Became the Patron of Villains Chapter 106
Before the night deepened, Alon returned to the camp with Celaime Mikardo, who no longer had a reason to continue his research after the Hermit’s Hideout opened.
“…Are you asking about how to ascend to the next rank?”
“That’s correct. I assumed there would be some information about that there.”
As they conversed on their way back to the camp, Alon contemplated Celaime’s response.
“There probably isn’t anything beyond the 8th rank.”
According to Alon’s understanding of the Psychedelia system, a mage capable of using Origin magic would reach the pinnacle at the 8th rank.
“I see.”
“Indeed. Although it wasn’t as significant as I expected once we got there, it wasn’t a waste. I gained plenty by studying the magic circle at the gateway.”
Alon quietly nodded at Celaime’s cheerful laughter. He didn’t want to dampen Celaime’s enthusiasm for exploring magic to ascend further, even though he found it unnecessary.
The thought crossed his mind.
Celaime Mikardo had never appeared in the original work Alon remembered. Even during conversations with the hysterical Penia in the original story, topics related to the Tower Lord were never mentioned.
Alon recalled the notebook he had kept, jotting down useful knowledge about this world in his spare time to prevent forgetting crucial details.
His certainty grew as he replayed every relevant moment in his memory.
“By the way, may I ask you something?”
“What is it?”
When Celaime cautiously inquired about how Alon had found the true key for the second gateway, Alon firmly refused to answer.
“I’m afraid I can’t share that.”
In the mage community, it was considered impolite to ask about magic developed by someone else outside the established magic hierarchy. Alon used this etiquette to confidently decline.
As Alon pondered why his little white lie had worked, Celaime continued to smile.
“Haha, apologies. I was just too curious.”
“It’s fine.”
“Well, perhaps if we grow closer, you might share the basics with me someday.”
“…?”
Celaime laughed heartily, and Alon briefly puzzled over the word closer.
“Well then, I should get going.”
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes, I have a lot to do. Even two bodies wouldn’t be enough.”
Celaime excused himself as soon as they arrived at the camp, which relieved Alon. Being around Celaime had an inexplicably uncomfortable air.
“See you next time.”
“Sure.”
Alon gave a casual reply to Celaime’s polite farewell and watched him vanish into the distance.
“Whew.”
He let out a heavy sigh.
“That’s the second task done.”
As he walked toward the inn, Alon reviewed his next steps.
“Now, only the final task remains.”
To prepare for the Forgotten One, he reflected on the main reason he had come to the jungle. A presence—more than an item—was essential to his plans.
“Everything’s ready.”
With that thought, he fiddled with the ring he had received from Heinkel and returned to the inn.
“You’ve returned, my lord.”
“Deus?”
“Yes, I’m back.”
The moment Alon entered, Deus greeted him with a respectful bow. Another figure, however, eyed Alon with a mix of disdain and irritation.
“Hmm, so you’re the Marquis?”
The man, tall and menacing, stood out. Alon immediately recognized him. Reinhardt, who was meant to be Caliban’s greatest swordsman, had finally appeared.
Without realizing it, Alon tilted his head back to look up at Reinhardt. Even with Alon’s own considerable height, Reinhardt’s towering presence was imposing.
The rough and intimidating face of the man contrasted sharply with the noble-sounding name Reinhardt, amplifying the tension in the air.
Adding to the overall disarray, Reinhardt’s clothes had been reduced to near-rags after spending an extended period in the jungle before Deus found him. In his current state, Reinhardt resembled nothing more than a bandit—no more, no less.
As Alon found himself staring at the stark contrast between the Reinhardt he knew and the one before him, Reinhardt frowned and spoke.
“What are you staring at? Since I introduced myself, you should—”
But before he could finish, a loud smack interrupted him, forcing his head to jerk forward.
“Mind your manners,” Deus interjected.
“You bastard!” Reinhardt growled, glaring fiercely at Deus after being struck.
Deus, however, remained calm and repeated, “Mind your manners.”
“It’s not me who’s rude! Don’t you have eyes? He’s the one who—”
“Weren’t you the one who first spoke disrespectfully?”
“I’m allowed to!”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am!”
“You may, but only if you can defeat me.”
“Grrk—”
Deus’s words struck a nerve. When he mentioned an apparent agreement between the two—something Alon wasn’t aware of—Reinhardt let out a guttural yell of frustration.
“Fine! I apologize for my rudeness, Marquis Palatio,” Reinhardt said with no sincerity, his voice laced with irritation.
“It’s fine,” Alon replied nonchalantly.
Reinhardt, displeased by the indifferent response, grumbled as he sat down, leaving Alon with a strange sense of unease.
Alon briefly shrugged off the memory of the promise Deus had casually mentioned earlier before shifting the conversation.
“Let’s save the discussion for later and rest for today.”
That night, despite the persistent, sticky humidity, Alon managed to fall asleep quickly, as though he had grown accustomed to the discomfort.
***
The following day, a light drizzle greeted Alon as he looked outside the inn. Soon, Deus shared some background on Reinhardt.
“…He came to the jungle to train?”
“Yes. He mentioned spending time in the Selvanus region and the northern zone.”
