Volume 3: What Remains Immutable - Translated by @ashmxt.

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 Interlude: Collapse/Tentsui - Translated by @ashmxt.t

For many long years, this planet had languished under the oppressive rule of an ancient evil, an
evil so deeply entrenched that its influence seemed insurmountable. At the helm of this
malevolence stood a daeva of the special rank, known as Bushyasta, the Star Spirit who had
earned the foreboding title of the Goddess of Nightmares from the despairing locals.

Among the oldest of her kind, Bushyasta possessed an immense power that rivaled even that of
Nadare, the sovereign of evil. And yet, she had never ascended to the throne of darkness.

The reason behind this peculiar circumstance was quite simple: Bushyasta personified a vice
known as "laziness" and was utterly devoid of ambition or desire. Her apathetic nature ensured
that she remained disinterested in the war between good and evil, even neglecting to protect
her own dominion. It wasn't out of defiance against the Avesta but rather a reflection of her
inherent character.

Whenever one of the seven absolute seats of evil was left vacant, Truth, the arbiter of such
matters, filled it according to her whims. Usually, she chose individuals with a vibrant and
commanding presence, but that didn't mean Bushyasta failed to satisfy her in some capacity.

Those who possessed considerable power yet chose to occupy a lower rank did so willingly, as
it allowed them to exhibit their "uniqueness" in their own distinctive way. Zariched and
Taurvid, for instance, relished challenging others and believed that social status must be
earned through personal triumph, making it certain that they would reject any handouts.

On the other hand, Montserrat, accustomed to a life of servitude, radiated an even greater
brilliance by virtue of not being the King of Evil. In essence, the Avesta discerned that
Bushyasta belonged to this category, and her presence would imbue the world with a vivid
tapestry of colors, just as it was.

The very essence of laziness was to remain on the sidelines, and if she were thrust onto the
stage, matters would only deteriorate further. This decision, undoubtedly wise on the part of a
ruler who comprehended the nuances of her subjects, aimed to treat them in the best possible
manner. However, as a consequence, the planet known as Bushyasta had descended into a
living hell for over two millennia.

True to her epithet as the Goddess of Nightmares, this exalted daeva spent the majority of her
time immersed in perpetual slumber. The dreams that unfolded within her mind enveloped the
entire planet with the malevolent power of a Star Spirit, turning existence into a nightmarish
realm beyond imagination.

Monstrous creatures spawned by the thousands, once-pure rivers transformed into lethal
poisons overnight, and volcanic eruptions unleashed rains of writhing larvae. Tragic tales
emerged of beautiful brides on their wedding nights being reduced to grotesque masses of
flesh, their consciousness intact while devoid of hope. Unfathomable diseases plagued the
inhabitants, afflicting them with an insatiable thirst for excrement. Days and nights seemed to
stretch into endless years, and children were born as caterpillars with human faces, their frail
bodies susceptible to torment, yet cursed with immortality, condemned to persist despite the
agony inflicted upon them by wounds and illnesses.

The planet became a phantasmagoric maelstrom of madness, embodying the very essence of
nightmares. The denizens clung to a single source of solace: the "Day of Awakening," a respite
that arrived once every fifty years.

As the embodiment of laziness itself, the Star Spirit regarded any form of action in the real
world as a dreadful inconvenience. Her awakening signaled a temporary calm, albeit reluctant
on her part. Yet, she swiftly returned to the realm of dreams, and so, the planet's inhabitants,
through trial and error, devised a plan to prevent this inevitable regression. They resorted to
human sacrifices. From every corner of the planet, brave souls, usually young and beautiful
maidens brimming with self-denial, were selected to serve as offerings.

While these sacrificial victims entertained their mistress, the entirety of Bushyasta beseeched
the heavens on their behalf. Due to her Commandment to accept any gift, Bushyasta hesitated
to embrace them, and thus the fate of the inhabitants rested heavily on the courage of these
chosen few. At best, they would have vanquished Bushyasta, but even without such an
outcome, everyone rejoiced in the extended respite. Bearing the weight of the collective
expectation upon their shoulders, these chosen ones embraced their destiny with unwavering
determination, fighting ferociously for the well-being of their planet. Yet, time and again, the
results proved disheartening.

In truth, it was hardly a battle to begin with. Defeating a daeva of Bushyasta's caliber, equal in
power to the Kings of Evil themselves, seemed an insurmountable feat. Survival became the
sole objective amidst unimaginable torture, surpassing the boundaries of human
comprehension.

Bound by her Commandment, Bushyasta was compelled to toy with her victims, prolonging
their agony rather than ending their lives swiftly. She excelled in inflicting physical and mental
anguish upon them like none other. Her nightmares, emanating from her slumber, focused their
terror upon a few hundred unfortunate souls. Needless to say, the torment they endured was
beyond measure. No one could endure such suffering indefinitely. In the worst cases, it ended
within a mere ten days. On average, a month was all one could endure, and even in the rare best
cases, no more than six months passed.

The spirits of the ill-fated victims became irreparably tainted, their physical forms reduced to
unrecognizable husks before being discarded. To their credit, not a single one attempted to
escape, earning them the title of heroes in their time. However, the madness inflicted upon
them by their goddess remained unbearable.
This cycle persisted for over two thousand years. The very concept of hope had long been
forgotten, and the inhabitants had resigned themselves to their familiar despair, perceiving it
as a cruel destiny. Living in sanity on this deranged planet had become an impossibility by any
measure. Therefore, when a candidate stepped forward, volunteering shortly before the Day of
Awakening, who was not even ten years old, no one harbored lofty expectations.

Most considered it a product of the innocent recklessness that often accompanies childhood.
Indeed, the boy exhibited an utter lack of tension. His absence of a fighting spirit bordered on
suspicion, causing others to attribute his actions to naïveté. In normal circumstances, the duty
of adults would have been to quell such foolishness, guiding the young towards a more
valuable sense of justice. Yet, they were weary—wearied beyond measure. The belief that this
unending nightmare would persist indefinitely, that it could never be otherwise, had
enshrouded them in indifference towards everything around them. Ultimately, regardless of
who was chosen, the outcome remained the same.

So, they allowed the boy to pursue his desires, for his untimely demise would be a mercy. Even
his parents resigned themselves to this reality. Thus, the boy left his village, accompanied by
outward displays of grief and pity that masked an undercurrent of contempt. It could be
assumed that the rest of the victims, gathered from all corners of the planet, harbored similar
sentiments toward the young boy.

And so, the Day of Awakening arrived—a colossal hand emerged from the gray clouds, swiftly
snatching the victims laid upon the altar. The common folk prostrated themselves in abject
horror, reminded once again of the monstrous nature of their goddess. No one held any hope.
To do so would be an act of self-inflicted pain. Their utmost aspiration was for the unfortunate
daredevils to find solace even in death. And they reminded themselves that regardless of the
fleeting respite about to befall them, they held no right to reproach anyone.

Then, a month elapsed. Everyone began to believe that their time of tranquility neared its end,
anticipating a swift return to the depths of torment.

Three months passed. Those who had rejoiced at the prolonged peace grew increasingly
apprehensive.

Six months later, fear gripped them.

Some even grew angry, resentful of the hope that had been instilled within them. They
cautioned against fostering excessive optimism, as it would only lead to disappointment. It was
better to end it swiftly.

A year, two years passed, and still the peace endured.

Bewilderment settled in. What had gone awry? Could someone truly endure all this time? No, it
couldn't be. Every inhabitant of this wretched planet knew all too well the indomitable power
wielded by Bushyasta.
And so, three years later, even in the midst of the fourth year, change was afoot.

The flickering flame of hope, which should have long been extinguished, rekindled quietly
within the hearts of the people. Unanimously, they began to offer fervent prayers—not
resigned or averted from their pain, but with their gaze fixed firmly ahead, intent on
conquering the ordeal. They earnestly contemplated how they might contribute to the
situation. Someone, even now, stood as their representative against the Star Spirit of madness.

Gratitude, respect, and guilt spread throughout the planet, as these sentiments toward him
multiplied. They banished fear in the face of the nightmare, reclaiming their human pride and
dignity. And then, a miracle transpired.

As the peace reached its fifth year, some dared to declare that it could not persist any longer.
Others agreed, acknowledging the truth in those words. Men rose to their feet, women stood
tall, and behind them, the elderly and children followed suit.

The radiance of goodwill gathered together and ignited with fire. Every single one, with
courage in their hearts and weapons in their hands, came out to the temple of Bushyasta.

“Indeed, even Star Spirits are not immortal at all.”

“Their power serves as an immutable law only when their government is impeccable.”

“The more of those who go against the will of the Star Spirit, the more she feels an ailment
comparable to human disease. And even more so when he has to spend so much energy
fighting his own victim.”

“Let's save our hero. It is time to join forces and win true peace.”

People were walking, publicly declaring their intentions. As if in response to their voices,
unexpected reinforcements joined them. The Yazata army that arrived from the Sacred Realm
consisted of more than three thousand warriors. They also probably considered what was
happening to be the perfect chance to take Bushyasta down. Until now, they have avoided
interference not because they turned their backs on the planet. The battle with the Star Spirit
will lead to nothing until the local population awakens. However, even considering such
circumstances, it was obvious that everything was going surprisingly well.

Everyone felt that they were being led by some indescribable force comparable to fate, and the
morale only grew. That is why they knew that victory was close at hand. The commander of the
yazatas of those times, Atar, courageously led the procession, penetrated, together with his
chosen fighters, into the very depths of the Bushyasta temple… and saw something amazing.

The Goddess of Nightmare, the Star Spirit who drove her people mad with terror, a daeva of a
special rank that sowed pain and suffering for more than two thousand years, actually
crumbled to dust.
Judging by her face, she either saw something incredible, or she knew her own impotence, or
she tried to run, begging for mercy.

Frozen and at the same time writhing in horror. Bushyasta was literally out of her mind. A lone
boy standing near her turned towards the discouraged yazatas, smiled a little embarrassedly
and said:

“You’re late.”

Later, Commander Yazata Atar, having witnessed the astonishing spectacle unfold, spoke of a
profound revelation that left an indelible mark upon his soul.

"I beheld the truth," he murmured, his voice tinged with a mix of awe and trepidation.

With the departure of its Star Spirit, the planet stood on the precipice of doom, its
once-thriving population scattered across the vast expanse of systems under the watchful eye
of the Sacred Realm. And in the following year, the enigmatic young boy, propelled by fate's
intricate design, embarked upon a momentous journey to the central planet of the Sacred
Realm, where he would participate in a formidable tournament and cross paths with Sirius, the
harbinger of destiny.

Thus, the legend was set in motion, its origins veiled in myth and mystery. According to official
accounts, it was widely believed that Varhran, the boy of prodigious talents, achieved his first
victory over a daeva at the tender age of fifteen. However, the truth whispered in hushed tones
revealed a different narrative—one that saw him commence his valiant struggle against
Bushyasta at a mere seven years of age, culminating in his triumphant vanquishing of the
malevolent entity five years later. His success was not borne of military might alone but of an
unyielding willpower and courage that defied the bounds of imagination.

Yet, it was Varhran himself who chose to conceal this extraordinary feat. Overwhelmed by
regret at his inability to save all the victims ensnared by the daeva's clutches, he admonished
Atar, cautioning against undue praise for his actions. One can only surmise the thoughts that
swirled in the minds of those who bore witness to this revelation. Seasoned warriors, wise
from countless battles, humbled themselves before the boy whose innocence had barely faded.
In him, they saw an embodiment of the ideal, a paragon of justice, and found themselves bereft
of any justification to challenge his path.

"O hero, if such is your will, so be it," they proclaimed, their voices tinged with reverence.

Time flowed, and the boy blossomed into a resolute young man, wielding his sword with an
unrivaled freedom. The Commandment he undertook was extraordinary in its simplicity yet
unparalleled in its uniqueness: to emerge victorious always and everywhere, regardless of
opponent or circumstance. Normally, one might perceive the Commandment as a means to
attain victory, a path towards greater strength. But Varhran's Commandment to the universe
was strikingly different—he swore not just to win but to make victory an irrevocable condition.

