that engulfed it pressed closer, suffocating in its uncertainty.
Then, it froze.
This scent… Ramita?
A potent fragrance flooded its senses, intoxicating and disorienting. The sheer presence of Ramita scattered its thoughts, momentarily paralyzing its rage. Slowly, its petrified body began to stir.
Yet, even as the bonds of the sorcery loosened, it felt no relief. If the spell was undone by an external force rather than its own will, it would lose a critical advantage—the ability to control its transformative powers. Without them, its physical prowess would falter.
Before it could retreat further underground, the kings might also strike. Its plans teetered on the edge of ruin, and the thought alone was unbearable.
The scent of Ramita ignited something deep within the creature. Its awakening body surged uncontrollably, a raw force running rampant. The ground trembled as though in fear, buildings crumbled under the strain, and chaos erupted in every direction.
Riner, entranced by the strange, tactile illusion of water enveloping him, abruptly snapped out of his daze. His senses flared, sharp and focused. There it was—an unmistakable aura.
“This one…” he muttered, his voice low, almost disbelieving. “It’s a monster.”
The stench hit him like a hammer, sharp and oppressive, nearly overwhelming his senses. He gagged, instinctively shielding his nose with his arm. Never before had he encountered a lark with such a foul, suffocating presence. The earth beneath his feet shook violently, threatening to give way. Could something this colossal have been hidden beneath the sacred city all this time?
“As expected,” he said with a toothy grin, his eyes glinting a predatory crimson. “The strongest lark in existence.”
Scarlet Praz shimmered over his body, flickering like a mirage in the desert heat. He adjusted his stance as the ground cracked and began to collapse around him. With precision and agility, he leaped from fragment to fragment, descending steadily as the chaos intensified. The deeper he went, the stronger the lark’s stench became, suffusing the air like a choking miasma.
“Come on,” Riner growled, his grin widening. “Reveal yourself.”
The tremors reached a deafening crescendo, shaking the Holy City to its foundations. Buildings shattered, collapsing into heaps of rubble. Then, with a thunderous roar, a section of the terrain caved in completely, sinking into a shadowy abyss.
From within the darkness, something massive stirred.
“The core!” Riner’s eyes gleamed, locking onto the faint shimmer buried in the gloom. Without hesitation, he hurled himself into the depths, the fractured earth rushing past him.
He couldn’t tell how far down the pit extended, but it didn’t matter. Gripping his sword, he poured every ounce of Praz into it. The blade burned crimson, its fiery glow illuminating the encroaching darkness.
In one decisive motion, he struck.
The blade pierced through the monster’s formidable scales and buried itself in its core, the impact reverberating through Riner’s body.
“Got it!” he shouted, confidence surging through him.
But the victory was short-lived.
The creature’s tail lashed out with brutal force, a blur of motion too fast to avoid.
“Ugh!” Riner grunted as it struck him squarely. The impact sent him hurtling through the air, slamming him into the remains of a partially collapsed building. Dust and rubble rained down around him as he hit the ground, his breath knocked from his lungs.
***
“Elders,” Aldrit began, his voice steady but laced with curiosity, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask but never had the chance until now. How did you come to meet Mara and strike a deal with him?”
Aldrit still remembered the day he first learned the truth—it had felt as though the sky itself had collapsed. He’d grown up believing that, while their ancestors had committed grave sins long ago, their descendants bore those burdens with pride, striving to atone and live without shame. Even as he resented the hardships of their nomadic life, forced upon them by a cruel fate, he found solace in its purpose, its dignity.
But that conviction had shattered when he uncovered Mara’s deeds.
Mara had posed as the leader of a cult, deceiving countless people, exploiting them like tools before discarding them. The knowledge filled Aldrit with a storm of anger and sorrow. Yet what cut deepest was the realization that the elders—those he had revered—had either aided Mara or turned a blind eye, justifying it all as a means to protect their descendants.
Had they truly atoned for their ancestors’ sins, or merely added new ones to the ledger? Could forgiveness ever be theirs?
For a long time, the questions had tormented him. But as the years passed, Aldrit’s perspective began to evolve. The relationship between the elders and Mara grew increasingly complex in his eyes. Though their exchanges often seemed sharp, there was an undeniable undercurrent of warmth, almost familial. It no longer felt like a mere transactional arrangement. If the elders had tolerated, or even condoned, Mara’s actions, Aldrit believed there must have been more to it than he first understood.
“To be honest,” Aldrit admitted, his voice softer now, “I resented the elders at first. I couldn’t reconcile the truth with the respect I had for you. But then… I realized how ungrateful that was. After all, I grew up peacefully in the safe haven you provided. And while the decision to maintain the sorcery began with you, it was ultimately our choice to uphold it.”
The quiet darkness stretched between them, carrying his words. Then, from somewhere deep within the shadows, a low chuckle echoed, gentle and filled with an indescribable weight.
“Aldrit.”
He straightened instinctively. “Yes?”
“We regret nothing,” came the measured reply. “If only because someone as upright as you is among our descendants. Stay true to that heart, Aldrit. Lead the prosperity of the clan.”
Aldrit flushed at the elders’ excessive praise, his face warm and his mind scrambling for a suitable response. Before he could speak, another elder’s voice broke the moment.
“Prosperity, huh? That’s all well and good, but I don’t care much for that,” the elder said with a dismissive wave. “I just want all of you to be happy. That’s enough for me.”
“Indeed,” another elder chimed in, their tone gentler, almost wistful. “I hope that one day, when you’ve finished your final journey, your soul will find completion. Then, you will no longer be mere guests in this world but truly become one with it.”
“…Pardon?” Aldrit tilted his head, confusion knitting his brow. The final journey he understood referred to the end of a long, arduous life, attaining rest at last. “Isn’t that what it means?” he asked hesitantly.
The elders exchanged glances before clicking their tongues in unison, a sound of mild disappointment.
“How did it come to mean that?” one elder muttered. “That’s not it at all. Listen carefully, Aldrit.”
The elder leaned forward, their expression intent as they began to explain. “The final journey is not about surrender or despair. It is a story Eugene once heard from Alber—a truth passed down. We come to this world as guests, experiencing countless journeys. Through those journeys, we grow, mature, and shape our souls. Only then, when the soul is fully complete, can it become one with the world.”
