No Heaven Where You Run (1)
The eastern border of Albion—its mountain retreat—was cool and filled with crisp air. From the front of the bungalow, one could see snow-capped peaks that glittered in the sunlight.
On the wide wooden balcony attached to the bungalow, Cleio reclined comfortably in a cushioned chair, sipping chilled Pintos wine. In that moment, he couldn't imagine wanting anything more in life.
'So that's what that wine from the school cafeteria was—Pintos.'
It was clean, smooth, and light on the tongue—he could drink several glasses without a hint of bitterness. The mountain-grown grapes and goat cheese that came with it were melt-in-the-mouth delicious.
'Now this… this is living.'
The mountain resort, tinged faintly with the air of decline, was busy enough not to feel deserted, yet quiet enough to be peaceful.
'Good thing I got off at that stop with the crowd.'
Because it wasn't a resort for nobles, it was perfect for hiding. In Pintos, packed with facilities for hikers and convalescents, no one cared about outsiders.
Even better—Pintos had hot springs. The hotel's main bathhouse offered full mineral baths, and after bathing twice a day, Cleio's skin was smooth and even his headaches had vanished.
He spent his days exactly as he'd longed to—lying around, listening to birdsong, drinking, and admiring the view.
When the scenery grew dull, he used the Promise's "Memory" to revisit books he'd read long ago.
Yesterday, the day before, and the day before that had all been much the same. He'd only moved cities once; his routine hadn't changed in ten days.
His days in Lundane already felt distant, blurred, almost unreal.
'Money really does buy peace of mind.'
Even wearing casual loungewear, he habitually patted the pouch hanging under his clothes.
'Prices outside the capital are cheap—I've hardly spent anything.'
There were six weeks left before the summer break ended. After that, he only needed to hold out two more months—then his attendance would fall short, and he'd be expelled. The very thought made the wine taste even better.
'Man, seriously. At my age, I went back to school, ran laps, got detention, did every ridiculous thing… Still, I guess it was a blessing in disguise. My grades went up, and I got twelve million out of it.'
The grind had been maddening—but it had paid off.
'If I'd only walked away with the money, I might've been anxious. But now I've got enough magic to protect myself too.'
A full purse, a body free of hardship—this was the dream.
'It's been four days here already. Maybe I'll head north next—heard their apple whiskey and caramel are famous. Sounds nice.'
He lazily flipped through a travel guide he'd bought at the station. Every so often he took another sip of the fragrant wine, thinking how good it was just to be alive.
In truth, his escape had been a gamble. He'd bet everything on the hope that the manuscript—the world itself—was crumbling in places beyond the author's control. He wanted to see how far that weakening reach extended.
So far, the story hadn't sent anything or anyone to retrieve him.
The longer he stayed free, the more his hope grew.
The coming war would erupt near the eastern border and the capital. If he buried himself in the countryside and kept his head down, wouldn't the chaos pass him by soon enough?
'Even if the manuscript only covers Part One, it's written like peace returns once Arthur becomes king. And this Arthur seems stronger than before—maybe he'll get there faster.'
The bottle was finally empty. Too lazy to stand, Cleio set his glass on the floor and rolled onto his side, a relaxed smile softening his lips.
Clang—
His drowsy peace shattered with the sharp sound of breaking glass.
Bang—Crash—
At the same time, the bungalow's thick wooden door exploded inward.
Uniformed knights stormed through the splintered frame, and the one in front pinned the dazed Cleio to his chair before he could move.
The soldier's muscular arm crushed him like paper. His chest seized—his lungs burned—he couldn't breathe. A strangled cry escaped him.
"[Help me—!]"
It wasn't intentional.
The Promise reacted to danger on instinct, flaring to life—the [Barrier] spell triggered by a simple incantation.
The knight restraining him was hurled five meters back, over the terrace railing, and slammed headfirst into the bushes below.
'No—stop!'
The three knights who'd kept their distance had higher ether levels; they only skidded across the floor, boots gouging deep marks into the boards, but they weren't flung outside.
Seeing their comrade injured, the knights' eyes darkened with fury. They'd underestimated the boy, and now they'd been burned for it. Just as reported, he was a mage of unprecedented power.
All three drew their swords in unison. Their blades glowed with golden ether, radiating killing intent.