What weight did these chains bear?

It may be argued that defeat, in any case, promised only death, rendering such a
Commandment inconsequential. Yet, within a universe rife with strife and uncertainty, the
unyielding determination to not forgive oneself a single defeat bordered on recklessness. Even
the Third King of Evil himself had not taken such an oath. Considering the inherent inferiority
of the Ashavans in terms of individual strength, it becomes apparent that their divergent ways
of thinking accounted for this stark contrast.

Indeed, Varhran harbored not a trace of fear, nor did he ever waver in his chosen path. His
decision was not a façade of self-assurance but an unwavering conviction, an implicit
understanding that the impossible could be transformed into reality through sheer force of
will. And with each impossible feat he accomplished, a pair of ethereal wings unfurled behind
him, accompanied by a reward that transcended mere victory—the growth of boundless
strength.

And he was not alone. At some juncture, whispers began to circulate among the people,
murmurs carried on the wind, asserting that as long as the hero remained steadfast in his
pursuit, victory would be decreed by the very fabric of fate itself. Whether this notion held
truth or resided in the realm of fantasy mattered little; the environment that surrounded
Varhran began to sense its undeniable veracity.
And so, like an unstoppable tide, "universal prayers" surged forth, a formidable force yearning
to manifest miracles, converging upon Varhran, beseeching him to embrace the truth they
desired. Yet, amid this tempest of collective will, one must pause and contemplate the depths of
the hero's own experiences, the burden he bore as he bore witness to this tumultuous torrent.

Did he, in fact, give birth to the current that swept him along, or was he merely a vessel carried
by its relentless flow?

It is akin to the timeless enigma of the chicken and the egg—an inquiry that delves into the
very essence of the enigmatic figure known as Varhran.

Indeed, the truth that lies beneath the surface of this enigmatic persona transcends the grasp
of mortal comprehension, a testament to the vastness and complexity of the human spirit and
its indomitable capacity for resilience and triumph.

Is it not an ironic twist that the one who sought clarity with unrivaled fervor found himself
veiled in the greatest obscurity of all?

The voice, simultaneously expressing incompatible joy and sadness, is replaced by laughter.

Within the realm of those who bask in the warm embrace of society's trust and support, a
division takes shape, carving a path to distinguish between two distinct archetypes. The first,
astute and empathetic, possess a profound comprehension of the ideals cherished by others,
dedicating themselves wholeheartedly to the pursuit of manifesting these dreams into tangible
reality. The second, driven by their own desires and agendas, maneuver through life's intricate
tapestry, intertwining the fates of those around them in their intricate dance. Thus, we find
ourselves pondering this enigma—the question of which category our hero belongs to, amidst
the dichotomy of those who color and those who are colored.

There is some playfulness in the question asked.

As he ventured forth from the confines of his humble abode, no grand expectations clung to
him, for he was but an ordinary soul in the eyes of others. Yet, unbeknownst to the world, a
dormant dream lay nestled within his being, awaiting its moment to unfold—an ardent desire
to topple the formidable reign of Bushyasta. Thus, it becomes clear that his ascent to leadership
and the subsequent triumph were not solely governed by personal whims but were woven into
the intricate tapestry of fate's design. In the realm where victim and hero intertwine, their
identities merging into a singular enigma, the question of who colored whom is forever
shrouded in ambiguity. Even the early followers, driven by a fervent yearning for him to assert
his will, complicate the matter further. Did Varhran merely stand as a puppet, exalted as the
representative of goodwill? Or did he, in his ascendancy, become a formidable hegemon,
imbuing those around him with his own hue, granting them dreams to cherish? Which of these
two propositions finds favor in your eyes, dear reader? The answer lies within the tapestry of
perception and interpretation, forever elusive and open to the whims of individual perspective.

In response to this, ■■■■■■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■ just shakes their head.

“There is no point in this question. We are all one, and always one. It doesn't matter whose
opinion matters more. Whether he is a martyr or a hegemony, any hero is the center of all
righteous thoughts, including his own.”

In the wake of your gratitude, I am compelled to ponder the profound impact of such an
inquiry upon Nadare, for it possesses the power to stir her contemplative depths. Indeed, she
harbors the notion that you may not hold favor towards the direction in which the narrative
unfolds, prompting her introspection to take flight, seeking understanding in the face of
perceived disapproval.

The voice continues to speak in riddles and talks over them itself. Incredible weight is felt in
the changeably frivolous intonation: each uttered word places more and more hopes on the
interlocutor.

As the story unfolds, poised on the precipice of its climactic crescendo, a tantalizing
anticipation dances in the air. A kaleidoscope of emotions swirls within, leaving one
momentarily speechless, captivated by the enchanting tapestry that shall soon be woven from
the meticulously gathered pigments of this narrative. Oh, the yearning to witness the strokes of
artistry, the harmonious interplay of light and shadow, as the grand design unfolds before our
very eyes—truly, an exquisite sight to behold.

“Wait!”

■■■■■■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■ stretches out their hand to the entity retreating into the
darkness and asks it:

“Who are you?”

I am the Truth—the embodiment of what you, in your mortal tongues, refer to as the Avesta.

Within the depths of those twinkling eyes, a mesmerizing duality takes shape, as if they were
vessels of enigmatic enchantment. They possess the power to soothe and provoke,
simultaneously coaxing and challenging the beholder to awaken from slumber, weaving a
delicate dance of curses and blessings.

An intriguing perversion lingers in their gaze, an essence that seems to supplant and transform
ordinary emotions into something altogether different. Within this enigmatic essence, the
entire spectrum of existence is contained, an amalgamation of all that the world encompasses.
And yet, despite its vastness, a singular absence is felt, an elusive void that resists recognition,
a puzzle yet to be solved.

Though the answer may elude understanding at this very moment, it beckons, tantalizingly
hinting at the existence of an enigmatic truth yearning to be unraveled.

The weight of an arduous history, brimming with labor expended in vain, has wearied your
essence, hasn't it? Could it be the very reason behind your calculated endeavor to entice the
hero down a treacherous path bereft of compassion? In that pivotal moment, your actions
betrayed a peculiar blend of foolishness and fortitude, an intoxicating brilliance that left an
indelible mark upon the annals of time. Oh, how I yearn, with sincere longing, to witness once
more that inexplicable spectacle, an occurrence that defies rationality and transcends any
semblance of coherence. Where shall it manifest, in what mysterious realm shall it unfold?

Enshrouded in an ethereal veil of an enigma, the identity of the elusive interlocutor of Truth
remains veiled in uncertainty. Yet, despite the ambiguity that surrounds her, the mere mention
of her presence conjures a profound transformation, as if the very act of encountering her
ushers in a shift in perspective. Even without a clear grasp of her whereabouts, the veil of
perception lifts, revealing a tapestry of reality painted with hues previously unseen. In the
presence of this mysterious figure, the familiar gives way to the unfamiliar, and the beholder is
compelled to witness a world that defies the boundaries of their comprehension.

◇◇◇◇◇

“I think you are indulging him too much, Lord Varhran.”

The cryptic conversation fades into mist, and memories of recent events evaporate in an
instant. I forget who, with whom, and about what - even this fact becomes unknown to me, and
I can only let the picture in front of me draw me in. A small, but at the same time obviously
smart and determined girl reproachfully looks at me.

“Even if he is your younger brother, this does not mean that everything can be forgiven him. I
would even say that you need to take matters into your own hands and chastise him so that he
remembers for the future.”

“Well, perhaps…”

You say everything so correctly that I don’t even know what to answer.
“Don't laugh at me, I didn't say anything funny!”

The girl, with her hands on her hips and giving vent to irritation, reminds me of someone. Dark
skin and silver hair, and most importantly, full of great willpower, jet-colored eyes, no doubt,
exactly the same as hers. Alma... This is her, but still quite small. And whose point of view I now
share, obviously without words.
“But you know, I just have a mountain off my shoulders. Looks like he's lucky enough to make
friends.”

“Who are the friends here? Yes, I hate him! No need to joke like that!” Alma shakes her head,
red with anger.

It's not hard to guess who we're talking about, so I understand what's going on here. Alma had
already said that Varhran once apologized for Magsarion's behavior. According to her, the hero
was so cool that it was difficult for her to complain about him, but as I see it, she is not at all shy
in her expressions.

Apparently, embellished the past, as usually happens. Or maybe in those years for her, it was
still considered modest behavior? It seems to me that this is rather the second case, and the
soul immediately becomes warm. Times when no one was afraid of anything. Memories of
peace and tranquility, when unconditional faith in an invincible hero gave children the
opportunity to live like children. This is just one day of those that have remained in the distant
past.

It's not clear why I'm seeing this particular memory now, but I understand that there must be
some important meaning to it. In general, educate him properly. It's inconvenient that because
of him we can't do everything together.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. Here is the noble daughter of the Arnavak family. I hope you continue to look
after him.”

“Why is my mom here? Besides, can you even hear me? It's your job to deal with that jerk, so…”

“I'm not such a chump to get into other people's relationships.”

“A?! Stop… What are you talking about?! Mr. Varhran, Mr. Varhran!”

Laughing at Alma's objections, the universal hero turns and walks away.

…How to say it… He seems to see only the good in everything. So far from any negative
thoughts that it even seems as if he does not have everything at home. Frankly, the fact that I
am only surprised at this, without feeling any danger, is due to an unshakable sense of stability.
Of course, his many achievements are partly behind this, but now it seems to me that there is
also his own virtue in this.

Everything will be all right with him. As long as he's with us, there's nothing to worry about. I
feel a mysterious charm that inspires confidence, bypassing logic. It is often said that the most
important thing in a hero is the ability to inspire courage in others; maybe that's exactly what
it's all about. I understood these words in a slightly different way, but there is no doubt that he
can be relied upon.
“The truth is, it’s impossible to understand at all why we came.” As soon as I think about it, a
soft reproach is heard from the right.

“And the truth. In the end, you never apologized.”

Following this, a voice agreeing with the previous opinion is heard from the left.

“Moreover, you even entrusted all your duties to such a small girl. You have no conscience, no
conscience.

“Ha ha ha, okay, don’t praise me like that. I'm shy.”

Mr. Varhran himself, of course, does not pay any attention to reproaches and only laughs it off.

“I don’t play a special role myself. When I need help, I don't hesitate to ask others for it. It was
you who taught me this, Sirius, and you too, Nahid. Both speakers wearily shrug their
shoulders and sigh.

Still looking at the world through the eyes of a hero, I take a closer look at them.

“Well, actually, I really asked you to do this. Let it seem to me that you interpret my words as
you like…”

Mrs. Nahid was not frozen in the stopped time, but cheerful and happy. Could she really smile
so charmingly, instilling calmness with just her appearance?

“Anyway, you’re completely unsuitable for the role of an older brother. Personally, you seem
more like an unlucky junior to me.”

In the young king Sirius, there is absolutely no loneliness or severity. The way he bickers with
his best friend, despite some embarrassment, is full of gentle, warm openness.

As three illustrious heroes stride along the bustling street, a throng of citizens turn their gaze,
their hearts brimming with love and respect. It is a sentiment akin to the profound trust one
holds for a cherished family member—an intimate bond unmarred by distant idolatry or
demeaning veneration. Children, their eyes shimmering with anticipation, rush towards the
trio, while adults beckon them with a profound gratitude that mingles effortlessly with their
sheer delight at the mere opportunity to be in their presence.
The series of joyous encounters seems endless as if the universe itself conspires to bless the
unfolding spectacle, its azure canopy traversed by a procession of white birds. Ah, such was the
hallowed realm two decades past—the very zenith of goodness, when all shimmered with
iridescent glory and the flames of hope.

In stark contrast to the reality I now know, this spectacle appears dazzling, enchanting, and
unfathomably charming. It seems that everyone believes these radiant smiles shall
undoubtedly culminate in an impeccable denouement.

"By the way, you are akin to a little brother to me," quips His Majesty playfully, prompting a
slightly flustered response from Nahid.

"Truly, observe with care how I bear my burdens alongside you, and remember, at least in part,
the decorum befitting an elder."

