Harvey looked at the pale elf before him and realized that his faint, elusive intuition had completely vanished.
The elf's destiny seemed ethereal and illusory—or perhaps he was a special being beyond Harvey's ability to sense.
What was going on?
Harvey did not possess Anbaixiu's knack for deducing entire truths from trace clues. He vaguely sensed something was amiss, but couldn't immediately connect it to anything concrete. Still, he had learned a trick from Anbaixiu: it didn't matter if you couldn't figure things out—just don't let anyone notice that you sensed something was off.
And so, putting on a bewildered expression, Harvey asked the pale elf, "Pardon me, sir elf, but who might you be? Why are you inside my teacher's castle?"
Cyric smiled. "I should be the one asking you that, human. Why are you inside my castle?"
Harvey knitted his brow. Could it be that after his teacher went on the run, the dwarves repossessed the castle and resold it? That certainly fit the goblin style of business.
Harvey had not yet realized that just from hearing this single sentence from the elf, he had already begun automatically rationalizing it, concocting justifications to make it make sense.
Such was the divine power of the Prince of Lies: the untruths He spoke invariably made people believe them without realizing it.
Most mortals were powerless to resist such power. Mortals like Anbaixiu, capable of spotting the logical fallacies within the falsehoods, were exceptionally rare. That was primarily because his worldview was thoroughly at odds with this world; the Prince of Lies' power generated fabrications aligned with this world's logic, which instinctively struck Anbaixiu as unnatural.
Just as everyone in this world took the existence of gods for granted, Anbaixiu had needed a long time after transmigrating to transition from an atheist to a theist. Countless preconceived notions forced Anbaixiu to take mental detours before understanding much of this world's internal logic, so no matter how flawless Cyric's fabrications were, Anbaixiu could always spot the flaws far more easily.
It was like adding a translation step in between, which caused an otherwise perfect lie to distort in the translation.
Harvey, however, was a native born and bred. He had no such filter to translate and scrutinize the claim, so the moment Cyric spun a casual fabrication, Harvey began inventing justifications on his behalf.
Harvey found himself in an awkward bind. If the castle truly had been bundled and sold off to this elf, didn't that mean he was trespassing in someone else's home?
What should he do in a situation like this?
Harvey racked his brain, recalling Anbaixiu's teachings. If his teacher were faced with this problem, he would brazenly chuckle, declare it a misunderstanding, throw an arm around the elf's shoulders, and march off with him to settle scores with the goblins—pinning the entire blame on them and ultimately reclaiming the castle. Depending on this elf's intelligence, there would be a few possible outcomes:
In the first outcome, the elf would work for nothing and lose a castle for free. In the second, he would also have to cough up emotional distress compensation. In the third, even after paying compensation, he would still consider Harvey's teacher a friend worth having.
Harvey mentally rehearsed the scenario, only to realize he was stuck on the very first step: his skin was nowhere near thick enough.
In that case, he could only resort to the other method his teacher had taught him.
Sincerity: the ultimate, undefeated winning move.
"I am terribly sorry. This was originally my teacher's castle. We merely went on a temporary trip, and I never expected to return and find a new owner. Could you tell me from whom you bought it?"
Anbaixiu understood honest men like Harvey well, so he had given him a piece of advice: *If you can't exploit loopholes and take advantage of others, become a defender of the rules. Stand firmly on the side of reason and righteousness, and you'll run into far less trouble.*
Above all, ordinary folk should never waver between the two. Those who lacked the stomach to be ruthless yet failed to be truly good people were usually the first to die.
Back when Harvey had been swindled by Dahei and Erha, he had tried to swindle them back the same way. Who knew those two ruffians wouldn't reason with him at all and simply beat him black and blue with their fists? From that day on, Harvey had seen the light: trying to play underhanded games was not for him; sticking simply to reason was vastly easier.
Unfortunately, Harvey was not facing an opponent squabbling over territory.
Cyric's target was Harvey himself.
Cyric spoke up, "So that's how it is! No wonder those goblins sold it so cheaply—they weren't the rightful owners of this castle at all. But that poses a problem. I heard something happened over at the Goblin Bank, so going with you to demand compensation right now might be rather difficult."
"Ah? What happened?" Harvey asked curiously.
The castle was dozens of kilometers from the Dwarven Royal Capital, a journey of over half an hour even with the Fly spell. With the turmoil in the capital having only just erupted, Harvey truly had no idea.
Yet while Harvey voiced his doubt, his hands didn't idle; he pulled out his magic mirror and began swiping through it.
Asking his teacher about such matters was never wrong, as major incidents like this were eight or nine times out of ten connected to him.
When Cyric saw Harvey retrieve the magic mirror, he subtly rested his right hand behind his back, rubbing two fingers together to emit a faint ripple. Completely unbeknownst to Harvey, the display on the magic mirror shifted, turning into a message left for him by Anbaixiu stating that a coup had broken out in the Dwarf Kingdom—the dwarf king's children had rebelled to seize the throne.