"Royal Capital Defense Knights! You are under arrest, Mage Cleio Asser, for defying a summons, obstructing public duty, and falsifying your ether registration!"
The Basic Swordsmanship Manual listed the punishments for ether misuse right in the first chapter.
The laws of this world were far stricter and more brutal than those of the one Cleio had known—and especially so for swordsmen who used ether to wield superhuman force.
Inside the Academy, everyone used ether, so he'd never felt the weight of that reality before.
But thinking about it now—it was only natural. People wielding a power that could easily shatter civilization had to be tightly regulated.
'Still… what kind of world puts a glowing LED collar on people like dogs?'
The collar was called a Suppression Ring — a magical device invented by none other than Zebedi himself.
Originally, it was designed to subdue berserk swordsmen by blocking the flow of their ether.
Because the Suppression Ring could only be crafted from an ultra-rare mineral called Tifraum, only a handful existed in the entire kingdom.
Tifraum wasn't classified as either a mana stone or a magic ore — it was a mineral that contained pure ether in its natural state.
Difficult to handle, it could only be processed by high-level mages. But once a spell was engraved into it, the enchantment lasted virtually forever.
Each Suppression Ring bore a total of eight layered enchantments — [Halt], [Block], and several others.
A swordsman below Level 7 could never break it by their own strength, and as Cleio had just learned, neither could a mage.
The Level-8 mage who had created that revolutionary artifact twenty-seven years ago could never have imagined that his most beloved disciple would one day be the one wearing it.
Mages generally weren't known for combat power. Under normal circumstances, a full squad of elite knights would never have been dispatched just to arrest a mere Level-2 mage — let alone to clasp a Suppression Ring on him.
Cleio didn't know it, but everything that had happened today was thanks to one person: Dione.
The combination of her irritation at being outwitted by a seventeen-year-old boy and her mischievous temperament had exploded into a full-blown incident.
She'd first started a search through the Aser Company's investigation bureau, focusing on railway lines — and once she had a lead, she set the knight order in motion.
"Our young master must have shown far greater ability than his registered level. Dean Physis himself guaranteed that he'll one day be a Level-8 mage. I understand you might think this is just ordinary adolescent rebellion, but if something were to happen, I'd never forgive myself — please, I beg of you."
The Royal Capital Defense Knights were responsible for monitoring both swordsmen and mages. Dione's plea — laced with "If he runs wild and causes trouble, your order will share the blame" — hit its mark.
And so Cleio was dragged away and thrown into the town jail — barefoot, dressed only in thin loungewear. His mind was blank with shock.
'They're arresting me for not updating my level registration by three ranks? Someone's clearly pulling strings. I was wary of cops and investigators — but to move the Knights?!'
From the bits of conversation he overheard, the first knight who had tackled him — newly promoted earlier this year — had broken his leg when he was flung into the ground.
The knight standing guard outside the cell glared daggers at him. When Cleio protested that this was illegal detention, no one offered a straight answer.
When he raised his voice, all he got was a cold warning:
"Damage property while under custody, and you'll face formal charges."
The situation couldn't have been worse. There was no gap, no opening, no escape.
'If only I still had my Editor's Authority… damn it.'
Then again, he wasn't sure it would help. Even if he still held that power, would the Author really retract this plotline?
For all his faults, an author was still an author — and even a crumbling story retained enough force to keep a side character from running off. Cleio had just learned that, the worst way possible.
'So much for the easy unemployed route… haah.'
Though it was summer, the chill from the stone floor seeped into his back as night deepened. Only a few hours ago, he'd been sprawled in a warm, cushioned chair.
He didn't know when he'd dozed off.
When he woke, stiff and cramped, he heard the steady click, click of footsteps on stone. The cell door — which had stayed firmly shut all night — was swinging open.
"Young master!"
There she was — Dione — her face carrying all the sorrow and worry in the world, though her elegant dress remained immaculate.
She rushed toward him and wrapped him in a tight embrace, dabbing at nonexistent tears with a handkerchief, as though reuniting with a long-lost younger brother.
Then, turning to the knights, she pleaded tearfully for them to remove the Suppression Ring from her ward.
It was an Academy-Award-worthy performance.
Behind the lace handkerchief covering her mouth, Cleio could clearly see her lips trembling — not from grief, but from barely contained laughter.