In response to this playful banter, Nahid, a touch embarrassed, retorts, "You are rushing ahead
too much, my brother. We had decided that the union would come to pass only when
everything is resolved."

"But that does not sit well with me," counters Mr. Varhran with an unexpectedly weary
countenance.
"The voice of the king inclines towards both of you and morally speaking, your union holds far
greater propriety in the present moment."

"Please refrain from such earthly discourse, Sirius," Nahid interjects, her tone beseeching.

Mr. Varhran, donning an unexpectedly pensive expression, answers, "If it is truly a matter of
boosting morale, why not begin with your own? How much longer will you keep her hidden
from us?"

Nahid, her thoughts momentarily troubled, responds, "It is not the same at all..."

"But I fail to discern the difference," counters Mr. Varhran, his tone emphasizing a hint of
disappointment.

"I would venture to say that you are not quite living up to everyone's expectations. How can
you bear to see such a worthy young lady relegated to the shadows?"

"Please, fret not over what others may think."

I never anticipated witnessing such palpable agitation in the Holy King. Yet, it is the nature of
their conversation that intrigues me most. While I remain unaware of the details, it becomes
evident that His Majesty harbors a deep attachment towards someone—an attachment that
defies chronological explanations and eludes my memory of any prevailing rumors.

"I do not mean to deliberately conceal it," Nahid confesses, her voice tinged with a sense of
earnestness. "We have already vowed."

"But it remains a secret liaison known only to the two of you, doesn't it?" Nahid's words flow
forth as she raises a piercing inquiry.

"Officially, no one is privy to this knowledge. And if that is indeed the case, how does it differ
from engaging a particularly captivating mistress?"

"She herself believes it to be better this way," Nahid continues, her gaze mockingly directed
toward the heavens.

"My, oh my, I can scarcely believe it..." Mrs. Nahid's words hang in the air, devoid of remorse.

Even though the entire scope of their conversation eludes me, it is abundantly clear that an
exceptionally close bond exists between them. The very thought of what the future holds for
them engenders a disquieting unease within me. I yearn to understand them better, yet
simultaneously harbor trepidation in observing their further interactions. And yet, the
reenactment of the past continues undeterred, paying no heed to my ambivalence towards
these unfolding events.
Thus, the cycle persists for another two months, during which I become an avid observer of Mr.
Varhran's every move, witnessing each step through my own attentive gaze. The triumvirate of
Kings of Evil has already been vanquished, and the heroes now devote themselves entirely to
preparing the yazat. Yet, from my external vantage point, it appears that their days remain
fraught with concerns—concerns that demand their undivided attention and consume their
every waking hour.

Everyone guesses that a grand battle will take place in the near future. However, despite this
tension, no one feels fear, and the preparation for the battle proceeds almost perfectly. Indeed,
the marriage union of the hero and the star princess would not hurt anyone now, but they
continue to politely refuse— perhaps cherishing the boundaries between personal and public
life. Each time his majesty is very disappointed by this, and I cannot but sympathize with him.

During this time, I also met Magsarion several times. Mr. Varhran said that he entrusted the
care of him to Alma, but in fact, somehow finds time to see him; it must be assumed that he
really worries about his reclusive younger brother. However, Magsarion is being as rude as I
expected; besides, I still can't see his face.

At that time, he still had to walk without hiding it, but for some reason a veil of black fog covers
him, and the truth remains unknown to me. And every time he meets the hero, a creaking voice
in the darkness utters the same phrase.

"You're a loser. Lose soon. You are weak, you are fragile, you let others hold your heart,
brother."

The haunting words reverberate through the air, echoing with a chilling resonance. They pierce
the festive atmosphere of the feast held in honor of the impending march, casting a shadow
over the jubilant celebrations. The boy, shrouded in darkness, whispers these reproaches with
an eerie certainty, disappearing into the obscurity that cloaks him. His diminutive figure,
juxtaposed against the backdrop of revelry, prompts a profound contemplation within me.

In the wake of Magsarion's confession, a profound realization engulfs me, as if an ocean of

emotions threatens to consume both heaven and earth. It is an overwhelming surge, an almost
bottomless prayer that reverberates through my very being. I cannot help but question the
essence of his regrets, for if this profound understanding is his response, what depths of
sorrow must he have plumbed?
Reluctantly, I admit that I comprehend his sentiment. The ceaseless pursuit of hope, the
relentless race towards an uncertain future, is a futile endeavor. Magsarion wanted to kill the
hero, perceiving him as the embodiment of an uncertain world, a world devoid of absolutes. In
his eyes, it was his own brother who became the enemy, a foe to be vanquished. Yet, such
realization dawned upon him only when it was already too late, leaving him burdened with
remorse for the missed opportunity. It is this remorse that gave birth to the formidable warrior
I have come to know.
How utterly foolish it all seems now. My fervent wish had been for Magsarion to assume the
mantle of the new hero, to gather the shattered fragments left by Mr. Varhran and once again
embody the indomitable will of his esteemed brother. However, I now understand that my
desire, far from kindling his potential for greatness, has unwittingly fueled his destructive
aspirations. He now believes that by annihilating all in his path, he can obliterate Lord Varhran,
leaving no trace of his existence.

This cannot be allowed to continue. I make a solemn oath, vowing to halt Magsarion's descent
into darkness, even if it demands the ultimate sacrifice of my own life. It may be the only
course of action left to me, but I refuse to relinquish hope for a resolution, an epilogue that can
bring an end to this tragedy. For time still lingers on my side, and within me, the flame of hope
burns bright. I have not abandoned the belief that there can be a culmination, a final chapter
that transcends the despair that looms over us.

"Maybe we can celebrate a little more together?" A gentle voice interrupts my thoughts as I
awaken, finding Mrs. Nahid standing beside me, wearing a weary smile. The weight of the
events and impending battle seems momentarily lifted in her presence.
"Perhaps, and what shall we do with them?"

My gaze shifts towards the yazatas scattered around us, their faces serene in unconsciousness.
It was Mr. Varhran himself who had defeated them, a result of their intoxication-induced
battles, whether in an attempt to measure their strength or merely revel in the moment. The
very world that Magsarion despises and deems worthy of destruction has led to such
outcomes. Yet, despite everything, I cannot find it in my heart to label it entirely wrong.

Magsarion, sensing a threat in Mr. Varhran, believes that the key to unlocking the restraints
binding this fierce warrior lies hidden within the hero's lifestyle. I am convinced that this
dream I find myself in serves the purpose of aiding me in uncovering that elusive truth. And so,
I must gather strength and meticulously observe every minute detail. I remind myself of my
mission, refocusing my attention on the fading era of glory that draws closer to its inevitable
end.

"Let's leave them be," Mrs. Nahid suggests, her words laced with grace as she elegantly
navigates past the lifeless bodies.

Mr. Varhran follows suit, unapologetically stepping over them, and the conversation between
them continues in the privacy of their exchange. Once again, we find ourselves seated across
from each other in Mrs. Nahid's chambers, our glasses touching lightly. Under normal
circumstances, I would feel a sense of embarrassment intruding upon this intimate evening
between two lovers. However, I must let go of such inhibitions. Partly because I have resolved
to witness everything until the end, but more importantly, because there exists little romantic
atmosphere between them. Through two months of observation, I have come to realize that the
relationship between Mr. Varhran and Mrs. Nahid transcends the conventional definition of
love.
Their bond is one of deep appreciation and understanding, akin to that of siblings, perhaps
even more so than His Majesty. As a result, I can observe their private moments without guilt
or reservation. They embark on a journey of reminiscence, starting from the day they first
encountered one another, joyfully recounting the events that have led them to this very
moment. They traverse their shared history, at times retracing their steps in reverse order,
delving into new topics.

Phrases like "By the way, but that time" and "No, but what about when" permeate the air,
painting a vivid picture of their longstanding familiarity. It becomes immediately evident that
they have been acquainted since childhood, and listening to their exchange brings not only
intrigue but also an undeniable sense of joy. Amidst their conversation, Mr. Varhran suddenly
poses a peculiar question, his voice laced with curiosity.

"Nahid, you must have already understood, right?"

The specifics of his inquiry remain unspoken, left to linger in the air. However, judging by the
context, it pertains to his triumph over a daeva, a victory sealed eight years prior to the dream
that has summoned me.

Their conversation takes an unexpected turn, delving into the topic of a notorious murderer
named Montserrat. The question arises as to why he was not killed, and whether this decision
was made for the greater good.

"...His Commandment was undeniably troublesome. In hindsight, I erred when I allowed him to
admit defeat. He should have been dealt with before he ever had the chance to pledge his
allegiance to me."

"Yes, once the oath of loyalty is taken, any further interaction with him would be considered a
command. Even a discreet beheading would have been akin to ordering his own demise."

"He demands qualifications befitting his master. The more stringent the order given, the more
severe the ensuing consequences."

The phrase "qualifications" hints at some form of catastrophic failure, suggesting that one must
prove their authority to issue such commands, a risk too great to undertake lightly.
The mere thought of attempting to bestow death upon an immortal being fills me with dread,
envisioning the calamity that could unfold.

"I believe your decision to condemn him to eternal slumber was wise. Though it may have
seemed lenient to outsiders, there were murmurs of discontent. Perhaps that was the extent of
the qualifications?" Mrs. Nahid muses.

"I would like to believe so, but that's not what I'm referring to, Nahid. I wonder if you
comprehend the true nature of what transpired behind all this commotion. While you were
busy pacifying the grumblers, Sirius and I..."
Before Mr. Varhran can finish his sentence, Mrs. Nahid gently places a finger on his lips.

"I don't know. I didn't consider it. I neither saw nor heard anything."

A brief silence hangs in the air, and then Mr. Varhran's voice breaks through.

"...One should cherish the bonds of worthy companions. It has become my personal rule to not
interfere with your choices."

Mrs. Nahid's face softens even further, and she responds, "God, I could never argue with you."

A smirk plays on Mr. Varhran's lips as he leans back in his chair.

"That's practically my only secret, and here you have made me sit in a puddle. You see, popular
rumors rarely deceive."

"Oh, you and your mischief," Mrs. Nahid chides, her laughter reminiscent of the tinkling of bells
mingling with the hearty laughter of the hero.

They continue their conversation, a symphony of words and shared memories, until Mrs. Nahid
finally rises to her feet.

"Well, goodnight, sweet dreams... or so I would say. But may I ask you one last question,
Varhran?"

"Of course. I hope I can provide an answer," Mr. Varhran responds, standing up and nodding
casually.

However, Mrs. Nahid hesitates, silently approaching the hero, her finger grazing his chest as
she looks up at him.

"Speaking of rumors, it made me wonder... Is it true that your Commandment holds the power
of promised victory?... If it leads to a grand epilogue, do you know where my happiness lies?"
she continues, her eyes searching his.
"Nahid, those are two questions," Mr. Varhran chuckles, shaking his head slightly.

"I have pondered what true victory entails for eight long years. Even if I possessed the power to
fulfill everyone's expectations, I don't believe it can be achieved by focusing solely on the
immediate future.”

"...That's not an answer. Are you trying to evade me?"

"Perhaps. Let's consider it a draw." Mr. Varhran laughs cheerfully, turning away.
"Alright then, sweet dreams," he calls out before departing.

I find myself contemplating Mr. Varhran's words. Knowing his aversion to speaking in
convoluted riddles, I can only assume that his answer holds a profound truth, uniquely
expressed in his own enigmatic manner. Victory is not a mere spectacle before one's eyes; it
requires a farsighted perspective on life. While I am uncertain of the exact scale, my intuition
tells me that his viewpoint extends further than any other.

And what lies within this eight-year-old mystery? One puzzle begets another and in my futile
attempts to unravel them... Finally, the long-awaited day of destiny arrives.

◇◇◇◇◇

To be honest, one question plagued me for a considerable time: how could Father suddenly
invade the Sacred Realm? It seemed inconceivable, considering his invincibility. If he had
simply approached, even at the speed of light, he would have been visible in a matter of years,
and his presence would have been felt even earlier. Even if we entertain the idea of
teleportation, the issue still revolves around his unfathomable mass.

