The Lone Wanderer

The metallic bars bent and groaned, as Deimos violently slammed the door behind him. He'd just about managed to restrain himself too, otherwise it would have easily come off its hinges, and he didn't feel like having it replaced again.

'Stubborn old fool…'

Even after spending years inside the dark cell, Orin still refused to reveal the missing ingredient. Despite having been robbed of his freedom, his status, and even his dignity, the alchemist insisted that he had given his word to his mentee to keep the recipe to himself for twenty years.

It didn't help that Deimos had to be careful not to kill the Blue by accident. Unless they captured Percy or figured out the Aurora Dew by themselves, Orin was quite literally the only person on Remior who knew the secret for sure. There might be others – like Nesha – but it wasn't a certainty, and the girl was still in hiding anyway.

Of course, waiting for another sixteen years wasn't ideal, but the situation made the carrot a more preferable approach than the stick.

Deimos had offered the alchemist several deals, each more generous than the last. To pardon his crimes, to restore his status as a senior alchemist, and even to promote him to the position of the sixth elder of the Guild, despite him being a mere Blue… Yet, no matter what he had put on the table, the man hadn't budged, prioritizing his promise to his student above all else.

'How ridiculous…'

Shaking his head, Deimos walked through the dim corridor, hoping he'd have better luck with the other prisoner. Though he wouldn't get his hopes up. Picking the right key from his pocket was easy – he had long learned to identify each of them by touch, after all the times he had visited the two captives. Twisting it inside the lock, he waited for the mechanism to click before stepping into the damp cell. Raising his left hand, he allowed some lightning mana to crackle in his palm, illuminating the place.

The prisoner was sitting cross-legged on the ground, topless and barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts full of holes and covered in mud and caked blood. The man appeared to be in his late twenties, despite having lived dozens of times longer. His eyes were closed, and his expression peaceful. His beard was messy, as was his dark hair. Much of it was draped over his face, painting a stark contrast against the shaved scalp he'd sported back when he first surrendered himself to Deimos. He didn't seem bothered by the countless scars, scorch marks and wounds marring his body, many of the more recent ones still bleeding.

Given his grade and his affinity, he could have healed everything within minutes, if only his mana hadn't been sealed. In fact, everyone was aware that he was staying here voluntarily. The enchanted shackles on his wrists and ankles wouldn't last long if he genuinely tried to break out.

Runecrafting on Remior wasn't that bad – it was generally considered average among similarly developed worlds. But it wasn't particularly outstanding either. Even the White core in charge of House Etna would have been hard pressed to design a prison capable of holding a Violet against his wishes. Hephaestus was possibly the only one on Remior skilled enough to accomplished that, but this matter was way beneath the god's paygrade.

Besides, it wasn't every day that the leader of a noble House had to be kept captive. Typically, such figures would be executed on the spot, should they be unlucky enough to lose a war against a rival family. As for the cells the Alchemists' Guild possessed – they weren't meant to hold such powerful mages. They were only here to discipline Yellows or Greens when they broke a rule.

'Well, it doesn't matter. He knows better than to resist.'

Archibald had only surrendered to spare his family the consequences of his grandson's actions. Whether he was truly innocent, as he claimed, or not, he understood his hands were tied – both literally and figuratively.

Seeing that the man refused to even acknowledge his presence, Deimos spoke first.

"They finally found your grandson. Well, sort of…"

No response.

Deimos had to admit; Archibald was good. No matter what he said or did – what he threatened or offered – the old Violet never strayed even an inch from his script. He refused to admit that he cared for the boy, or that he'd known anything about Percy's involvement with the elixirs.

"Apparently, he's kept himself busy over the years. He snuck into the Thirsty Valley and murdered two Holy Children. All of their guards too – anywhere from ten to fifteen of them. He was last spotted flying north atop a giant, two-cored crow."

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This time, Archibald finally opened his eyes, raising an eyebrow. Deimos didn't doubt the man's genuine shock, innocent or not. It really was quite unbelievable, after all.

"I suppose you're here to free me then?" the Violet suddenly asked, his voice hoarse but even.

"Free you? Why the hell would I do that?" Deimos asked.

Archibald shrugged.

"Didn't you lock me up because you assumed that Percy needed outside help to escape from your subordinate? If what you're saying is true, him killing a Green doesn't sound so farfetched now, does it?"

Deimos chuckled.

