Mujun never truly cared who was the strongest in Crocus. However, living as a slave forced him to understand the world's map of power.
Take the Human Kingdom, for instance. They were always called strong, and rightfully so. In military affairs, their name stood side-by-side with the Demon race at the very top. But that strength did not stem from numbers. Mujun knew that the human population was far smaller than that of the Demi-humans and still ranked below the Demons.
Fortunately, the world is fair. No race is more creative than humanity.
Humans survived—even excelled—because they found ways to cheat the limits of nature. Their creativity was like a contagious disease: once it appeared, it was unstoppable. From them, magic diagrams were first born. Then, one tool gave birth to another, and another, until warfare shifted into forms other races hadn't even begun to comprehend.
Swords, spears, hammers—everything was perfected. Long-range weaponry emerged: cannons, rifles, ballistae. Magic was tamed, squeezed, and then forced to work within metal and mechanisms. Human armor became harder than the thick hides of Demi-humans or Demons. Their steel blades were sharper than the claws and fangs other races prided themselves on. Mujun had seen for himself how natural superiority crumbled before a design that had been contemplated for far too long.
However, that advantage did not apply to all fields.
When it came to magical talent, the pinnacle belonged to the Elves, followed closely by the Demons. The number of Elves was small—always small—but every single one of them was born with a magic organ. There was no such thing as an Elf without spellcasting abilities. And with lifespans that were almost absurdly long, they developed magic not merely as a tool of war, but as an art perfected across generations.
Their spell technology far surpassed that of other races. More efficient. Finer. More lethal.
Ironically, that was exactly why the Elves were always short-handed.
Every Elf who died could not be replaced. Their numbers were dwindling, slowly but surely. On the other hand, being a Mage was the highest status in this world. No Mage would plant rice, build roads, or clean stables. Therefore, those menial tasks had to be taken from elsewhere.
Slaves.
Because of this, the Elven nation became the largest buyer in the slave market. And in a time of world war like the present, that need had turned into a dependency. The Elves who sided with the Hero's faction had no choice but to send their slaves to the battlefield, replacing roles far too precious for them to sacrifice themselves.
These thoughts flowed through Mujun's mind as he watched an Elf whipping a slave in front of him.
The figure appeared graceful—pale skin, a slender frame, movements so calm they were almost elegant. There were no shouts, no excessive emotions. The whip fell like a routine. Measured. Cold.
The Elves were like that. Beneath their beauty lay the most systematic of cruelties. For a slave, there was no worse end than being sold into the hands of an Elf.
Mujun quickly turned his face away and quickened his pace when the Elf glanced in his direction. The slave collar around his neck felt slightly heavier. Being too close to that race wasn't bravery—it was just stupidity.
And Mujun never wasted his life on futile things.
Before Mujun could step any further, a woman's voice reached his ears—clear, crystalline, and somehow making his steps feel lighter. It wasn't because of the volume, but because of its rhythm, as if every word were composed to soothe the anxiety of whoever heard it.
"Mujun, you're here."
He turned.
Mujun's gaze was caught by a blonde shimmer reflecting the torchlight. Her hair fell neatly, neither flowing entirely free nor tightly restrained. The golden eyes looking at him did not press or probe. Her gaze stopped at just the right distance—close enough to feel warm, far enough not to judge.
The smile that appeared on her lips was thin and steady; it wasn't a superficial smile, but the kind of smile that made people forget why they were ever tense. Mujun had seen soldiers whose hands were shaking stop trembling just because of that look.
Her body was draped in a long, thick-layered gown that fell to cover her ankles. White dominated the fabric, emphasized by neatly embroidered gold lines and symbols. The cloth moved softly with her steps, yet never seemed to hinder her. Even when walking quickly, her silhouette remained composed.
However, the sanctity established by the gown and the colors could not entirely hide the form beneath. The full curves were in places far too precise to be ignored, as if created to remind everyone that a Saintess is still human and that the Church understood perfectly well how to capture the attention of potential followers.
A white staff was gripped in her hand. Its length nearly matched her height, clean without excessive carvings. At its tip, a large gold ring circled, trapping a white light that pulsed slowly, like a held breath. The light wasn't blinding, but it made the surrounding air feel clearer.
Her steps were calm and measured—yet Mujun caught one other thing: the distance between her strides was slightly wide. She was in a hurry, it's just that years of Church discipline ensured she never showed it crudely.
"Saintess Pritty," Mujun bowed his head slightly in return—not in an act of submission, but of recognition. "Why are you here? Has the Church's army arrived?"
The Saintess shook her head slowly. A simple movement, yet enough to make those two soft mountains vibrate subtly.
"There was a slight complication," she said. Her voice was steady. "The teleportation portal at the central church experienced a disruption. They will be arriving late."
She paused for a moment, then added, "But that won't be a problem, will it?"
A thin smile etched onto her face again, this time with a clearer confidence.
"I myself am enough to represent the Church."
Mujun noticed how the light in her staff intensified for a brief second, almost imperceptibly, as if confirming her statement without the need for sound.
To the world, the friction between the Hero and the Church was a closely guarded secret. But to Mujun—who stood close enough to smell the cracks—that tension felt real even before words were spoken. Since Nestal's first appearance, the Church's attitude had always felt... cold. Not hostile, but far from warm.
Ironically, the Church itself would never have existed without a Hero.
But it wasn't Nestal that history referred to.
More than two centuries ago, this world had known a Hero named Agrini, a woman whose power surpassed the rational limits of Mages. It wasn't because of the sheer amount of Mana she possessed, but because of her way of understanding the world. With her Will, Agrini created something that had never existed before: a new system of spells.
For centuries, Mages understood one simple truth. Mana was merely raw energy. To transform it into fire, wind, or lightning, a formula was required—a structure born from observing natural phenomena. Fire required fuel, oxygen, and heat. Mana could replace the fuel, the air provided oxygen, and the snap of two fingers could be the spark. However, without a formula governing how those three interacted—such as how much Mana was used, how it spread, how heat was maintained, and so on—fire would never be created.
Formula is law.