Given his colossal size, finding a direct path would have been quite challenging, even with the
aid of his awe-inspiring artifacts. The notion of an ambush, therefore, appeared implausible.
Thus, I couldn't bring myself to believe that he literally materialized out of thin air. Since the
heroes were genuinely preparing for battle, I assumed this explanation was an attempt to
rationalize their defeat. Yet, reality unfolded in an entirely different manner.

Even if Father's intrusion had been foreseen, the Sacred Realm had no means to strike first. To
confront him, they would have needed to locate an utterly desolate battlefield, a space
wasteland devoid of any presence. At the time, many Star Spirits, particularly Vohu Mana,
sensed the impending danger. However, no one anticipated the onslaught of the first King of
Evil, and the prepared ambush was more likely intended for the third. Needless to say, their
calculations proved incorrect. Even if I had stood among them, I would have likely shared the
same thoughts... Undoubtedly, my very soul would have shattered into countless fragments,
just as theirs did.
"Nadare, Nadare... I understand. Are you asking me to eradicate them this time?"

In an instant, a colossal, devilish eye that seemed to stretch across the heavens itself appeared.
Thoughtfully whispering the name "Nadare," Father blinked countless eyes, each rivaling the
sun in size. Did this signify that the second King of Evil was orchestrating these events? The
exact meaning behind these occurrences remained elusive, yet the tremors of cataclysm
resonated, akin to the laughter of a collapsing world.

"Very well. But once that is done, I shall be free to do as I please."

And so, the tragedy begins. The Annihilation Star Cluster, an infernal legion comprising more
than fifty celestial bodies the size of fixed stars and one major star surpassing them all in
magnitude, brings about countless cataclysms in the vicinity of the Sacred Realm Planet. It goes
without saying that the planet is consumed by turmoil and devastation.

Merely by his presence, gravity itself collapses. The celestial axis ceases to exist, planetary
rotation becomes erratic, and the surface of the planet shatters along with its atmosphere. I
dare say the Sacred Realm would have succumbed within a heartbeat, reduced to a mere heap
of debris, were it not for the intervention of Mrs. Nahid. The Star Spirits, in their loyal service,
united their efforts to safeguard the planet and its inhabitants. Nevertheless, their abilities had
their limits.

The initial contact, barely amounting to an attack, a fleeting exchange of gazes with Father,
robbed the planet of one of its mightiest defenders. Despite this setback, not a single yazata
retreated. Words fail to capture the bravery they exhibited, defying the hypergiant in the sky,
relying on the dwindling remnants of their power. My heart flutters within my chest as I
witness their remarkable courage, their enchanting radiance, and their indescribable
righteousness. They believed in miracles. They pledged to emerge victorious against all odds.
The truth that their prowess surpassed that of their predecessors, with over a million masters
among their ranks, remained unquestioned. It cannot be fathomed that this is insufficient to
secure victory. They simply cannot be defeated.

And yet, one by one, they succumb to the embrace of death. No blade, no conviction, no dreams,
no pride, no aspirations, no love—nothing in the world holds sway over the unfolding
catastrophe. Moreover, all these annihilation stars draw everything into themselves, devouring
everything without a trace. As if declaring that all their endeavors were utterly worthless. What
a grotesque absurdity. How can one accept such injustice?

"What are you boasting about?" the Workshop of Annihilation speaks, its voice resonating with
a ponderous deliberation. Sincere bewilderment permeates its words.

“Why do you believe you can triumph? On what grounds do you base your convictions? You
insist that everyone supports you, but I fail to comprehend the measure or criteria for such
support. Your words lack specificity; be more precise. Provide numbers. Reveal the weight.
Specify the volume. What is the density? What about strength? Tell me. It is all too peculiar and
disconcerting, and my curiosity cannot be contained.”

“What are you?” The despicable radiance fraught with questions beyond his computational
existence uttered the very question that yanked my being out of nonexistence.

“Tell me, what is a miracle?”

“Allow me to show you.”

In an instant, the darkness is pierced by a resplendent ray of golden light.

"I shall answer all your inquiries. But for that, let them depart in peace, Farn."

With a radiant swing of his blade, Varhran strikes the King of Evil, suspended high in the sky,
with the force of a comet. In a battle where everything seemed futile, change finally transpires.
The Annihilation Star Cluster, struck by the hero's sword, falters—quite literally. It may be a
small victory, a mere trifle, but such an act is enough to rekindle the flame of hope. Even the
King of Evil himself recognizes Varhran as a genuine threat at that moment.
"It stings, it hurts... How long has it been since I felt this sensation? I recall that it is far from
pleasant. I must comprehend this danger and overcome it," the King of Evil murmurs
introspectively.

While the malevolent ruler ponders like a foreign computer, Varhran lets out an angry cry.

"You have heard it all, step back!"

"What is that you are carrying?!" the Workshop of Annihilation exclaims, its voice tinged with
disbelief.

"Now is not the time for jests. We are—"

"Cease your arguments! It is now up to you, Nahid!"

With an iron will that tolerates no objections, the hero leaves his comrades behind,
commencing his solitary and unrestrained battle.

"Ridiculous! You are contradicting yourself," the Workshop of Annihilation retorts, its voice
laced with a mixture of confusion and skepticism.

"You claim to value everyone, yet you discard everything extraneous. Logic dictates that a part
of a whole is weaker on its own, which renders your decision tantamount to suicide. If victory
is of paramount importance to you, then such a choice is simply foolish—an obvious
miscalculation."
"Do you believe that I have resigned myself to defeat?" Varhran's voice brims with
determination.

"No, that is precisely why I ask.”

If one examines the situation with an open mind, the truth may indeed lie on Father's side. The
less remains of the planet, the more citizens who have not had the chance to escape perish, and
the faster Varhran's forces dwindle. Even now, the Annihilation Star Cluster besieges every
corner of outer space under the Sacred Realm's control. He once told me that it encompasses
'approximately' the size of a galaxy, and if it were his will, he could obliterate it in the blink of
an eye.

The concentration of benevolent intentions that underlie the hero's actions crumbles before
our very eyes. Prayers swiftly lose their potency, transforming into something far more sinister
and antithetical. It feels as though everything is on the verge of being trampled mercilessly,
without the slightest hint of mercy.

"Allow me to draw a comparison with colors and temperatures. Initially, your 'all' burned with
a fervent, fiery red, but now it grows colder, shifting toward a blue hue. Is that not what we call
disappointment? Those who once found hope in you and the like feel betrayed, and their
sentiments turn to resentment. I have witnessed this countless times, and I can confidently
state that Tentsui is imminent. Then everything shall slowly descend into decline, and the
scales will inevitably tip in the opposite direction. Eventually, you will be stripped of your 'all'
and meet a ignoble demise. It is an inescapable outcome based on precise calculations. And
besides, why?"

The Workshop of Annihilation addresses the hero quietly but with a desperate urgency.

"Yet, there is something within you that remains unyielding even now. Reality proves me
wrong, yet your blurred logic persists. What is this? If you intend to argue that the miracle lies
within this absurdity, then I yearn to unravel its enigma. I must know. I believe that I can
absorb it only by acknowledging its existence."

Facing the imposing might of the rumbling behemoth, Varhran responds with a weary smile.

"...Well, you shall have your answer. So, you understand its significance as well?"

With an air of casualness, as if stumbling upon an old friend while strolling down an unfamiliar
street, Varhran begins to expound upon the mystery of the miracle.

"In this world, nothing remains constant. Therefore, we must seek that which must never be
allowed to change. You must have experienced it too, Farn. Have you forgotten? Or are you
merely searching? I have only recently discovered it with the aid of an external force."

"What are you...carrying?" the Workshop of Annihilation inquires, struggling to comprehend

the unfolding events.

Unperturbed by Father's trembling confusion, and perhaps even fear, Varhran's countenance
shifts, as if offering a prayer...

“Thanks to her…”

And tenderly, he touches "me" with his lips.

"...Kh?!"

Wait, what is happening? Is this even possible? After all, I have observed everything from the
hero's perspective all this time.

I should not exist at all in this moment.

But then why do I feel like myself now?

Mr. Varhran looks at me and smiles.

Maybe I got it wrong from the very beginning. I did not share my consciousness with the hero
at all, and this dream itself is not at all someone else's memories…

“I'm glad I met you. I promise that someday we will have a real victory
■■■■■■■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■.”

In the fleeting moments when I feel on the verge of recollection, I am swiftly lifted into the
heavens.

"Something is amiss, that's all we can discern."

But there should have been more of them! From above, I behold Ms. Nahid and the others
perched on the back of Vohu Mana. There are merely a few thousand left. The hero had
implored them to escape, but this outcome appears woefully modest.

"...Perhaps Farn’s meddling?" Nahid suggests.

"We must wait until the last possible moment, Varhran will undoubtedly return!"

"Yes, my brother, I understand," she replies, resolute. Together, they persist amidst the
tumultuous skies of annihilation.

Upon closer inspection, one can discern the motionless figures of Alma and Magsarion,
standing steadfastly on their feet. Each soul here still clings to the unwavering belief that the
hero shall return alive. Every passing second holds significance, yet none dares utter the
command to flee with utmost haste. Could that be the crux of the matter?

"Let us locate Varhran. Even if we fight separately, our spirits remain united. We cannot turn
away from him!" Nahid declares.

In response, Mrs. Nahid nods with determination, a sentiment mirrored by those surrounding
her. They resolve to eternally engrave the image of a hero who valiantly wages war against a
formidable foe for the sake of the greater good. None among them harbors any doubt regarding
their duty or their battle, and they vowed to see it through to the bitter end.

And so, they peer into the world through the eyes of Vohu Mana, searching tirelessly for the
whereabouts of Lord Varhran.

However, alas, no, stop...

I am already cognizant of what lies ahead. It eludes their sight. This sole glimpse alone shall
forever burden them with its curse. For no one can bear witness to the fate that has befallen
the universal hero.

"Found him, now we shall bear witness!"

Yet, it is not my fate to alter the course of history, and this moment engulfs them in all its
savage cruelty.

"Hee!..."

Mrs. Nahid falls silent for a moment, her speech robbed by disbelief, before unleashing a
harrowing scream. King Sirius, stricken and wide-eyed, witnesses his world crumbling around
him.

Ordinary citizens, one by one, lose their grip on sanity. They strangle themselves with their
own hands, gnaw at their tongues, and take their own lives, all in a desperate attempt to escape
the unfolding truth. Even the most steadfast advocates of benevolent intentions, those who
clung to their sanity even in the face of the Workshop of Annihilation's threat, now crumble en
masse.

None who stood witness on that fateful day emerged with their faculties intact.

For what they behold there...

The truth that defies comprehension…

This harrowing sight unveils the hero's dismembered body, desecrated upon a crucifix. After an
indescribably vile ordeal, he is paraded, robbed of his last vestiges of dignity, by the very hands
of the citizens he had pledged to safeguard.
"It is your fault.”

“You bear the guilt.”

“Why did you not emerge victorious?”

“Yet you call yourself a hero.”

“It is all because of you.”

“If you were to perish, surely our salvation would be assured..."

This uncontrollable and shameless train of thought, dripping with venom, cannot possibly
belong to the noble Ashavans. They did not willingly descend into the clutches of evil,
metamorphosing into vile creatures themselves.

"The Reverse of Emotion?..."

The whisper of King Sirius heralds the demise of a glory that now leaves no trace. Such a vast
and merciless upheaval, the switching of allegiances on an unprecedented scale...

What was once considered common sense only yesterday is easily upturned, nullifying the very
cornerstone of existence.

What defines goodness?

What constitutes evil?

How does this world truly function?

The thoughts of Sirius, frozen in shock, surge forth in a tempestuous torrent. Now, armed with
the truth, he transforms into something wholly unrecognizable. And there is yet another.

"Brother..."

The boy's unwavering gaze remains fixated on the unfolding tragedy. Confidence emanates
from him, an understanding unbeknownst to others, and the realization that he, too, had erred
erupts with a piercing cry.

"Damn it, brother, brother!"

"Ahhhh, I couldn't end his life."

