"You're from the Black River tribe." Zoltan recognized the messenger. "Then you know—I've done enough. Tell that upstart noble master of yours that Zoltan's mad. And he expects favors?"
What an insolent request.
To help him out after all this time? What for?
He wanted to slam the door in the man's face, but it wasn't his fault. It was only a messenger, an elderly man, and he was already missing an arm thanks to Konrad's mistakes.
To think that he sheltered him and all the tribesmen in the village for a while—
And what did he ever get in return?
That bastard was now a count or a duke or whatever, and the first thing he did was to sell him.
Yeah, and wouldn't even show his face in person. He only sent this poor old guy to negotiate.
Not at all classy.
"I'm sure Master Konrad would pay for your services, Ser," the one-armed man tried to convince him. But there wasn't enough silver in the world to forgive what the kid had done.
His betrayal was of the worst kind.
Not even a week after Konrad and his followers left, he almost got lynched by an angry mob.
In his home, his sacred sanctuary, no less.
Then, the Church's men searched every house in Eytjangard. The very place he kept safe with his illusions for so long, that those bastards would avoid before.
Now, the Tower of Illusions was no more.
Dispelled for good, leaving only those sad ruins behind.
They already knew of the Green Mage and the facade he'd put on.
And the only way they could've learned the truth was from Konrad or his men.
He spat on the ground, crossing his arms.
"No," Zoltan snapped. "I don't deal with traitors. Fool me once, fool me twice—"
"Traitors?" The messenger acted as if the word had surprised him. "Master was so mad when he learned of your, uh, fate, Ser. He was the one asking the Duke of Aset to see to your protection."
So that was him? Why would he—
Well, that could've explained why Lord Schwertburg's personal guard chased the Church away.
If anyone, the duke had every reason to take his head, rather than to protect him.
But with the villagers on his side, arming themselves with pitchforks and the like—
They also let him stay in the Tanidia Inn rent-free, but the damage was already done.
"He called me a scam," Zoltan complained. "And now he expects me to cast magic for him? Which one is it? He can't talk shit about me and then ask for my help as if he deserved it."
Besides, the truth was—Konrad overtook him a long time ago.
Illusion screens? He never even heard of such a thing.
The kid ran laps around him with his damned talent. What could he even do that he couldn't?
It must've been his way of rubbing salt in his wounds. Ruining his pride wasn't enough.
Why else would he want him to attend his fancy tournament?
Kasserlane's every duke was there.
He tried his best to stay away from politics, especially after his cover was gone.
"Master's new invention is very popular," the man explained, unbothered. "But he will also partake in the duels, and the rules are strict. He can't use magic, even if it's for the crowd, so—"
"Who cares?" Zoltan interrupted. "I've no reason to help him after what he'd done."
The messenger bowed, a knowing smile playing on his lips.
"In any case, Lord Konrad sends his best regards and wishes you well," he said. "He tried to contact you before, but got no response, and that worried him to no end."
Zoltan's only reaction was a scoff, crossing his arms tight over his chest.
He never got a single word from his former pupil.
He even considered running away to Halaima, but got scared that he might've died already.
Now he was glad he held out this long, until Konrad—well, his messenger—came to him.
But well, if he were so worried about him, he could've—
"As for his thanks for your teachings, my Master sent these," the one-armed man pulled a pouch out of his pocket. "It ain't much, Halaima's economy didn't survive the Inquisitor."
He held the pouch towards him, and Zoltan grabbed it despite himself.
It was heavy, and from the sound it made—
As soon as he loosened the strings, a magical light almost blinded him.
Mana crystals, raw adamantite, and a few similar coins with a strange fox symbol on them.
It was a small fortune, and what's more, valuable materials for his experiments.
Not enough to outweigh his wounded pride, though.
"Fine," Zoltan muttered, pulling the string tight. "I've received his gift. The answer is still no."
At this point, it would have been too embarrassing to accept the request, show up, and fail.
He could've looked into that spell. If anything, it sounded interesting.
But he wanted the old man to try convincing him a bit more.
He didn't.
"Understood," the messenger said with a smile and bowed. "I'll tell Master that you're still healthy and alive. He'll find that comforting by itself. Should I give him any other message?"
Why wasn't he trying harder? Beg him, even if only a little—
"N-no, I'm fine," Zoltan muttered, his hand on the door's edge. "But it's no thanks to him."
The one-armed elder left him with his disappointment, and he slammed the door.
The pouch felt heavy in his hand, and so did his consciousness.
"A tournament? And new spells?" he mumbled to himself, pacing in his empty room. "It can't be that important if he didn't show up himself. Or at least the messenger should've—"
And that was when he heard the knock.
Of course. They must've changed their minds. A new directive. Telepathy?
He knew that both Gabrielle and that crazy ginger were capable of such things.
It was the right choice to say no, after all.
Now he might even get a raise out of his stuck-up pupil.
He took his time strolling back to the door and even counted to three before opening it.
"What is it again? I already said no," he did his best to appear annoyed without even looking.
But then he did, and his jaw almost hit the floor.
It was still an old man, but this one had both arms and a long, white beard.
A dark-green, pointy hat that he could've recognized from miles away—and a familiar face to go with it. One that he had not seen in—
"M-master?!" Zoltan muttered, his eyes wide.
No response, only a smirk. Not that he had any questions about it. Even if it seemed like the man had aged a hundred years rather than one or two, his features were still the same.
"You've returned," The illusionist still couldn't believe it. "No, how are you even alive?"
The old wizard didn't say a single word, but Zoltan was beginning to feel the cold.
Fall was already here, but he spent the last few minutes in this door already, and it was much warmer before. Now, even the colors began to fade from the world, until—
He found himself standing in a grey void.
Unmoving, unblinking, and unable to think.
The Green Mage has returned.