Harvey read it with astonishment, yet felt nothing amiss.
He was not particularly knowledgeable about the politics of the realm, but tales of princes murdering old kings to ascend the throne were commonplace and hardly strange. At most, the timing was unfortunate; with the World Council right around the corner, staging a rebellion now carried massive ramifications.
Still, Harvey did not dwell on it. High-stakes international affairs were for his teacher to worry about; as a pure scholar, all he needed to do was focus on his research.
With that in mind, Harvey felt awkward once more. How was he supposed to prove the castle belonged to his teacher?
Cyric smiled and said, "If this truly is your teacher's castle, we elves have no habit of seizing other people's property. However, with the capital in utter chaos, it will likely be difficult to verify anything with the Goblin Bank right now. If you don't mind, you may stay for a cup of tea.
"Rebellions, whether they succeed or fail, tend to be resolved quickly. Perhaps if we wait a day, calm will be restored."
Harvey felt this elf made a great deal of sense. Since destiny had guided him here, there had to be a reason, and he shouldn't just turn around and leave now. Perhaps this unfamiliar elf was the key to his advancement to legend?
Thinking of this, Harvey asked, "Thank you for your understanding. My name is William Harvey, an ordinary wizard. May I ask your name?"
Cyric gave a slight bow and said elegantly, "Cyri. You may call me Cyri. Unfortunately, I have no knowledge of magic—just an ordinary elf with a bit of coin who enjoys traveling."
"Cyri..."
The name carried a strange enchantment, evoking a faint sense of familiarity in Harvey, as if he had heard it somewhere before. People naturally relaxed around familiar things, and this inexplicable sense of familiarity gave Harvey a slightly more favorable impression of the elf.
Cyric led Harvey into a small sitting room in the castle and personally brewed a fragrant pot of black tea for him. Harvey took a gentle sip and immediately felt refreshed; the flavor was surprisingly exquisite.
While switching tea leaves, Cyric placed a copy of *The Cyrinishad* where Harvey could see it. The tome held an irresistible allure for mortals; even a glimpse of its cover would compel someone to flip through it ravenously and transform into a devout believer of Cyric.
Unfortunately, the trick proved useless.
Harvey indeed saw the book, but merely glanced at it casually, wholly unaffected.
Cyric frowned imperceptibly. He realized this lad had already read *The True Life of Cyric*; only those who had read the book penned by Oghma were immune to the hypnotic sway of *The Cyrinishad*.
That damned lich truly left no vulnerability unguarded. Presumably, everyone around him had already been immunized against *The Cyrinishad*'s hypnosis.
But no matter—Cyric was already mentally prepared for this.
After all, Anbaixiu was a Deceiver acknowledged across numerous worlds; had he left such a glaring flaw, Cyric would have had to suspect whether he had fallen into a trap.
Though he could not use *The Cyrinishad* to control Harvey, Cyric had other methods.
As the Prince of Lies, Cyric needed only a slight effort to hold a delightful conversation with anyone. Harvey soon felt that the elf before him was a rather pleasant friend—free of the arrogance typical of elves from the Silvermoon High Court, broadly knowledgeable, and exceptionally witty.
Cyric spoke of his travels around the world, captivating the young man who had once wandered far and wide. He had visited those very places himself, so why had he never noticed the beauty the elf described?
"Mr. Harvey, though you haven't mentioned much about your past, one can tell you are a young man who has endured a great deal of hardship. To achieve what you have today, you must have worked terribly hard."
Those words nearly moved Harvey to tears. After all these years, someone finally understood his struggles!
He truly had lived a miserable life: starving and wandering from childhood, tricked into joining an evil cult, learning to read solely through cult grimoires, only to be singled out by Demogorgon right off the bat. After spending years living the wretched, unearthly life of a warlock, he was then conned by a necromancer to serve as a sacrifice. Had the Goddess of Fate not smiled upon him and allowed him to reclass into a divination wizard in the nick of time, he would likely have ended up as a zombie long ago.
Yet even after becoming a divination wizard, good days remained elusive. Anyone who had worked as an adventurer knew how miserable it was—the very bottom of society, barely a step above slaves, living on the edge of a blade as a daily routine. And if that weren't enough, just when he had finally scraped his way up to wizard advisor for a minor lord, he crossed paths with Anbaixiu.
He had thought his luck had turned, that he had found a renowned mentor. Instead, after reading books for merely a few days, he was dispatched across the desert carrying his teacher's phylactery. The journey was grueling and windblown, and he was captured and brutally tortured by half-orcs. By the time he saw his teacher again, his fated death was looming, with only days left to live.