"I hate to disappoint you, but you aren't going anywhere. Not until you give me something useful. An admission of guilt, your grandson's location, or the recipe – I don't even care what at this point. But I won't let you or your family continue to mock me."

Archibald just looked at him in silence. Feeling slightly uncomfortable under the Violet's gaze, Deimos continued.

"Nothing? Be glad I haven't implicated your family yet… But don't assume things will stay that way. In fact, I might not even have to do anything. The neighbouring Houses might get to them first. Two years without a Violet is a long time."

The life mage sighed.

"Why are you here, Deimos? If you're going to torture or kill me, just get on with it already. Haven't you grown tired of wasting your breath?"

"I'm here to make a deal. This won't end well for any of you, Archibald. Not for you, not for your grandson, and not for your House. They'll catch him, sooner or later, and it'll be too late for you when that happens. Why don't you just try to salvage what you can?"

Archibald shook his head.

"I've already told you everything I know. That won't change, no matter how you ask, or what you offer."

Hearing him insist on the same old story, Deimos turned around, closing the door as he left the cell. He didn't even lash out this time, feeling more tired than angry.

He knew Archibald was lying, of course.

Of that, there was no doubt. Not that there was any hole in the man's words. If anything, it was impressive how consistent the Violet had been over the years, repeating the same lines after countless months of constant interrogation. He'd certainly done an admirable job controlling his expression too, always keeping the mask of the detached patriarch on, ignorant and innocent of his descendant's crimes.

But there was a clue that Deimos hadn't missed. Something that had been painfully obvious since the very first day they had talked. Anybody else might not have noticed it. It was an emotion, hidden deep inside the man's gaze. It flashed brightly, every time Percy's name came up. To Deimos, it was clear like the sun.

Why?

Because this was an emotion he had longed to see in his father's eyes his whole life. Hermes had never once looked at Deimos like that. And it killed him, to see that emotion somewhere else.

It was pride.

As early as a few days ago, Hermes had personally contacted a few select people, announcing the news on Percy. This time, the god hadn't wanted to raise a big fuss, so he'd only told the leaders of the Great Houses and Deimos – who was in charge of the investigation on the Aurora Dew. At first, Deimos had expected his father to punish him over his repeated failures. He'd been in the Guild for around four years, with nothing but a dead subordinate to show for it.

To his shock – and to his great relief – that hadn't happened.

Somehow, the god's demeanour had hurt Deimos even more, however. Hermes hadn't even bothered to visit him in person. He had merely relayed the same message to both himself and the others, his voice sounding cold and uncaring. There hadn't been the slightest hint of anger or disappointment in it either.

Only pity.

After telling them about Percy's exploits, Hermes hadn't even ordered them to hunt the Red-born down. It didn't seem like he even cared whether they did. In the end, they'd all assumed they were supposed to – because why else would he have given them Percy's physical description?

Still, something about this had rubbed Deimos the wrong way. It was almost like the god had no expectations for any of them. As if he was simply going through the motions, having given up on their mission entirely. As if their failure was already set in stone.

And it irked Deimos to no end.

'Why did the gods not involve themselves directly, even after all this time?!'

He couldn't understand it.

Why had they stopped caring about the Aurora Dew all of a sudden? After all the years he had wasted stressing over it?! Did they no longer want their Yellow-borns to attain divinity? What about their Green-borns? Did they not care that two of them had died? That their murderer was out there, spitting in the Order's face time after time?

'Well, I do.'

Deimos didn't care about the Order's image exactly, nor did he care about Remior as a whole. But he did want to get his hands on the Aurora Dew. He was a Yellow-born, after all, and a talented one at that.

His father might have treated him like a worthless pawn his whole life, but things didn't have to stay that way. With the miraculous elixirs, he had a real chance to become a god. Naturally, it would take several millennia, but at least the door was open.

As for the gods' wishes…

Well, he had no idea what they had in mind. Perhaps, a few years meant nothing to them, and they were happy waiting for Orin to reveal the recipe. Or maybe they had figured it out on their own already, and they no longer cared about the culprit.

Yet, it didn't matter.

Thinking back to the disrespectful runt who had wasted so much of his time, he smirked. Whether they cared or not, the gods hadn't forbidden him from hunting Percy down either, so he was free to press on with his mission.

Next, he glanced back at the cells behind him, thinking about the stubborn prisoners covering for their protégé. They might have refused to talk, but that didn't mean they were entirely useless.

'I wonder if he cares about you two as much as you care about him…'