That Time an American was Reincarnated into Another World

With Anderson’s exit, Maxwell let out a long breath of air he had been holding. 

“He’s always a treat to talk to.”

“...I know the name, but who is that?”

“Only the strongest Knight in the Church, if not the world. It’s surprising you’ve heard of God’s Assassin at all.”

Terrace responded with a side eye, making me shrug.

“He’s got a bounty on him. I guess that’s nothing more than a joke then.”

“Obviously. Now, back to business. Hand me the rest of the corpse and I’ll perform some tests today. By nightfall, I’ll have a recipe ready. Concoction will be performed tomorrow, and the day after will be when we operate. Kid, I need you to be here for those tests, so stick around.”

“Sure.”

“Then put the corpse over there and sit in that chair…”

I followed along with Terrace’s directions while Maxwell took a seat beside us. 

The tests I underwent were a lot less dramatic than I had imagined; I really only had to offer my arm. Some blood was drawn and some hairs were plucked; the strangest test was a few drops of some acidic stuff on my tongue. 

Whatever was going on, Terrace was performing similar tests on the corpse, and constantly logging information. I took the brief respite to go over recent events. 

Maxwell was apparently known as the Heretic. He had told me his identity was sensitive, but I hadn’t expected it to be so serious. Apparently the story went much deeper than I imagined since one of the strongest knights in the world personally appeared to talk with him. He even showed some modicum of respect for Maxwell, as he was supposedly the greatest summoner to ever live. 

That only raised more questions. What the hell did Maxwell do? He was called a heretic, but he wasn’t treated like one. Had he been, he wouldn’t be alive standing here, much less me. 

It seemed he still had at least one or two friends here, powerful ones at that. After not seeing him for almost 30 years, Terrace didn’t hesitate to help him make this Crown despite his identity. 

I truly couldn’t imagine what he could’ve done. It wasn’t so antithetical to the Church that he was genuinely treated like one, yet his title still existed. From my observations, he was a strongly principled man; he would not have committed some grave sin against the Church. 

My only suspicion was his Summoner Call. That seemed to be under more scrutiny than the man himself; I wondered what about it could possibly be heretical. 

Regardless of my musings, we were in the clear for now. The conflicts had passed, and with Anderson’s badge, we probably wouldn’t be disturbed for the rest of the trip. 

For the rest of that day, I just went along with Terrace’s tests before getting let go at the end of the day. 

“Finally. I’m starving.”

I stretched while leaving the elevator with Maxwell, stepping out into the ground floor of the Franks Tower. 

“You won’t be needed tomorrow for the concoction. Just be prepared for the operation afterward.”

“I’ll be ready. Just how dangerous is this operation going to be anyway? Am I actually going to be at risk of death?”

“Probably not. As Terrace said, the methodologies have grown significantly. My information is outdated, but at the very least you have much less to worry about, especially if he’s the one making it.”

“Alright. Just let me know when I’m needed. Until then, I’ll be with Vetsmon and Umara.”

Maxwell nodded, causing a brief lull in the interaction. 

I stared at him for a few seconds before putting my hand out. 

“Thank you, Maxwell. I appreciate all of this. And don’t worry about that stuff with Anderson. In my book, you’re a good man no matter what anyone else says.”

“...”

He looked down before giving my hand a clasp, then separating and turning away. 

“I will be taking up residence in an inn. Relax and stay rested. After the operation, you’ll be bed-ridden for some time.”

“Mm.”

I nodded as he started walking away, watching his back for a bit before lifting my Aerial and sending a few messages. 

Vetsmon and Umara responded. They were both within the Verga Tower across from the Franks Tower. I started making my way over, anticipatory for the day of the operation. 

……

“Haahh…”

Maxwell let out a long, rough breath as he leaned into the plush couch in the center of the hotel suite. 

His head ached like a sore muscle, his mind too powerful for his current self to handle. As the most powerful summoner to ever live, he had a mind that operated at a level most couldn’t imagine. John was only just beginning to catch a glimpse of that power.

But after the events of so many years ago, that powerful mind became a curse. His body could no longer bear it, threatening to shut down entirely should he not heavily restrain his mind’s power. It was like a powerful engine forcefully throttled to mere fractions of its capabilities, bound by a brittle and rusted frame too fragile to handle its full extent. 

They called him Heretic. It had been so long since he’d been debased as such he’d almost forgotten it. Unlike back then, though, he couldn’t be bothered to care about such baseless mockery. They said that people feared what they couldn’t understand. Well, how could anybody possibly understand the creations of the most powerful summoner?

There was a time when he never had to worry about that. A time when he stood alongside the greatest in the world, respected and treated as their equals. He was a pioneer of the likes the world had never seen. Given more time, his name would have echoed across the world as a revolutionary who uplifted the whole of the summoner class. His achievements would have brought change to humanity as a whole and sparked the beginnings of a new era. Back then, he could see how bright the future could be. 

And yet, one day was enough to bring it all crumbling down. 

It was a day of great renown, one that continued to be celebrated even now. But where others found joy and hope, he found isolation and sorrow. 

The day he lost everything that made him the greatest summoner, was branded a heretic, and was exiled from society. In fact, it was the very thing that made him great that also wrought his downfall. 

The Call of the Fallen Angel. His greatest creation, and the source of his ruin. Its namesake was by no means insignificant. 

There was a time not long after that day that he had sat within his rich home, blind and aimless, almost catatonic. His crippled vessel couldn’t sustain his previous level of thought, and the adjustment to that limitation had taken him no short amount of time. 

But even more difficult than that was finding a new purpose after he had lost everything. 

