Above the increasingly dark sky, countless dark clouds roared and rolled together.
The densely packed Deep Blue lightning did not dissipate at all. Instead, it remained suspended in the air as if it were perfectly normal—like veins of blood bulging beneath the skin, or like the dry, cracked earth after years of drought.
A wild storm blew straight into his face. Iver's brilliant golden hair whipped upward and streamed behind him like a fluttering flag.
He raised an arm to shield his face and tried to take another step, but he felt an immense resistance.
The Cardinal Galatea standing beside him tilted her head slightly. Her cold, Doll-like pupils gazed calmly at Iver. Her long hair was also tossed wildly backward.
Before they knew it, the two of them had fallen behind the group.
They had no intention of searching for Light Amber. Instead, they were interested in something else.
The one continuing to follow the group had already become an illusion. For that reason, Galatea no longer needed to maintain the illusion spell.
"Before 'language' was disenchanted, it was the power of the Wise Philosopher."
Galatea narrowed her eyes and looked up at the sky. "That was the power once wielded by the one who departed from our path."
When writing was still controlled by the priestly class, it was an exclusive right to interpret.
In an age without writing, poetry and song were sacred. It was a kind of primitive beauty, but also a kind of "mystery."
"...The Wise Philosopher is the silent god."
Iver spoke. "He must have seen something, and that was why he chose to remain silent."
"I know," Galatea immediately replied. "And I know that it concerns the secret of the First Sun.
"Though the Wise Philosopher was silent, he told that snake this