“The northern zone?”
“That’s correct.”
It was unusual. The Selvanus region was not a place one would choose for training, as it was rife with powerful mutated creatures. While a newly-minted sword master like the prodigiously talented Fillian might survive, it would still be an arduous experience.
The northern zone, also known as the Territory of the Hundred Ghosts, was a place even Deus would struggle with. The mutated creatures there were only slightly stronger than those in Selvanus, but the real problem lay elsewhere—the subordinates of the Hundred Ghosts.
“From what I’ve heard, though, he didn’t seem to spend much time in the northern zone.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It seems he spent most of his time in the Selvanus region.”
Nodding at the timely explanation, Alon couldn’t help but marvel at Reinhardt’s strength. Yet his gaze drifted back to Deus.
“Is something wrong, Marquis?” Deus asked, noticing Alon’s lingering stare.
Contemplating his response, Alon eventually spoke calmly.
“It’s good to see.”
The sentiment carried a sense of paternal pride, as if watching a son achieve greatness. But saying so outright felt awkward, so Alon chose his words carefully.
“…Is that so?”
“Yes, you’re doing well.”
“Understood.”
Deus, perhaps feeling some sense of pride at Alon’s words, displayed a rare, slightly smug expression. After some time passed in conversation, they finished a simple breakfast with Evan and Reinhardt, who had also joined them on the first floor. Then Alon broached an important question.
“Deus, are you heading back now?”
“I am. …Will you not return with me, my lord?”
“I have somewhere else I need to stop by.”
“Then I’ll accompany you.”
“…Haven’t you accomplished your purpose? Shouldn’t you be heading back?”
“A few more days won’t hurt.”
“In truth, I was going to ask you to join me if you didn’t mind. Thank you for offering.”
“It’s no problem.”
Deus’s straightforward response prompted Reinhardt to interject.
“So, am I supposed to wait here?”
“Come along.”
“Why should I do that?”
Reinhardt retorted sharply, his tone defiant.
“So you don’t run off again.”
“What? Me? That’s absurd!”
“Did you think I wouldn’t figure out you fled to the jungle to avoid calling me brother?”
Reinhardt clamped his mouth shut at Deus’s pointed accusation, his reason for escaping to the jungle—one Alon hadn’t cared to know—laid bare.
Witnessing the spectacle, Alon, who had been quietly enjoying the rare scene, cleared his throat. Evan, watching alongside him, leaned closer to ask softly.
“So, where are we going?”
“To the Thunder Serpent tribe.”
“The Thunder Serpent tribe? …Wait, you mean the one in the east?”
“Yes.”
At Alon’s confirmation, Reinhardt frowned deeply.
“What? You’re heading there? Marquis Palatio, do you even know what that place is like?”
“Of course.”
The Thunder Serpent tribe’s territory lay in the eastern zone, one of three areas the jungle camp had mapped. It remained the least developed region because of the tribe’s strict policy of rejecting outsiders.
“…You’re aware they’re there and still intend to go?”
“Yes.”
“Hah—”
Reinhardt couldn’t hide his disbelief, which earned him another smack.
“Ow! You bastard!”
“Mind your manners.”
“Do you have a death wish?!”
“If you’d like to see who dies first, be my guest.”
Reinhardt erupted in anger after being struck again by Deus, but Alon remained composed as he watched the scene.
In the game and its lore, the Thunder Serpent tribe was an exceptionally challenging foe. Each member of the tribe was at least as strong as a knight, and their combat efficiency doubled in the jungle.
Adding to the difficulty was their mastery of curses. From the moment one became hostile to the Thunder Serpent tribe, over ten different debuffs would start afflicting the intruder, persisting until they left the eastern zone.
Even so, Alon wasn’t overly concerned—Reinhardt and Deus were by his side.
Still, there was one reason for caution: the Thunder Serpent tribe had an absolute being they revered, a god-like presence.
…And that being was Alon’s target.
With that in mind, Alon stood up.
“Since we’re done here, let’s head out.”
“To meet the Thunder Serpent tribe.”
By the time the rain had stopped, Alon’s party began their journey toward the eastern zone—a region avoided by even the most daring explorers and mercenaries.
About an hour or two after entering the zone, Reinhardt glanced ahead at Marquis Palatio with faint irritation.
Truthfully, Reinhardt didn’t like the Marquis. Not because Alon had wronged him directly, but because Reinhardt often suffered incidental “collateral damage” because of him.
Reinhardt couldn’t understand why Deus always spoke so highly of Alon, almost as if it were second nature.
Sure, he had heard through the knights about Alon’s significant contributions during the northern campaign years ago, but surely that story had been milked long enough.
The Alon he saw in person didn’t seem particularly extraordinary, contrary to the tales. If it weren’t for the knights who endlessly praised the Marquis after their northern expedition, Reinhardt would have assumed the rumors were exaggerated.
Already annoyed at being dragged out here instead of returning to Caliban, Reinhardt was grumbling to himself when he suddenly drew his sword.
They appeared.
Draped in white animal pelts and wearing masks made of animal bones, a group of unknown individuals emerged like mirages in their path.
Reinhardt frowned deeply as he took in the sight.
“We’ve