Omniscient First-Person’s Viewpoint-Chapter 478: A Story from Afar: A Misaligned Reunion

Between the mountains and the coastline lay a land where the mist settled thickly. A little further down, where the fog lifted, stretched a vast plain.

A shadowless plain—an undesirable landscape for vampires. It wasn't just the lack of places to hide from sunlight; there was a deeper historical reason.

The Blessed Enger Plains.

For humans, it was a land of milk and honey. For vampires, it was a wall of despair.

Sunlight bathed the land, warm winds danced through the fields, and rivers rich with nutrients carved through the earth. A paradise for those who thrived under the sun—but a graveyard for vampires. In countless battles fought upon those open fields, vampire blood had seeped into the ground, turning the land into a battlefield of loss.

No matter how powerful or regenerative a vampire might be, they were at an inherent disadvantage in open war.

Flowing water, relentless sunlight, vast distances—victory always seemed within reach, only to slip away. Vampires who pushed forward recklessly were cut down by holy blades that punished their arrogance.

Undying as they were, the vampires withdrew, their immortal existence now marked by eternal defeat.

To the defeated, fear was not the issue. The problem was that their weaknesses had been exposed to the world.

And so, vampires were pushed back—again and again—until they were forced to the very edge of the continent, to the ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) Sea of Calamity.

The misty coastline became their sanctuary, but just as the world could not belong to vampires alone, the principality could not exist solely within the fog.

Where the mountain ridges ended and rivers found their way to the sea, there lay another land:

The Eastern Plains, bordering the Military State.

A place where humans gathered in great numbers—and where vampires naturally followed.

With its open fields exposed to sunlight, vampires here lived traditionally—sleeping by day, ruling by night.

Yet, despite the land's vast resources, the higher-ranking vampires avoided it.

The Enger Plains’ nightmare loomed too large.

There were plenty of humans, but too few elder vampires.

And with the Military State so close, if anyone were to flee, they would inevitably pass through the Eastern Plains.

Both vampires and humans thought the same thing.

“...Troublesome, aren't they?”

Commanded directly by the Progenitor, Countess Erzebeth Aine clicked her tongue in frustration.

Vampires might be insensitive to some things, but to shake off hundreds of humans and vampires alike while crossing half a nation? That was beyond impressive.

This wasn't simply a matter of endurance.

Their target was exceptionally talented.

Creating false trails to mislead pursuers.

Slipping past borders to blend in among people.

Navigating forests and plains to find hidden paths.

If they hadn’t mastered at least one of these skills, they would have been caught long ago.

"Madam Erzebeth, we've found them."

Of course, even with all that skill, they had only managed to delay the inevitable.

As the report came in, Erzebeth flicked open her blood-red fan, covering her lips as she spoke.

"But this is the end. When a destination is limited, cornering them is easier than twisting a newborn’s wrist. Now that they've reached the plains, there's nowhere left to run."

Grandmaster Dogo was already ahead, near the border.

The Progenitor's consort was not strong enough to defeat a force of Elders and Ains.

Erzebeth's task was simply to herd the cattle into the pen.

With her strategy set, Erzebeth muttered to herself:

"If I deliver the Progenitor's consort, perhaps my past sins will be forgiven...."

The words slipped out before she realized it.

And then—she fell silent.

She was free.

Erzebeth was no longer under the Progenitor’s dominion.

She still possessed her power, but she had gained true autonomy.

Which meant—the fear she felt now was entirely her own.

The reason was simple.

Erzebeth recalled a figure of dread.

A shadow wrought by the Progenitor’s authority.

A being shaped by vampiric power, history, and fear itself.

A creature that stood by the Progenitor’s side like a shadow yet followed behind like a child.

A being stronger, crueler, and beyond even the Elders.

Erzebeth could never even attempt to oppose that shadow.

It may have been Tyrkanzyaka’s creation, but it was a being of a completely different order.

A primal fear, embedded in her very instincts.

The same terror a field mouse feels when facing a tiger.

Something beyond comprehension.

Something that made her long-dead survival instincts crawl back up her spine and scream.

“...What was that...?”

Even after much thought, no answer came.

Carrying her unshakable unease, Erzebeth set off toward the location of the consort.