Even in those final days, he was thoroughly swindled by two of his teacher's subordinates, experiencing anew the cruelty of mortal hearts.
After finally breaking his fated demise, life grew somewhat more comfortable, but how could anyone under Anbaixiu ever hope for free time? Completely ignorant of business, Harvey was strong-armed by Anbaixiu into managing ledgers involving tens to hundreds of millions of gold coins, losing clumps of hair in the process.
Then, when he finally met another teacher who seemed far more dependable, Mister Misfortune vanished after meeting him just once! And then, his first teacher promptly plunged into Hell, leaving Harvey to swallow his grief and hold up the entire enterprise... Recalling all of this, tears welled in Harvey's eyes. What kind of life was this?
And yet his teacher constantly claimed he was a child blessed by the Goddess of Fate. If this was what being blessed looked like, Harvey truly couldn't imagine how people without such blessings managed to survive.
Cyric could sense Harvey's emotional shifts, thinking to himself that the atmosphere had ripened enough to administer a heavier dose.
Cyric remarked to Harvey with deep empathy, "Much of life's suffering stems from our origins and our elders. To be frank, my own parents never understood how to care for a child either. They would always force you into countless things under the guise of 'doing it for your own good.'
"The coup in the Dwarf Kingdom is likely tied to this as well. Royal offspring are subjected to even harsher restrictions. Prolonged suppression and constraint only make these youths yearn all the more for freedom. And they have only one way to attain that freedom: by becoming king of the realm. Dwarves have such long lifespans; the temptation to act becomes simply too overwhelming to resist."
Harvey nodded. "True. That makes sense."
*As expected of an elf who has lived for ages—his insight is spot-on.*
Yet Cyric smoothly steered the conversation without a trace: "Come to think of it, hasn't much of your bitter hardship also been caused by your teacher?
"I have heard that human scholars exploit their apprentices terribly. Unpaid overtime, burning the midnight oil, slaving away at all manner of trivial chores outside of academia—forced to surrender their time and youth just so their mentor can publish a few more treatises, while the apprentice doesn't even get credited as an author..."
Cyric's voice carried magic, guiding Harvey toward malice against Anbaixiu while suppressing every shred of goodwill he held toward him.
To say Harvey harbored no resentment was impossible. He recalled the mountains of crushing work Anbaixiu had piled onto him, and how, in all the time they had known each other, he had never heard a single word of comfort. The interactions between master and apprentice had always been brisk and efficient, completely devoid of warmth.
After slaving away so much for him, was he not even worthy of a simple "you've worked hard"?
Perhaps there had been, but under the influence of Cyric's power, Harvey had completely forgotten every good thing.
Harvey began to feel that this teacher of his was practically the greediest vampire on earth, wishing he could suck out Harvey's marrow and sell it for coin.
Seeing the vacant haze in Harvey's eyes, Cyric knew the mortal was under his sway, and continued in a hypnotic voice, "So, you actually resent him, don't you? Haven't you ever thought of teaching him a lesson? A prank that isn't too severe, yet unforgettable enough to make him suffer a little and realize he needs to care about your feelings—wouldn't that be wonderful?"
Vortices began to churn in Harvey's eyes, just like in Cyric's other victims, as if he would succumb entirely at any second.
Harvey murmured in a sleepwalker's voice, "Yes... I should let him know that I am a free person too. I am not his slave!"
Cyric urged him on, "Splendid. I can help you—all you need to do is cooperate."
Harvey responded, "Alright. I agree! Let's teach that old fellow a lesson!"
Cyric's lips curved into a smile at last. Everything was unfolding as smoothly as planned, as though preordained by fate.
Yet just as he was about to lead Harvey to the magic circle, Harvey suddenly closed his eyes, his body slumping limply to the floor.
Cyric caught him at once, catching him before he hit the ground. After a brief examination, he muttered in bewilderment, "Excessive soul exhaustion? How could this kid's soul be so weak? I hypnotized him with the utmost care, yet he couldn't even handle that?"
Generally speaking, wizards—a class devoted entirely to intelligence—ought to possess souls far more resilient than those of ordinary mortals. Yet Harvey's soul was extraordinarily bizarre, weaker even than that of a newborn infant, like fragile glass.
Cyric's hypnosis had placed a strain on his soul, but even such a gentle touch had left his soul utterly exhausted, sending him straight into a coma.
"Something isn't right. With a soul so fragile, he shouldn't even be able to stand, let alone carry out normal daily actions."
Though Cyric was no expert in the realm of souls, a deity's understanding of souls still vastly eclipsed that of any mortal. With a soul as frail as Harvey's, he should have been bedridden waiting for death. How could he move about freely and even cast spells?
In this state, Harvey could not possibly be used as a sacrifice.
He required Harvey's malice; he needed Harvey to willingly offer up his soul so that the power capable of cursing Anbaixiu could be stripped away.