Regret overwhelms him, trembling with the weight of his remorse. From this point forward, he
shall forever carry this burden, a silent scream that echoes relentlessly within.
A flame of inextinguishable hatred engulfs him, an unbreakable bond that intertwines with his
very being. He spins within a tempest of madness, a swirling vortex of malevolence and curses.
Each breath he takes carries the venomous essence of his vengeful rage, an unquenchable fire
that consumes his every fiber.
 Chapter 9: The Impending Chaos - Translated by @ashmxt.t

1
Sleep engulfs me like a cataclysmic force, consuming me like a curse. The torment of memories
that should not be, it repulses me, yet it stirs a sense of nostalgia, an inexplicable paradox.

That's what dreams are to me: a chaotic maelstrom that breeds bewilderment.

Within this realm, I always find myself perched upon a pedestal. I am so young that my
thoughts are muddled, incapable of coherent expression. Yet, before me, countless individuals
prostrate themselves, offering prayers so fervently that the ground beneath them becomes
obscured. Each and every one of them bears an ecstatic fervor in their eyes, their faces
reflecting either the elation of long-awaited birth or the tranquility of basking in divine favor.

Without a doubt, their prevailing emotion can be described as joy, their faith in a blissful
destiny resolute. Hence, they regard me, and none other, as the object of their adulation. Their
reliance, their worship, their love, their idolization of me as their savior seems simple, yet
profoundly genuine, and this leaves me pondering.

It is truly perplexing, defying logic. For the objective truth is that my actions are acts of
destruction. Protection and guidance lie beyond my purview, and a life where others anticipate
something from me stands in stark contrast to my very essence. Thus, I dismiss this dream as a
nonsensical vision, but I cannot disregard it as devoid of meaning, for it engenders a singular
question within me.

How did I become what I am?

Without apparent purpose and lacking any meaningful occupation, my days are brimming with
naught but annihilation, as natural to me as breathing. Were I to be labeled a soulless machine,
I would have no grounds for objection. If asked to define futility, I would assert that my daily
existence epitomizes it.

Meaning of life. The role and purpose that the entity known as "I" yearns for. This crucial
element that substantiates my existence eludes me, and it was by recognizing this absence that
I arrived at my present state.

...No, perhaps it is more accurate to say that I was led to this state. On that day, at that moment,
that capricious hero planted within me an idea that renders a return to my former existence
impossible.

What constitutes a "miracle"?

Who encompasses "everyone"?

And what precisely should be deemed significant?
What, in his perception, did I possess in the past, what did I lose, and what did I forget?

It terrifies me. I yearn for an answer, yet simultaneously apprehend that such knowledge will
shatter me. However, I also sense that I can no longer avert my gaze from this notion. Indeed,
the vision unfurling before me may hold the truth that once defined me.

Khvarenah… glory, Khvarenah… hope...

The sight of billions and trillions of individuals resounding in unison evokes a sense of longing
within me. The sensation they experience when they invoke the radiant halo of light, it elicits a
mournful whine from a fragment of my memory that should not exist.

Hence, I must ascertain. I have no right to remain ignorant. For only by uncovering this truth
can I grasp what that hero beheld...

I even permit these dreams to exist, quite literally, as separate from reality, seeking the
foundation I have lost within these hazy depictions. The young version of myself smiles.
Though I had only faintly intuited it before, now, without a trace of doubt, I can declare that he
possesses naught but love for the world before his eyes. He yearns to respond to them, to instill
a way of life within their hearts, to embrace "universal" sentiments.

What, exactly, was the aspiration of today's humanity's God?

What did he believe in?

What did he dream of?

Soft, tender lips, resembling yet incomparable to my present ones, part like a blossoming bud.
The words he utters transmute into an oath, manifesting as reality.

“You ■■■■■■■■■■. Therefore, I should also be ■■■■■■■■■■.”

Amidst the air abuzz with jubilation and the sweet fragrance of blessings, I strain to catch the
whispered promise. Instead, my eyes bear witness to an otherworldly and inexplicable force,
surging forth from the distant horizon.

It manifests as a wave of mad colors, enveloping the very fabric of the cosmos, transforming all
that it touches.

Ah, everything has been inverted. My people, my homeland, and even my own being are swept
up in the tempestuous current of this enigmatic tapestry.

Even the truth to which I once swore an unwavering oath is carried away by the relentless
surge, and I find myself unable to recollect its essence.
Only that I wanted to be ■■■■■■■■■…

Only one thing lingers within me, a lingering desire that once burned with such intensity...

On the day that commemorated the cherished light, a day that seemed impervious to the
whims of fate, the Khvarenah of the universal miracle was sundered, shattered beyond
recognition.

◇◇◇◇◇

The hypergiant, roused from a prolonged slumber, remains in prostration for a time. The
remnants of the dream fade into the distance, slipping beyond his grasp despite his formidable
computational abilities. Try as he might, he cannot resurrect those elusive memories, nor can
he even discern their faintest outlines. This outcome, however, comes as no surprise.

Those memories are a wound to his very soul, and the astral body devoted to truth wanders
through the Annihilation Star Cluster, a lost and deranged elder. The star-born entity, bound by
its own logic, arose precisely because it forgot that logic, rendering any interaction between the
two impossible. It is a mystery destined never to be solved. In pursuit of a prayer irretrievably
lost, Khvarenah’s mind spins fruitlessly in circles, searching for answers in vain. This, indeed,
constitutes a true curse.

The indescribable sense of defeat, once inflicted by Varhran, gnaws at him, tormenting him and
cornering the Workshop of Destruction, a force beyond the reach of the universe itself.

What did he witness?

He yearns to know, to understand. He must find out... The vast expanse of his diabolical
thoughts begins to churn once more, but this time, he must temporarily halt their course. More
precisely, a portion of his consciousness must divert its attention to another phenomenon. And
that phenomenon is the embodiment of "cruelty" in a single human form.

"Well, well, Farn. It's been quite a while since we last tangled, hasn't it?"

A man, his grin unyielding, strikes a formidable pose amidst the darkness of space—a figure all
too familiar to Khvarenah. Flesh carved from solid stone, a fiery mane of hair billowing around
him. His gaze, bearing the weight of unbridled ferocity yet tinged with a dangerous allure,
conjures only one name within Khvarenah’s memory. Only one person could meet his gaze
head-on and radiate such relaxed calmness. Khvarenah knows his name.

"It's you, Bahlavan... If we consider the time I remember as a dozen, then about three parts of it
have passed since our last encounter... In that case, we can indeed say it's been a while."
The duration of their separation still warrants such a description.
"Heh, you still concern yourself with such trivialities."

Unencumbered by the constraints of time, they meet for the first time in over seven hundred
years. This meeting holds the risk of both their lives, and yet neither feels the slightest hint of
tension. They interact with a blend of camaraderie and indifference, an enigmatic mixture that
evokes a sense of kinship, as though they were long-lost brothers or friends.

"Nadare decided to involve both of us in her game. Personally, I find it rather satisfying. What
about you?"

"Nadare? Ah, yes, it appears that everything is as you say."

The world seems to have crumbled while he slumbered. Khvarenah finally comprehends why
his current coordinates differ so significantly. Just like twenty years ago. No, this time the
upheaval is far grander in scale. And it isn't solely due to Bahlavan standing before him; all the
Kings of Evil, save Nadare, have converged in this confined region of outer space. Furthermore,
there exists a stronghold for those who cannot abide by the likes of Drujvants such as
themselves. As Khvarenah unravels the present circumstances, he blinks his colossal eye
slowly, as if sighing.

"It seems you are displeased. What is it that you find disagreeable?"

"I sense that it has come prematurely. In order to unravel a mystery, I entrusted a certain
mission to my daughter. Hence, I must await the outcome of her endeavors, and my
interruption of that process feels out of place."

"So, you would prefer to return from whence you came?"

"That is what I would like, but I fear it may not be possible."

The majority of his mental faculties remain devoted to unraveling the enigma, but now he
allocates roughly twenty percent to absorb Bahlavan's response. With a speed that even a
hundred thousand ordinary Star Spirits could not match, he has already calculated that the
subsequent course of events has become inexorable. And it all stems from...

"You won't allow me to depart, Bahlavan."

"Hahaha, precisely!"

His resounding laughter defies the laws of physics, echoing through the vacuum of space.
Compared to the hypergiant Workshop of Annihilation, Bahlavan's humanoid form is but a
minuscule speck. Yet, it is evident that the mere flicker of his existence carries immense weight.
He is Bahlavan, the Locust of Ferocity, the king of battle demons, forever chasing the title of the
mightiest. This meeting, this exchange of gazes, this acknowledgment of each other's
presence—it signifies a disregard for the circumstances of others. Especially when it concerns
a formidable adversary, one he has yet to conquer.

"Let's play, Farn. I am not quite the same as before."

"That much is obvious. It seems you have developed a resistance to teleportation. At least, it
appears impossible to transport you against your will."

Their previous clash ended in a stalemate, and Khvarenah, deeming it a waste of time, forcibly
banished Bahlavan through teleportation. Each of them likely interprets the outcome
differently. Bahlavan failed to achieve what he desired and proved defenseless, yet it can be
argued just as confidently that Khvarenah evaded the battle and chose retreat. In truth, both
can be deemed losers, prompting them to spend seven hundred years devising ways to avoid a
repeat of that fate. Now, Bahlavan can only be compelled to move by the rules of the gata. Not
even the collapse of Nadare's world could displace him against his own volition.

In essence, the only way to force the Third King of Evil to retreat is by killing him—an assertion
that prompts Khvarenah to make a declaration. He speaks of a fate devoid of expectations or
illusions, founded upon irrefutable calculations.

"In this region of space, in terms of time units, you have eighteen thousand, five hundred and
two seconds until you reach your limit in combating me. Know that this is an inescapable truth
to which you have no counter."

"You understand nothing. I have no limits!"

"I am aware. However, the pace of your growth falls within my calculations."

With this, the devilish star, unperturbed, communicates his statement, before exerting his own
power.

"[Link] / a / [Link]."

Even he himself remains uncertain of the meaning this word holds.

Centuries ago, the forgotten memory still etched within Khvarenah’s soul moved him, like a
truth seared into his being.

Let there be ■■■■■■■.

Let the ■■■■■■■■ world take shape.

After all, this is precisely what was expected of him, the very reason for his birth—to unleash
the unyielding ■■■■■■■■.
Even reduced to a twisted Workshop of Annihilation, the radiance of Khvarenah endures as the
supreme hegemony.

"Theory versus practice? So be it!"

The Annihilation Star Cluster scatters hundreds of millions of sinister eyes across its expanse.
Countless colossal cannons emerge from them, each barrel spacious enough to house an entire
planet. A palisade of artifacts, capable of reducing this realm of space to dust, takes aim at a
solitary figure. Khvarenah finds this not excessive, but rather inadequate, and new weapons
continue to materialize, multiplying with each passing moment.

"So, let’s start, Bahlavan. You can back off when you realize I'm right. I won't chase you."

Bahlavan met Khvarenah’s gaze with a calm resolve.

"You're worrying for nothing. After all, running away was not an option for me either."

In this epoch, in this vast universe, the stage was set for an unparalleled battle to the death—a
clash for supremacy. The two adversaries stood facing each other, the gravity of their
confrontation palpable. As the battle commenced, a torrent of destruction erupted from the
artifacts surrounding them. These formidable weapons possessed the capability to annihilate
entire star systems with a single shot.
Each unleashed its unique projectile—waves of scorching flames, chilling streams of cold,
thunderous bursts, and lethal poisons. But amidst this devastating onslaught, there existed
something beyond the comprehension of modern civilization, an enigma that defied definition,
and it all converged upon a single figure.

This was a deluge of sheer "destruction" itself—a cataclysmic force that left no room for
natural immunity. It was futile to speculate that one might be resistant to one or two elements
of destruction, for the density and duration of the bombardment were calculated by the
galactic-devouring Star to render any form of resistance futile. Khvarenah was certain of this.
The onslaught, consisting of hundreds of millions of destructive projectiles, burst forth in an
instant, scattering in every direction.

As the smoke cleared, only one figure remained—Khvarenah, his fist extended and a ferocious
grin adorning his face. With unbridled joy and fangs bared, he raised his other fist high above
his head.

