Is it because my nature is good? As soon as the dwarves began their work, the first thing I did was release Brimdal from his prison. Brimdal, whose nature seemed wicked unlike my own, grumbled and complained without a hint of gratitude.
"Did you get a good price for selling me out?"
"I received more than enough. There isn't a single dwarf guarding you, Sir Brimdal. They've all gone to work."
"...You really convinced those stubborn blockheads... Now I'm starting to believe you're some kind of divine being."
I showed the ever-grumbling Brimdal the brass dagger I had received.
"Do you know what this is?"
"No." "Then—don't you feel something incredibly unpleasant from this?"
"Not at all. Is this supposed to be something special? It just feels like a crudely made dagger to me."
"If you don't know, then it's fine."
I slipped the dagger, which felt unpleasant just to hold, into my pocket and fell into thought for a moment. It killed the first mage. I don't truly believe those words.
Kaldrak himself said it was merely a legend passed down with the dagger. What I was curious about was something else. 'How did that being die?'
The first mage had prepared for his own death. His arrangements were quite meticulous, suggesting he truly knew he was going to die, rather than just preparing for a contingency. But—now I know.