30 Years After Reincarnating, It Turns Out This World Was A Rofan?! novel Chapter 289

According to records, Wales was just another unremarkable territory about three hundred years ago.

It wasn’t particularly fertile, nor was the land rich. There were no great rivers flowing through it.

Still, while it may not have been abundant, it had the potential for development—be it through trade or other means.

That was simply the natural progression of a territory, of its people.

But then, one day—

"A great mist engulfed all of Wales, and then... a miracle occurred."

"That mist... so that’s what it was."

Overnight, the land became fertile. Dense forests sprouted on all sides. A massive river carved through the earth, its shimmering surface glittering like scattered jewels.

A miracle—there was no other way to describe it.

A blessing from the fairies, perhaps. Or a gift bestowed by the divine.

There was no other way to explain such an event.

And yet—

"Our ancestor did not see it as a blessing. He saw it as something ominous."

The Mordred bloodline had always possessed [Spirit Vision].

A mystical power, a gift granted to them when their founder, Sir Mordred, fell in love with a powerful spirit.

Because of this blessing, Mordred alone could perceive the truth—

"Wait, hold on. Did you just say he fell in love with a ghost?"

"Ahem. Keep that to yourself. That spirit happened to be from Britain, and if word got out, it would be a diplomatic nightmare."

"...So the problem is where she was from?"

"She was beautiful."

"...Oh."

"They say she was a beauty capable of toppling a kingdom."

"Well, in that case, fair enough."

"......."

"I respect it."

"......Ahem."

—Yes. Because they possessed [Spirit Vision], they saw through it.

The event that had taken place three hundred years ago was not a blessing.

It was not a trick, either.

No, it was something far worse.

A curse. A forced contract.

And it was with something truly malevolent.

"We call it the 'Wandering God.'"

"Wandering?"

"You could also call it an exiled god."

A land god, by its very nature, is like a native spirit of the land.

A tree that first took root in a region. A mountain that formed naturally over countless years.

An animal or plant that harbored mystical energy for generations.

Such beings, over unfathomable stretches of time, accumulate power and wisdom, eventually becoming what humans call "land gods."

Of course, not all beings with such potential become gods.

For instance, even the great Vulcan Mountain held divine energy, yet it never gave birth to a god.

The purer a natural entity, the more it resists acquiring intelligence.

...However, among the gods, there were exceptions.

There were those who had been forsaken by their worshippers.

Gods who had been cast out, abandoned, or driven away.

More often than not, such beings were evil gods who had brought ruin upon their own followers, and their natural fate was to disappear along with their lost faith.

Yet, some survived.

Some found a new land and forcibly settled there.

Such as—

"A shameless intruder that claims a home that was never theirs."

"That’s... completely immoral."

"They’re gods."

"......."

It was absurd.

The rightful owner of the land never agreed to a contract, yet the god imposed one regardless.

"The Wandering God, or rather, that pest, provided ‘blessings’ as if it were paying rent. Even though we never asked for them."

The pest was arrogant.

Despite the fact that no one had begged for anything, it declared—

—Here, take this. Don’t be too grateful. This is just what I can do. Just accept it, praise me, and devote your faith to me.

—Be more grateful. Just be moved by it.

—Why are you angry? I gave you what you needed.

And so, the wandering god and the Margrave of the time clashed.

At some point, perhaps because its pride had been wounded—

—Who do you think you are to drive me out?! How dare you?!

That was when famine struck.

The once-rich land was suddenly plagued by drought and infestations.

It threw the region into utter chaos.

When the death toll from starvation became unbearable, the Margrave led a hunting party to battle against the Wandering God.

For days and nights, they fought without rest.

And in the end—

"They did not destroy it... but they succeeded in sealing it away."

"A seal...."

Not destruction. A seal.

In the end, they had failed to eradicate it completely.

Yet, even so, their feat was something that would have astonished even the heroes of Avalon.

A god was still a god, even if it had fallen into exile.

And yet, they had emerged victorious.

...However—

"‘What meaning is there in a victory won at such a cost...?’ Those were the final words of our ancestor."

Some might ask—

Why bother fighting a god in the first place?

Wouldn’t it have been better to simply coexist peacefully?

...That question could only come from those ignorant of the situation at the time.

"That damned pest consumed a century’s worth of Wales’s fertility all at once. Sure, things may have seemed fine back then, three hundred years ago. But from the next generation onward? They would have had to live in famine. There wouldn’t even be a single blade of grass left to eat."

And yet, that wretched god had the audacity to call it a "blessing."

Of course they had to fight.

They couldn’t let their land turn into a barren wasteland of death.

But even worse than the god they had fought—

Was the curse it left behind.

A curse that—

"The contract with the god still binds us."

"......."

The prosperity the pest had forced upon them.

Even though ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) they had never wanted it, the contract with the god had been sealed into place.

A contract that no human could undo.

Unless the god itself was completely erased from existence, there was no breaking free from its grasp.

"That accursed pest’s plan from the start... was to use every soul in Wales as a sacrificial offering for its own descent."

Crack.

It was an atrocity beyond words.

No one had wanted this contract.

Yet, they had been bound to it, against their will.

And now, at any moment, the people of Wales could be turned into nothing more than "living sacrifices" to fulfill it.

It was something unforgivable.

Something that demanded wrath.

And yet, the cruelest, most horrifying truth was—

"This contract with the pest cannot be severed. Not even if we flee to the ends of the continent."

No matter how forcefully it had been imposed, a contract with a god was still divine in nature.

As long as they were human, they could not escape it.

Anyone born and raised in Wales could never break free.

Even if they fled to another land, they would still be bound by this curse.

Until the contract was fulfilled, the burden would pass on to their descendants.

A fate they would never even realize was waiting for them—

"A nightmare beyond nightmares."

That was why Mordred had fought.

Why, for generations, they had waged war against the god.

Why, every sixty years, when the seal weakened, the bloodline of Mordred and their knights battled ceaselessly in the accursed tomb where the god lay imprisoned.

"At some point, people began calling that sealed tomb 'Mordred’s Hidden Treasure Vault.' As if there was some grand treasure buried there."

"But the only thing inside... is the most horrifying pest in the world."

And for all their efforts—

Not once had they ever inflicted a meaningful wound upon it.

Just as despair was beginning to creep in—

"That... was when it happened."

Sixty years ago, a child was born into the Mordred bloodline—one with an overwhelmingly powerful ability as a spirit medium.

Spirits suddenly began gathering around him, and to protect the one with such immense talent, they started eliminating anything that could be a threat to Mordred.

People began going mad. Cases of sudden, unexplained deaths became frighteningly frequent.

It was as if the spirits were displaying excessive loyalty in order to safeguard their "king."

At the time, the Mordreds recognized just how unnatural this phenomenon was.

And what they ultimately discovered was—