"Now, it's my turn."

His strike resonated with a power that surpassed all limits. For Khvarenah, notions of distance
and magnitude, concepts grounded in common sense, held no meaning. It transcended mere
shockwaves—his fist, woven from the aura of his own inexhaustible power, expanded to an
incredible size, hurtling towards the hypergiant like a colossal comet aimed at a pitiful insect.
The sheer scale of this absurdity, a dream of a mad god, threatened to overwhelm even the
most rational mind. Yet, it was undeniably real, an inescapable reality.

The colossal fist made contact, causing the hypergiant to lean back slightly. Unfazed, he swiftly
assessed the situation, devoid of excitement or fear—only cold, objective analysis. With his
initial attack, Khvarenah shattered five of Bahlavan's fingers, an outcome he expected. Though
injuries couldn't diminish Khvarenah’s fighting prowess, his mortality remained an undeniable
truth. He fought with unwavering determination until his final moment, a being who would
eventually succumb.

Khvarenah’s strategy was clear—he would persist, gradually wearing down his opponent. By
maintaining a delicate balance of power, where neither side held a discernible advantage, he
could keep Bahlavan's growth in check. The length of the battle might appear foolish to
outsiders, but most adversaries lacked the physical prowess to engage Bahlavan. However, with
Khvarenah’s unwavering stamina, the situation became vastly different.

The Workshop of Destruction, an entity that fed on the fabric of the universe itself, absorbed
and transformed the attacks it received into its own strength. Khvarenah understood this
dynamic, acknowledging the damage he would sustain over time as satisfactory, even
considering Bahlavan's advancements.
"Your gains are relative, Bahlavan. The less advantageous your position, the faster you evolve.
But the same holds true in reverse—until you are cornered, a transition to a qualitatively new
level is unlikely."

Undeterred, Bahlavan replied, "It's amusing. In that case, I will overcome this worthlessness.
There is no goal I am not ready to set for myself."

Once again, the adversaries clashed. Their claims held equal truth. From the moment they were
born, they left a trail of destruction in their wake—breathing as effortlessly as they brought
ruin. They staunchly believed their worldview to be the sole truth, achieving numerous
victories over those who dared to disagree. In their lifetimes, they laid waste to countless
entities. Some possessed Commandments tailored to combat Star Spirits, while others held
simpler beliefs, viewing all alien life as enemies. Yielding to an extraterrestrial invader was
never in their nature. Yet, they all succumbed, crumbling before the foundation of the King of
Evils’ pride.

Khvarenah addressed them, genuine curiosity gleaming in his eyes. He questioned their
perspective, seeking to understand their reasoning. "If you deem yourselves superior to alien
life, then by the same logic, I should possess a similar power. After all, I have absorbed
numerous stars and planets in my existence. Why do you believe your way of thinking is
exclusive to you? You consider me an alien life, just as I consider you the same. Our
circumstances are equal—unless I'm mistaken. What reason justifies your unilateral advantage
under these circumstances?"

The unfortunate victims remained speechless, unable to offer a response. Khvarenah continued
his interrogation, devoid of malice or joy, delving deeper into their despair.

"Following common logic, one should determine advantage through tangible accomplishments.
Weighty evidence speaks volumes, while empty statements hold no substance. So, isn't it time
for you to answer my question? How many planets have you conquered thus far? By the way, in
my case..."

No one could provide an answer. Khvarenah concluded the negotiations and disappointingly
demonstrated his power. Needless to say, the outcome merely affirmed his correctness.

In contrast, Bahlavan's argument was more direct. He asserted, "Sure, be happy for you. Yet, I
am stronger."

No one could refute his claim. And once again, the result validated his assertion. Thus, both
adversaries trusted their own perspectives, scarcely considering the possibility of fallacy. The
storm of self-power and cataclysmic forces generated by the artifacts continued to multiply
endlessly, as if debating their very ways of life. Bahlavan's fist reduced three of Khvarenah's
bodies to dust in a single blow, while the Workshop of Annihilation impaled the Locust of
Ferocity with its tongue, causing the creature to bleed under the relentless pressure of the
supergravity cell.
Had it been anyone else, they would have perished countless times over. Yet, neither Khvarenah
nor Bahlavan displayed even the slightest hint of fatigue, treating this encounter as nothing
more than a warm-up in their inexhaustible struggle.

"Haha, okay, that's much more interesting!"

His words carried a sense of amusement and intrigue, acknowledging the shift in the current
situation.

"Personally, I see the current situation as quite ordinary. However, if I managed to entertain
you, you should repay me for it, Bahlavan."

Bahlavan, disappointed but undeterred, snorted in response. He was never guided by anger or
hatred in battle, always displaying tolerance for worthy opponents. This was the belief of the
locust—to respond to any challenge, regardless of its form. Khvarenah, convinced of Bahlavan's
open-mindedness, decided to pose a question, his voice carrying a weight comparable to the
hypergiant himself. Despite his apparent indifference, his words held a hidden intensity.

"What exactly in the world seems to you truly unchanged?" Khvarenah asked, seeking to
unravel the depths of Bahlavan's perspective.

"My strength," came the immediate and unwavering response from Bahlavan, his voice
resonating with pride.

He proudly proclaimed the right to declare himself as the strongest in the world, considering it
the only truth he needed. Khvarenah's voice now contained an unusual amount of
emotion—disappointment mingled with envy. He detected a flaw in Bahlavan's logic, realizing
that he had failed to obtain the answer he desired. However, he couldn't help but feel a pang of
jealousy as Bahlavan confidently declared his truth without hesitation.

"In that case, by absorbing you, I can surely move forward. Please accept my gratitude,
Bahlavan.”

Bahlavan, unyielding and determined, replied, "I have to thank you. I will crush you and
become even stronger than now."

Both adversaries acknowledged their intertwined destinies, believing that the other existed
solely for their own purpose. With their emotions entrusted to the might of their military
power, they clashed once more, each confident in their own calculations and truths. As the
grandiose dialogue of destruction and ferocity continued, Khvarenah was about to protest but
paused, his thoughts shifting.

Wasn't his mathematical approach to everything an immutable idea? Yet, something in him
hesitated. He realized that an excessive commitment to his worldview might hinder him from
perceiving things objectively.
"In that case, let me put it another way. If you'll excuse me, I'd like to see you exceed my
expectations," Khvarenah proposed, a subtle shift in his perspective evident.

"I'll show you how—I give you my word, Farn!" Bahlavan responded, accepting the challenge
with unwavering determination.

Questions swirled in Khvarenah's mind.

What constituted a "miracle"?

Who defined "everyone"?

And what truly mattered in the grand scheme of things?

Memories of the past, losses suffered, and forgotten truths clouded his thoughts. Though he
had no reason for it, Khvarenah sensed a premonition, a feeling that the answer he sought was
within reach.

[Link]/[Link]/bha, Pra/[Link]/i, [Link]/ar [Link]/ati, Pul/[Link], [Link]/a/[Link].

The foreign incantation he wove held echoes of celestial chants and the infernal roar of blazing
flames.

Would he find a hopeful future or meet his demise in despair?

The answer remained elusive, hidden within chaos darker than the cosmos itself. But one thing
was certain—the clash between Khvarenah and Bahlavan bought time for others.

As long as their dispute persisted, there was a chance that the two embodiments of destruction
would remain contained.

“I will destroy your immutability.

"I will destroy your immutability!"

And even though the outcome remained uncertain, veiled in the depths of unfathomable chaos,
it was undeniable that their delay had prevented the inevitable—albeit temporarily.

2
Having emerged victorious over Mashyana, we allowed Ashozushta, the new Star Spirit of the
Sky Burial Sphere, to guide us back to the Sacred Realm and our long-awaited return home.
However, there were lingering thoughts and unanswered questions that weighed heavily on
our minds.
Who exactly was Mashyana, and what significance did our victory over her hold?

Similarly, Incest's demise left an indelible mark, stirring deep emotions within me. Ashozushta,
who had known the mysterious girl far longer than we did, carried a heavy burden of guilt. Yet,
she brushed it aside, emphasizing that there was no time for such introspection and urging us
forward with a sense of foreboding.

"I'll sort things out here and join you soon, sir. But for now, we must hurry," Ashenka insisted,
her voice tinged with urgency.

We were practically compelled to move, driven forward against our will. And it was during this
hurried departure that I experienced a dream—a vision that left an indelible impression upon
me.

Despite the instantaneous teleportation, the truth of twenty years ago remained etched in my
mind, as if time had stood still. But despite the gravity of Mr. Varhran's final moments, calling it
a "tragedy" would be an understatement. His death had the power to shatter the very
foundation of the Ashavan code that I had learned, tempting me to cleanse my own mind of the
memory.

King Sirius, who witnessed the event firsthand, no longer wore his customary smile, while
Magsarion's descent into madness now seemed all too comprehensible. Ms. Nahid must have
suffered greatly from the ordeal, and Alma's collapse could be considered a stroke of fortune.

Yet, beyond the unbearable truth that weighed upon me, another horror gnawed at my
heart—a horror of a different nature.

Who was I, and why did I witness the tragedy as if I were an active participant?

The more I contemplated this, the more I shuddered. And if I were to proceed from the
assumption that I did not merely observe from Mr. Varhran's perspective but rather existed
alongside him, there was only one conclusion.

At that time, I truly existed—not as Quinn, but as something else entirely. I had perished and,
through the hands of my father, and found myself in my current life. This explanation, while
unsettling, seemed strangely logical.

The Workshop of Annihilation, fearing the universal hero, had taken hold of a fragment of Mr.
Varhran, seeking to unravel the miracle it held. In reconstructing him, they inadvertently
brought me into existence. And that is why... I am the "universal prayer" spoken twenty years
ago—their focus.

The realization struck me with fear. More than my undead nature, the notion that the hero's
death had given birth to me filled me with a sense of impending doom. Could it be that one day
I would also experience a similar plunge into despair? Despite being born from a part of Mr.
Varhran, I had no knowledge of his thoughts or the symbol of destruction that led to the hero's
demise.

As I grappled with these dark thoughts, they continued to drag me deeper into the abyss of
melancholy. I now understood, to some extent, why Magsarion harbored such disdain for me,
refusing to accept praise from someone tainted with the foulness of those prayers.

Oh, Mr. Varhran, what did you see?

What dreams and victories did you aspire to?

I implore you, enlighten me. It is as if I am cast into impenetrable darkness, devoid of any clear
path. Yet, all these worries dissipate as soon as we reach the Sacred Realm. There is no need for
others to remind me that now is not the time for self-flagellation—I intuitively grasp this truth
at a glance.

"Could it be..."

No further clarification is needed regarding the possessor of the devil's eye that obscures the
sky. The sight before me replicates the nightmare from my dream as if the horrors continue
unabated in reality. Ashozushta must have had some inkling of this. Upon becoming a Star
Spirit, she gained insight into all that unfolded in the universe, prompting her swift decision to
send us home. Yet, even her inaugural interstellar teleportation seemed rushed and lacked
finesse. Perhaps her lack of experience and the overwhelming circumstances caused the
coordinates to go awry, landing us above a desolate street on the outskirts of the capital. As
expected, we were soon encircled by a frenzied crowd of panicked citizens.

"Wait, Magsarion!"

Seizing the opportunity amidst my disorientation, Magsarion employs his teleportation once
again, leaving me behind. It would be unwise to divert my gaze from the black knight at this
critical moment—it is far too perilous. My animosity towards those responsible for the hero's
demise runs deep and with Magsarion's determination to obliterate any trace left by the hero,
who knows how far he will go in a situation so reminiscent of the tragedy of twenty years ago?

Therefore, albeit belatedly, I too employ teleportation. I comprehend that he has made his way
to the royal castle, and in an instant, I traverse the space to reach him. Yet, upon arriving, his
silhouette is nowhere to be found. The chaos surrounding me matches what I witnessed on the
streets, and a myriad of thoughts clouds my mind, hindering my ability to pinpoint Magsarion's
whereabouts. The only solace lies in the fact that, despite our close proximity to my father, the
sacred realm remains intact.