A windmill stood alone in the vast plains.

Unlike the stagnant sea breeze trapped against the mountains, the wind here flowed freely, sweeping across the fields in gentle waves.

And humans—arrogant creatures—had found a way to harness even that.

According to the reports, the consort had noticed his pursuers, sighed heavily, and walked into the windmill, making himself comfortable.

Erzebeth nodded in approval.

"So this is the so-called King of Humans? Even in exile, he carries himself with dignity. I appreciate that he doesn’t disgrace himself with useless struggles."

"What shall we do?"

"We shall bring him in, of course. As the Progenitor’s consort, he should be treated with the utmost respec—no."

The Progenitor's consort was still human.

Winning his favor could be beneficial.

And Erzebeth had her own sins to atone for.

Thus, she decided to dismiss her Ains and approach personally.

"I will escort him myself. The rest of you, stand down."

"As you wish, Madam Erzebeth. I will report this to the Crimson Duke."

The Crimson Duke’s Ain, Count Erthe, bowed deeply and left.

Everything about his demeanor was proper, but Erzebeth disliked Erthe.

Though he was officially assigned to assist her, the truth was clear.

He was here to monitor her.

"How dare they..."

But Erzebeth, having already defied the Progenitor once, could not openly protest.

Suppressing her irritation, she turned toward the windmill and walked forward.

Inside, she could feel a presence.

Deliberate. Unconcealed.

The consort was not trying to flee.

This should be a simple conversation.

Standing before the door, Erzebeth adjusted her attire and spoke.

"Consort. I have come to escort you personally."

Silence.

But the presence remained.

Interpreting the quiet as consent, Erzebeth activated her blood authority.

A thin stream of blood seeped through the wood, merging into the structure itself.

Without lifting a finger, she commanded the door to open.

"Pardon my intrusion, but I shall enter now. Consort, I hope—"

However.

The scene inside was not what she expected.

The consort was there.

But he was not alone.

Before him stood a mage.

One who had been standing there without a sound.

Their expression twisted in deep annoyance.

Then, as their gaze landed on the uninvited guest, their frown eased—just a little.

And the mage muttered.

"A fake tricked me, and now another fool has wandered in as well."

Erzebeth hesitated for a moment.

According to her Ain's report, only the Progenitor’s consort had entered the windmill.

Yet here was a mage, sitting as if he owned the place.

The mage, oblivious—or perhaps indifferent—to Erzebeth’s identity, spoke with the utmost arrogance.

"There are so many fools in this world that I don’t know whether I should be grateful... or despair that I, too, am among them. Ah... In the end, am I nothing more than the King of Right-Handed Men? A rigid, conventional first-rate?"

He sighed dramatically, utterly unbothered by Erzebeth’s presence.

He clearly had no idea where he was or whose company he was in.

To be ignorant of an Elder within the Principality—even for an arrogant mage—was beyond absurd.

Erzebeth decided to teach him a lesson.

Not that he’d live long enough to learn from it.

"Kneel. You are of no concern to me."

The blood spread across the floor bloomed like flowers.

Before the mage could react, the swirling crimson flames rose and detonated around him.

Erzebeth didn’t even glance back at the carnage—her attention was already on the consort.

"Pardon my unsightly display. However, I could not tolerate such disrespect toward you and myself—"

"Consort? I don’t know what nonsense you’re talking about, but that one isn’t Hughes. It’s just an imitation. The man you’re looking for isn’t here."

The voice came from behind her.

Erzebeth froze.

That mage should have been incinerated.

Yet his voice rang out, clear and unscathed.

Doubt flickered in her mind as she turned her gaze back to the crimson blossoms.

The mage stood there, completely unharmed.

Despite the flames blooming around him, despite them coiling around his body to devour him—not a single hair had been burned.

No, it wasn’t that he had endured it.

The blood itself had refused to harm him.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

The rightward-turning flames did not attack but protect, almost as if... they obeyed him.

A red-haired mage, utterly at ease.

No tension. No fear.

As if Erzebeth’s attack had never mattered.

"If you were searching for a doppelgänger wearing someone else’s face, I’d understand," he said nonchalantly. "But I doubt that’s the case. After all, you and I are both ordinary people. Well... except I happen to be a bit more exceptional than you."