Years were spent in isolation as he was ridiculed and hunted by those who wanted to end the heresy at its source. He had to abandon his home, which still sat barren and decrepit to this day, and find refuge under the wing of a friend. 

For a long time, he had been inanimate. But with time and age, he realized that he couldn’t just lie back and wait to die. The Scourge would forever be a threat to humanity, and so long as the summoner class was weak, nothing about that would change. As the greatest, he had an obligation to do something about that. 

And so he utilized what remained of his mind to carve a new path. The Call of the Fallen Angel was much more than just a way to contact spirits. It was a demanding path of advancement that far surpassed all of the other summoner advancement paths. However, that was also inseparable from the Call and utilized Aura extensively. 

Maxwell hadn’t been raised in the call. He was its creator and had to pioneer the path once he was already halfway down another mediocre path all previous summoners used. But this permanently crippled his advancement and doomed him to never breach the Great Barrier. Even as an Authority 11, he was only ever able to glimpse the Barrier from a distance, never even touch it.  

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t guide someone else to it. And besides his massive royalty deal with Sawn Industries to fund his research and instruction, there was one other thing he didn’t lose on that fateful day: 

His knowledge. 

His mind couldn’t operate at the level it used to, but that only meant that he would have to take more time. And having lost everything, he was rich with time. Thus, he embarked on a 20 year long journey where he plotted out the entire advancement path for the Call of the Fallen Angel. 

Or, at least most of it. Authority 10 was the limit, because that was the first time someone was met with the Great Barrier. Whoever came after him would need to breach that barrier instead of just ignoring it and rising to Authority 11 anyway, and that was a path he had never walked, and thus couldn’t tread. 

But everything up to that point was as well documented as he could make it. He couldn’t personally experience the cultivation path — the best way a Magus detected flaws in their methodologies was through personal experience — but his extensive work and knowledge on the nature of advancement and Authorities lent great aid to ensure accuracy. 

The achievement of doing such a thing while effectively blind couldn’t be understated. He knew that only he could possibly perform such a feat. 

Narcissist was a word many used to describe him, but he always liked to correct that in exchange for “self-aware”. At the very least, his many theories had been proved right throughout his life. 

With the Call of the Fallen Angel, he was afforded the chance to do so once more. 

The only issue was finding someone who could prove him right. Someone who would take his place, a successor that would change the fate of the summoner class. 

It was a task he left to Luna to do something about. He couldn’t be bothered with finding someone personally. 

There had been a few candidates sent to his door, some of those few even having adequate potential. But they all had critical flaws, be it their attitude, lack of motivation, age, low-quality summons, or inability to commit to something they believed to be unfounded. 

Almost two years went by, and as his standards rose, less people came. Until one young man came knocking on his door. 

Maxwell didn’t think the 22 year old would fare well. He was too old and laid back, narcissistic to boot, and had no clue about anything. 

This became one of the very few times he had been proven wrong, and even rarer to be glad about it. Who could’ve possibly predicted John Cooper’s incredible progression over just half a year? It was not just completely unheard of, even in other Magi classes with deeply developed advancement paths, but completely unbelievable. He had sent him out time and time again, anticipating the day he would hit a wall and come back groveling, but time and time again, John came back having made leaps and bounds of progress. There was no end in sight to his potential. 

Dare he say John was just as good as he was. 

So he made his investments. He couldn’t let such a talented young man die, especially not after he pledged to go along with his training. He made sure he had protection, something to rely on in battle, yet not a crutch he could abuse and stunt his progress with. 

The coat was an easy purchase; forcing John into the Trenches was his way of making him work for it. 

Now though, it was finally time to give him something greater. Something that would continue to serve him even after the coat outlived its utility. He knew this sensory Crown would boost John’s auxiliary powers significantly. 

The only issue was that it required him to reestablish contact with those that had once exiled him. 

Once again, he would have to go back out and fight. After having hidden himself away from the world for so long, and despite his power, Maxwell still felt a little hesitant. This time, however, instead of fighting for himself, he was fighting for his protege. 

There was a reason encountering Anderson was so stressful. Nobody could tell that man what to do. If he got in John’s way, Maxwell didn’t know if he could even offer more than token resistance, and that caused him to lose control of himself for a moment. 

It was a good thing he still held some level of respect. He knew better than anyone what transpired that day. He was there and had seen it all. 

It seemed that his sacrifice that day had earned him something useful. It only took three decades to realize it. 

“...At least he’ll get the Crown. I need to find some more ingredients as well…”

Maxwell muttered, pondering over the concoction of the Crown. 

He couldn’t possibly allow this Crown to be so barebones. Forcing John to bring him the base material was merely a test of his ability. He had earned himself a Crown, so it was up to Maxwell to make sure it was up to his standards. Money was no object; the corpse itself was countless times easier to acquire than John’s coat, let alone higher quality materials. Terrance would draw out the full potential of everything Maxwell gave him; all he had to do was find the materials. 

The Royal would be the foundation; its roots in the Scout bloodline actually made it prime material for sensory augmentations, despite the relatively low Authority. But John had an immense capacity for Crowns; to not fill it to the brim with the best possible enhancements would be selling him short. 

There was much to discuss with Terrace, but for now, he needed rest. Just a brief moment of letting his mind out of control had given him a splitting headache, and even that had still only been a fraction of his real power. 

His creaking vessel needed some time to rest and recuperate. 

But that was alright. He had a purpose, and so long as he fulfilled it, nothing was off limits. That’s how he had lived his entire life. Just because his purpose now had a name didn’t mean anything had changed. 

He closed his eyes and drifted off into a land of blankness. What time he had left would need to be taken full advantage of.