Though far from ideal, we have managed to evade immediate defeat. The cause of this
phenomenon remains unclear, but it spares us from an instantaneous demise. However, in this
precarious state, there is no certainty as to how long our luck will hold. Time remains our
relentless adversary, and I sprint through the castle grounds, my worry etched deeply upon my
face. If only I could encounter someone familiar, we might be able to divide our efforts and
cover more ground.

Additionally, I must report to His Majesty and ascertain what transpired during our absence.
May my fervent wish be granted—I believe my fate hinges upon it.

"...Fer!"

In a secluded corner of the corridor, where countless individuals traverse in all directions, I
manage to discern a figure seated on the floor.

"Quinn? So, you're alright. Good."

Yes, I am unscathed, but now is not the time to delve into the details. There are more pressing
matters at hand—an urgent conversation awaits. If I apprise him of Magsarion's condition, I am
certain Fer will agree to lend his aid without hesitation. Confident in this, I am about to divulge
the information when something peculiar catches my attention.

No, this is not the Fer I know. It is challenging to articulate, but his unwavering commitment to
justice has transformed into something else entirely. It is as if the fracture within him was
never properly mended, forever solidifying into a monstrous form. And why does he avoid
meeting my gaze?

While Fer has been distant with me in the past, his emotions were always refreshingly
straightforward. It is precisely why I held such admiration for him. I fail to comprehend why he
resembles his former self yet is so unlike him, reproaching himself silently. Why does he seem
to warn me against involving myself with him, against drawing near? Has Fer not always been
forthright with me, openly expressing his concerns?

"Please, tell me what has happened to you. I do not know if I can be of assistance, but I am
always here to listen..."

"There is no need to concern yourself with me. There are more important matters, Quinn."

Interrupting me mid-sentence, Fer rises from his seat, his head still bowed. Struggling to
maintain his balance, likely due to his injuries, he recoils when I attempt to offer him support. I
feel compelled to delve into his thoughts, to read his mind...

"You must go to Samluch. There is nothing more that can be done for her now."

Yet, when those words reach my ears, I freeze in place, utterly astounded.

Amidst the chaos of the confrontation with Mashyana in the Sky Burial Sphere, the true events
unfold, shrouded in secrecy and hidden from me. Fer, who had been by my side throughout the
ordeal, remains tight-lipped, refusing to divulge any information about what transpired. It is
only through the nurse in the hospital ward that I am able to piece together the harrowing
details.

The names Ferocity Locust, Zariched, and Taurvid reverberate in my mind. These were no
ordinary adversaries but formidable daevas of a special rank, their strength unparalleled.
Despite our valiant efforts to repel the raid, our losses are severe, and the toll on our group is
undeniable.

Among the warriors who stood their ground against these relentless foes, two yazatas stood
out, fighting with unmatched ferocity. One of them was Fer, a familiar face who had undergone
a mysterious transformation, his true nature obscured by an enigmatic aura. And the other, to
my astonishment, was none other than...

"Great... I see that you are in perfect shape. This makes me happy."

I exclaim, a mix of relief and sadness flooding through me. "Samluch!" I grasp the hand of my
dying friend, unable to hold back the tears that well up within me.

The reality is painfully clear—we have reached a point where there is no salvation for her. The
nurse attempts to apologize for not realizing the gravity of the situation, but Samluch
interrupts, her voice weak but resolute.

"No need to apologize. We're both good."

Samluch's once-vibrant face is now marred by numerous cracks, etched with lines of despair.
Her fiery red hair has turned gray, a cruel testament to the dwindling vitality within her. Below
her chest, a void remains, a result of the most powerful of Zariched’s techniques. Even for
someone as resilient as Samluch, this wound is undeniably fatal. The fact that she still clings to
life is nothing short of miraculous, and her ability to speak is a testament to her indomitable
spirit.

In the face of such inevitability, all I can do is be present, offering my unwavering support until
her final moments slip away. I squeeze her weakening hand, desperate to convey my love and
devotion.

"What a shame," Samluch's voice grows fainter, her eyes losing their light.

"By the look on your face, I can tell it's finally here. I can't depart in peace like this. I'll miss out
on all the excitement."

Tears blur my vision as I continue to watch her breath wane, each inhalation a struggle. Still, I
nod vigorously, understanding her unspoken request.
"Give me an order... Command me."
"I swear, I will fulfill it, etching your prayer deep into my heart. That way, we will remain
together forever."

"Seriously? It sounds like a rash promise."

"I don't care."

Samluch's determination shines through, despite her failing breath. In that solemn moment, as
the last traces of life slip away, I am overwhelmed with a sincere desire to carry on Samluch's
will. And most importantly...

"I have traversed through unimaginable trials, and now I am consumed by anxiety. But with
you by my side, I believe everything will be alright," I confess, hoping to draw strength from the
unwavering pride of Ashavan burning brightly within her.

"Infuse me with miraculous power. Please," I implore, my tone trying to inject a hint of humor
to ease the weight of the situation.

Samluch's worn shoulders twitch slightly, a semblance of a smile playing across her face, a
smile that now feels all too fleeting.

"Alright, then do me a favor," Samluch says, her voice a whisper.

"Let me meet Magsarion."

The request catches me off guard, leaving me momentarily stunned. Meeting Magsarion, the
very source of our trials, seems unfathomable, but Samluch's unwavering gaze pierces through
my confusion.

"What?" I manage to utter, searching for comprehension.

But before I can process her words fully, an unexpected voice resonates in the room, freezing us
both in place. I turn to the entrance and find a black knight standing there—Magsarion himself.
Oblivious to our shock, he speaks with an air of indifference.

"Use it as much as you like. It's yours," Magsarion states, tossing something toward Samluch.
The small object rolls across the bed, revealing itself to be a glistening silver ring.
"Wait a minute. What is this?" Samluch struggles to inquire, her voice feeble.

Magsarion smirks, unfazed by her question. At that moment, I hear an unfamiliar heartbeat,
echoing not from Magsarion, but from Samluch herself. It's hard to comprehend, but the life
that had been on the brink of extinction begins to pulse vigorously within her.

"Don't tell me you're not ready to die just yet," Magsarion remarks cryptically.

"Ask him about it. I can't make any promises, but perhaps you'll find the strength for another
battle."

"Oh... Oh-oh-oh-oh!" I gasp, witnessing the eerie phenomenon unfolding before my eyes.

Tentacles, like steel extensions, emerge from Samluch's ethereal form, reaching out in every
direction. They coil around her, interweaving to recreate the body she had lost, its texture both
soft and rough. The sight leaves me spellbound, a mix of awe and trepidation coursing through
my veins. Samluch, transformed by an otherworldly force, embodies a haunting beauty, a
testament to her unwavering spirit in the face of inevitable demise.

"Yes, you are right..."

"So you forget about her, but you don't change the fact that you remain little better than a
corpse."

"However, it cannot be argued that it works in the same way as mine."

I am taken aback by his blunt assessment, realizing that he is right.

"Hey, stop!" Samluch's sharp call halts Magsarion as he begins to depart, his dark figure
retreating.

"Of course, I'll thank you," Samluch speaks, her tone laced with a hint of hostility. "But do not
forget: I have not forgiven you, and when all this is over, I will still talk with you."

Magsarion's response carries a nonchalant undertone, yet there is a flicker of acknowledgment

in his words.

"I'll keep it in mind. As long as I don't have to wait in vain."

With that, he leaves us, leaving behind an eerie sense of calm. I can only stare blankly in his
wake, the magnitude of the situation slowly sinking in.
"Ha ha, look, Quinn. How lucky!" Samluch's voice breaks the silence, a hint of exhilaration
seeping through. "I can still fight!"

Her words bring a faint smile to my lips, but it is tinged with a mix of shock and disbelief. The
events that have unfolded have left me reeling, struggling to process the unfathomable. To be
honest, Magsarion's true intentions remain elusive to me. It is impossible to say where this
newfound power may lead us.

However, one thing is certain: he has extended gratuitous assistance, showing compassion
towards the needy and saving his comrade-in-arms voluntarily. It should be a cause for joy, a
reason to celebrate, and yet... Why does a sense of foreboding grip my chest?

Fear courses through me, its icy tendrils wrapping around my heart. Perhaps, deep down, I still
bear the burden of some flaw, an imperfection that unwittingly leads heroes to their demise.
The thought is chilling, the weight of responsibility heavy upon me.

◇◇◇◇◇

Meanwhile, in the grand palace that rises within the heart of the Corpse of the Dragon Star,
Alma kneels in solitude, consumed by self-reproach. The circumstances that have unfolded
were beyond her foresight, leaving her grappling with a sense of unease. The very presence of
the ominous Workshop of Annihilation clouds her mind with unpleasant memories, and now,
matters have taken a turn for the worse.
"Your complexion betrays your unease, Alma. Are you so afraid?" A voice, laced with a mixture
of authority and concern, addresses her.

"Yes... Forgive my inexperience," Alma responds, her voice laden with a touch of vulnerability.

"You have nothing to worry about at all. We must simply abide by the will of our king," the voice
reassures her.

"Indeed," she replies, her voice echoing with a mix of doubt and acquiescence.

The king, with his vast knowledge and expertise, possesses wisdom in various fields. These
trivial concerns should not inspire fear. Alma is reminded of the importance of loyalty and the
need to suppress any confusion or doubt, for they are seen as signs of treachery against the
king. How she longs to grab her frivolous, esteemed sisters by their very beings and express
her unfiltered thoughts to them. However, their circumstances are entirely different. Indeed,
considering Kaikhosru's status as a Star Spirit, he is on equal footing with Khvarenah. Even if
engaging on all fronts seems impossible, there is undoubtedly a chance to escape. The sixth
King of Evil is not one to involve himself in endeavors devoid of personal gain, thus increasing
the likelihood of a swift retreat.

Yet therein lies the predicament. Alma is bound to protect the Sacred Realm and wishes to
persuade Kaikhosru to do the same. However, she remains clueless about how to accomplish
this task. Objectively speaking, such tactics would entail willingly plunging into utter chaos, a
move only a fool would make. Thus, in the worst-case scenario, she may be left with no choice
but to venture forth alone to offer aid.

However, evading prying eyes becomes a Herculean task when all the concubines have
converged in one place. Alma feels as if she is being torn apart, knowing that her efforts to
conceal her intentions may be in vain. Suddenly, a gentle touch caresses her neck from behind.
In unison, all seventeen concubines feel the sensation and raise their heads simultaneously.

Some revel in ecstasy, unable to contain their pleasure, while others emit languid moans. The
girls who were once kneeling are elevated to the heights of bliss, their eyes drawn to the
majestic figure seated upon the dragon throne. Before them stands none other than the King of
Evil himself, Kaikhosru.

"Relax. Now, I shall show you something amusing," the serpentine ruler addresses his beloved
queens with tenderness.

A smile dances upon his lips, akin to savoring a delectable feast.

"The preparations are finally complete. It is time to extend our gratitude to the Dragon Jewel.
Let us proceed."
In the midst of the concubines, Kaikhosru's gaze falls upon Alma, as if drawn to her by an
inexplicable force. At that moment, an indescribable shiver runs down her spine, evoking a
profound sense of foreboding. The King of Evil's smile widens into a greedy grin, as he imparts
a truth laden with a curse-like quality.

"It seems you have taken a liking to her. You must come to terms with it, despite the hardships
it may bring."

It is as if they have already encountered each other in a different realm, and Kaikhosru's heart
holds an unwavering love for both sisters who bear a striking resemblance to one another.

3
When the celestial bodies shift their positions, their trajectories inevitably change. If we were
to liken the universe to the human body, this would be akin to a sudden rearrangement of
organs or a reversal of blood circulation—a tumultuous upheaval impossible to endure calmly.

In this regard, the collapse of Nadare's world could be aptly described as the birth of chaos
itself.

In the present moment, Khvarenah, wielding the greatest influence over his surroundings,
focuses his attention on Bahlavan, averting a fatal catastrophe. However, this does not mean
that anomalies have not arisen in the process. The orbits of the Corpse of the Dragon Star and
the Sacred Realm intersected, with the latter finding itself ensnared in the gravitational pull of
the former. Their physical collision became an inescapable inevitability. Like a gem dragon
adorned with a resplendent rainbow, the Corpse of the Dragon Star seemed to coil its rings
around the silver eagle of the Sacred Realm.