Cyric's brow furrowed tightly. As he pondered how to handle this, he noticed that Harvey's breathing was growing faint; his soul was deteriorating even further.
"No, I must save him first, or he might never wake again! Damn it, did I fall into that lich's trap? Did he prophesy long ago that I would use Harvey as a sacrifice and tamper with Harvey's soul using his abilities? What a vicious scheme! Truly worthy of a lich who would sell out the gods themselves for profit!"
Though he wasn't certain whether this was Anbaixiu's conspiracy, Cyric could not afford to let Harvey die. Harvey was his only viable sacrifice; if he perished, all prior efforts would go down the drain.
Cyric thrust his hand into the void and retrieved an assortment of bottles and jars. While not divine artifacts, they were extraordinary elixirs beyond what mortal gold could ever buy.
Harvey's condition soon stabilized. His soul ceased deteriorating, lingering in a delicate balance—at least he wouldn't die in the short term. Healing soul debility was an exceedingly thorny problem, though for a deity, it was merely an inconvenience.
Cyric let out a breath of relief. "Hmph, foolish mortal. It is precisely this cruel scheme of yours that shall bring about your death. Once Harvey awakens, I will tell him of your betrayal, and his malice toward you will swell boundlessly, making my ritual even more potent!"
However, precisely because Cyric was not an expert on souls, He only knew that Harvey's soul was weak. He failed to detect the other consciousness hidden within Harvey's soul—a completely independent, newborn soul.
At this moment, Harvey was not truly unconscious. His consciousness had sunk into chaotic void, meeting with that newborn soul.
Within that boundless world of consciousness, Harvey floated toward a faintly glowing child.
Though a humanoid form composed purely of energy, the child was breathing like a real infant. Delighted, Harvey swept the baby into his arms and said with excitement, "You've finally hatched! My teacher, you've finally... Wait, no. Teacher said this isn't Mister Misfortune's soul, but a completely independent, newborn child."
In the entire world, perhaps only Anbaixiu knew that Harvey had been nurturing Mister Misfortune's soul fragment inside his own soul.
It was an exceptionally dangerous undertaking, yet doing so provided the soul fragment with the safest possible environment to grow, sheltered on all fronts like an infant growing inside a mother's womb.
At the same time, the soul fragment continuously absorbed Harvey's knowledge—everything regarding divination wizards—allowing the nascent soul to master that knowledge shortly after birth and become a true prodigy.
Such an operation was breathtakingly daring and impossible for ordinary beings. Its difficulty was akin to engraving a million-word novel onto the tip of an embroidery needle—a degree of precision comparable to handcrafting a lithography machine.
The vast majority of deities could never accomplish this; only Anbaixiu, a master of soul manipulation, possessed such skill.
Once the operation was complete, it ensured that Harvey could carry on with his everyday life normally while the soul fragment thrived, with the only caveat being that Harvey's soul would exist in a very peculiar state—like a fragile glass orb.
Yet as fate would have it, Harvey ran into Cyric, and as fate would have it, he succumbed to His hypnosis. The fragile work of art began to crack relentlessly, looking on the verge of ruin.
However, Cyric's frantic efforts to save him were actually redundant. Anbaixiu had long established a safeguard: had Harvey weakened just a little more, an automatic protection mechanism would have triggered, separating the two souls once more, and Harvey would have fully recovered after a single sleep.
Instead, Cyric had meddled, administering "treasures" accessible only to gods to deliver potent healing to Harvey's soul.
As a result, Anbaixiu's safeguard never activated. Harvey remained in a coma, but he could sense that the child was about to be born, having grown from a soul fragment into a complete soul.
Though still very frail—so frail that its own consciousness remained incomplete—if only it were given more nourishment...
As Cyric pondered how to heal Harvey completely, he abruptly discovered that the kid's newly stabilized soul was relapsing into deterioration once again!
"Are you serious?! You're really that terrified your student won't die thoroughly enough? How vicious!"
Lamenting the cruelty, Cyric once again poured a massive dose of soul-nourishing potions into Harvey. This couldn't go on; he had to seek help from a deity who was truly knowledgeable about souls.
Yet Cyric had a mountain of enemies and hardly any allies. Who could he turn to?
When it came to understanding souls best, perhaps only Hell could compare.
Infernal devils were masters of torture, cultivating and modifying souls in all manner of ways that other deities couldn't match—after all, other gods didn't possess an endless supply of raw materials to squander at will.
Moreover, seeking help from devils had one distinct advantage: as long as one exercised due caution when drafting the contract, devils were the most trustworthy partners imaginable, completely unbothered by Cyric's reputation.
"Sigh. To think I'd have to make a trip to Hell. I'll go talk to Zariel first."
Scooping Harvey up, Cyric transformed into a pitch-black shadow and vanished from the castle.
Chapter 613