Erzebeth narrowed her eyes.

He hadn’t failed to recognize an Elder—he had known and dismissed her anyway.

A mage might be arrogant, but they weren’t suicidal.

Which meant...

He was confident he could survive.

Erzebeth unfurled her fan.

Even if he had blocked the first attack, that was nothing more than a greeting.

No mage—no matter how troublesome—was beyond the reach of an immortal vampire.

She raised her hand toward him—

Only for the Progenitor’s consort to interrupt.

"Don’t attack."

Erzebeth paused, keeping her hand in the air.

"You know him?"

"We’re... acquainted."

"But he doesn’t know you."

"Correct."

"Then I assume you’re not close."

Erzebeth smiled.

Her fan twirled elegantly through the air, directing a massive serpent of blood to coil around her.

With the Progenitor no longer bound to blood, Erzebeth reigned supreme over the art of sanguine sorcery.

Within the windmill, a storm of crimson began to swirl, coiling around her hand.

"In that case, I assume it would be fine if I killed him."

The moment her fan snapped closed—

The blood erupted.

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A torrent of crimson force surged toward the mage, its sheer volume overwhelming.

The windmill shook violently.

The gears inside spun wildly, turned not by the wind but by the sheer force of blood crashing against them.

The mill, designed to harness the wind, was now creating it.

The flood swallowed the mage whole.

Like a serpent, it coiled around him, constricting tightly.

Like a whirlpool, it churned, grinding flesh to dust.

If the goal had been destruction, the attack would have more than sufficed.

Yet—

"Hmm?"

The mage remained untouched.

The bloody vortex still raged around him.

The power was real.

But it never reached him.

As if an invisible force had wrapped around him, shielding him from harm.

Erzebeth’s gaze sharpened.

"A Unique Magic... I see. So this is your trump card."

A mage who fully mastered their own philosophy could manifest a Unique Magic—

A force that imposed their personal laws upon the world.

Such magics often rejected outside forces.

Thus, they were usually defensive.

However, just as each Unique Magic was different, so too were the ways to overcome them.

Erzebeth raised her power further.

If one strike wouldn’t work, she would simply flood the entire windmill with her might.

But then—

The Progenitor’s consort stopped her again.

"Stop, Madam Erzebeth. Attacking him is pointless. His Unique Magic—the World of the Right-Handed—ensures that every attack misses and strikes something else instead."

Erzebeth hesitated, withdrawing her power.

Even now, the windmill was barely holding together.

If she escalated the fight, the consort might be caught in the crossfire.

And if he was harmed—

Then she would be nothing more than prey for that 'shadow.'

‘...But this isn’t a simple barrier.’

Something felt off.

Her power wasn’t being blocked.

It was as if it was being pulled into an endless, unreachable void.

A different kind of separation.

Not of strength or status—

But of existence itself.

Uneasy, Erzebeth’s eyes locked onto the red-haired mage.

'He cannot harm me. But at the same time... I doubt I could break through his Unique Magic in the short term.

Where did this come from?

And why, of all places, is he here—

at the Progenitor’s consort’s side?'

The one person who might have an answer was standing right beside her.

Erzebeth turned toward him and asked:

"You keep strange company, Consort. Who is that man?"

The person she had thought was the Progenitor’s consort... wasn’t.

Hilde had merely taken on his appearance.

But as a former warrior of the Military State, she knew exactly who that red-haired mage was.

Looking at the figure who had once plunged her homeland into chaos, she muttered:

"The Hope of the Military State."

"A comet that burned brighter than any other."

"And then... fell to the earth as its greatest traitor."

Years ago, in Hamelrn, three prodigies had emerged—symbols of the Military State’s brilliant future.

Neither remnants of the kingdom nor pawns of the Holy Crown Church—

They were pure products of the Military State’s might.

Among them, he was the brightest.

A prodigy of magic, born in a land where magic was thought impossible.

A man who perfected Military Ritual Magic and even forged his own Unique Magic.

A man expected to reshape the nation’s history—

Until his talent proved too much.

He betrayed the Military State and fell into infamy.

"The Fallen Comet."

"Colonel Lankart.

Once my comrade and friend.

Now... a traitor.""