Kaikhosru, resolute in his pursuit, refused to release his prey, and the two planets drew nearer
with breathtaking swiftness. Nevertheless, this did not signify the hopeless defeat of the Sacred
Realm. At present, the two planets have yet to collide, remaining at a certain distance from each
other, akin to magnets locked in a precarious equilibrium.

This figure-eight configuration persists, with casualties thus far held at bay. Such
grandiose—or perhaps absurd—cosmic performances are not entirely unprecedented.

Among planets housing Star Spirits, such occurrences occasionally transpire, amounting to
nothing more than a cosmic handshake. However, it is precisely this that renders the current
situation utterly abnormal. After all, the colors of the two planets are starkly
juxtaposed—black and white, nothing more.

The alliance forged between the Yazata headquarters and the Daeva King is, in a sense, even
more astounding than the world's collapse itself. From the perspective of the Avesta, it defies
the very laws that govern the universe. To an outsider, the larger Corpse of the Dragon Star may
appear to hold the upper hand, but Kaikhosru's dominion does not extend to the Sacred Realm.
Thus, their relationship remains one of equality—at least for the time being.

Without any exaggeration, this situation lacks any precedent. Even if it is a temporary alliance
forged to combat the Workshop of Annihilation, such prudence and compliance should not be
permitted. Consequently, comprehending the unfolding events becomes a challenging
endeavor. Now that the irreversible has occurred, all that remains is to surrender to the current
and carve out a path forward... It is on such fragile ice, which threatens to shatter with a single
misstep, that Quinn and the other Yazatas stand.

◇◇◇◇◇

"Do you want us to accompany you there as well?"

"Yes... Although I deeply apologize for burdening you instead of allowing you a well-deserved
rest," replied Sir Tulan, the elderly figure standing before them.

"Do you agree?" I contemplated for a moment, then responded, "Do not worry. Personally, I
don't mind at all."

"I don't mind either. In fact, I was already prepared to ask," added Samluch, her voice carrying a
sense of determination.

Remaining on their knees, they expressed their willingness, and the old man nodded gratefully
in response.

Sir Tulan, the lord of the Amu Darya and one of the twelve lords of the Sacred Realm, possessed
a gentle soul, revered by his subjects as the embodiment of fertility. His physique and mild
demeanor befit his reputation, even though he now appeared somewhat weary. It was known
that he held a greater affinity for art than military affairs, rarely commanding yazatas. The fact
that he had called upon them, despite the current emergency situation, could be attributed not
only to the impending danger but also to the mysterious plan of their monarch.

"To be frank, a leisurely visit to Kaikhosru seems like a suicidal mission," voiced Samluch, her
words brimming with concern.

"If His Royal Majesty disregards any attempts to dissuade him, then our only course of action is
to accompany him and offer protection in case of an emergency."

"Mind your tongue, Samluch. If you fail to see any other option, it would be better for you to
stay here and avoid interfering," Fer interjected sharply.

"Hey, Fer, why are you so agitated? Why do you keep shouting all the time?"
She was right; his behavior seemed excessively cold, even considering their state of emergency.
I couldn't help but worry about Samluch, who had literally returned from another world, and
the enigmatic changes in Fer continued to bewilder me. However, Fer had made it clear not to
be questioned, leaving me at a loss. Perceiving a certain melancholy in Sir Tulan's gaze as I
observed them, I sensed the weight of the situation.

"Fighting against the King of Evil, enduring locust attacks... I can only imagine the pain and
hardships you've faced," Sir Tulan spoke, his voice tinged with sadness.

"As a lord, it is my duty to reward your exploits, yet I now beseech you to face new dangers... I
hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me for this audacity. I have no other recourse."

"Thank you for your kind words. However, if I may express my opinion, why don't the noble
lords send their own representatives to the meeting?"

"It won't work. His Majesty will not allow it, and more importantly, we ourselves cannot allow
it. No one wishes to hide when such peril threatens us all.”
I could only offer a respectful apology. Indeed, the impending meeting with the sixth King of
Evil necessitated the presence of leaders from both sides. The message from the Corpse of the
Dragon Star had made it clear that failure to adhere to this condition would result in immediate
war. In essence, Kaikhosru and his eighteen concubines would represent their side, while our
own monarch, the twelve lords, me, Fer, Samluch, and finally Magsarion would stand for theirs.
With Alma on their side, known to the King of Evil, exactly eighteen individuals would step
forward from each faction, thus maintaining a formal balance.

"Furthermore, there are scarcely any places that can truly be deemed safe at this moment," Sir
Tulan continued. "As a proud ashavan, I should demonstrate courage... Though fear
overwhelms me, if I am unable to muster even such resolve, I will not be able to meet your
gaze."

"I am deeply flattered to hear your words, but defending such a gathering will undoubtedly be
challenging," Samluch chimed in with a light-hearted tone, her head-to-toe black armor
contrasting with her playful demeanor.

"Please, Samluch, enough. Cease your banter," Fer interjected sharply, his gaze fixed upon her.
Samluch simply tilted her head in confusion, seemingly unaware of what about her behavior
could annoy him.

I couldn't help but feel a vague unease regarding her conduct. While she had never been one to
conform to strict etiquette, she possessed a certain level of common sense. Even if she were
purposefully trying to provoke Fer, her antics felt peculiar. Sir Tulan, however, gracefully
pardoned her rudeness and proceeded to answer her question.

"So, you're interested in Roxanne?"

"How well do you know her?"

"Hey, that's enough. Be quiet," Fer snapped, his gaze fixed on Samluch, who continued to wear a
perplexed expression.

It appeared that she didn't understand what could be bothering him in her behavior. I observed
this exchange, my concern growing. Samluch's behavior seemed out of character, and while she
had never been one to adhere strictly to decorum, her current actions didn't align with her
usual self. Perhaps there was more to the story, but Fer had made it clear that questions were
unwelcome, leaving me in a state of uncertainty. Allowing for a hint of melancholy, Sir Tulan
met my gaze.

"I don't know her well, to be honest, even though I was very close to her grandfather and even
cared for her father, who was her predecessor," Sir Tulan began. "But I can say that she
resembles her grandmother as if they were two drops of the same water."

"To her venerable grandmother?" Quinn inquired, seeking further clarification.

Sir Tulan nodded, his lips curving into a bittersweet smile, as he recounted events from fifty
years ago. While doubts about his sincerity lingered within Quinn's mind, he knew that now
was not the time to question. They had to tread carefully and listen attentively. According to Sir
Tulan, during a campaign to exterminate the Drujvants, he and the young lord of the Sahnavak
house had encountered a certain girl. That girl was none other than Roxanne's venerable
grandmother.

"At that time, she was different from us, the reckless ones. She possessed extraordinary
wisdom, yet her naivety resembled that of a child, often astonishing us with her mischievous
pranks," Sir Tulan reminisced. "We were constantly at her beck and call, and I must confess, her
choice of my friend was a blow that wounded me to the core."

"And the venerable empress is no longer with us?" Quinn inquired.

"No, I'm afraid not. Her health deteriorated after giving birth, and she lived for less than four
years after the birth of the previous lord. My friend seemed to follow her soon after," Sir Tulan
replied, his voice tinged with sorrow.

I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease surrounding the circumstances. It struck me as
peculiar that Sir Tulan, who had been deeply affected by the loss of his friend's wife, now
maintained a somewhat distant relationship with Roxanne, his friend's granddaughter. Such a
disposition toward someone so reminiscent of the woman who had once captured his heart
didn't align with the image of the compassionate Lord of the Amu Darya. Perhaps sensing the
unspoken question in my eyes, Sir Tulan continued, his voice tinged with a bitter smile.

"I am not well-acquainted with her. I heard she had a daughter who seldom left the house due
to poor health. Mental illness seemed to plague both mother and daughter. I made many
attempts to visit them, but they were all in vain. The unacceptable nature of this situation
dawned on me precisely twenty years ago. I'm sure you understand why."
Sir Tulan's words conveyed a deep regret, his gray brows furrowing with a tinge of
self-reproach. The circumstances surrounding the relationship between the Sahnavak clan and
the newly established Sacred Realm created a rift that couldn't easily be mended. The burdens
of duty and loyalty weighed heavily on him, and the price of progress had left scars on the
bonds of friendship and kinship alike. I listened intently, my mind absorbed in the complex web
of emotions and history unfolding before me.

"In brief, it seemed that Roxanne's father had played a minimal role in the affairs of the Sacred
Realm's rebirth."

"Did this not trouble you?"

Sir Tulan's face displayed a mix of resignation and understanding as he responded, "Indeed, he
took little part in state affairs and rarely visited the castle. There was no indication that he
carried his duties with ease, but during that time, almost everyone was burdened. While
reproaches were directed at him, stripping a family of its status requires complex procedures,
and such a blow to our reputation would have been deemed inappropriate at that time."

I pondered on the matter, considering the reasons behind the delay.

"So, they postponed taking action due to the circumstances you've described and your firm
opposition?"

"Even though a few influential individuals were in favor of it, it did not come to pass," Sir Tulan
confirmed.

"The decisive vote was in favor of His Majesty Sirius, who insisted on the continuation of the
Sahnavak family."

"His Majesty?"

"Yes, exactly. His decision proved to be the right one. The head of the family passed away six
years ago, and immediately after, an heiress assumed his place and swiftly restored the family's
good name. You know her well," Sir Tulan explained.

I acknowledged the current mistress of the family, who inherited her father's title and
revitalized the declining house.

"It is widely known that her talent for conducting business led her to become a trusted adviser
to His Majesty. However, after listening to everything from start to finish, one cannot help but
feel that he was captivated by a certain fox."

"To be honest, it frightens me. I cannot pinpoint the exact reason, but there is an air of
unfamiliarity about it," I confessed.
"Despite her delicate health and her upbringing in captivity, Roxanne's demeanor is excessively
cheerful, and she possesses an uncanny understanding of the complexities of life. Frankly, it
feels imbalanced, and Sir Tulan's apprehension is understandable. It is as if a dreadful creature
has assumed the form of his long-lost love... Perhaps that is how it appears in his eyes."

"Alright, then, one last question regarding her grandmother. What was her name?" Quinn
inquired.

"Her name was also Roxanne. I believe they named her after her," Sir Tulan responded.

"Hmm, I see..." I mused, sensing a hint of confusion in Samluch's expression.

In noble families, it was common to bestow names upon children that honored great ancestors,
but something seemed to trouble her about this particular choice. Finally, breaking his silence,
Fer let out a sigh and posed a direct question to Sir Tulan.

"So, what is it that you wanted to know? Any thoughts on Roxanne?"

“No... I'm uncertain about that as well. I sense that it is something of great importance, but for
some reason, it eludes my memory."

"Alright, alright," Fer replied dismissively, no longer interested in pursuing the matter with
Samluch.

He turned his attention back to Sir Tulan and spoke with determination.

"Apologies for taking up your time. We understand the situation, so let us proceed to the
meeting point."

"Yes... I trust in your abilities," Sir Tulan responded, a touch of relief evident in his voice.

"We're listening," I added, rising to my feet.

"Although we are currently lost in the darkness, the meeting should shed light on the situation.
I find solace in that thought as I discreetly glance over my shoulder."

To my surprise, I noticed Magsarion leaning against the wall, observing our interactions. I
pondered how Magsarion perceived their immediate future. It seemed even he believed that
until everything commenced, no definitive conclusions could be drawn.

4
We embarked on a journey to a new continent, born from the convergence of the Sacred Realm
and the Corpse of the Dragon Star—a boundary of sorts between the two realms.
Teleportation was not an option, so we had to fly from the nearest point, a journey that took no
more than half an hour. While the possibility of an attack along the way couldn't be denied, at
least in neutral airspace, we needn't worry about the overwhelming power of Kaikhosru, which
meant we weren't at risk of instant annihilation. Even if it was due to his underestimation of us,
relinquishing the territorial advantage worked in our favor. However, this didn't mean we could
relax.

During our brief voyage, His Majesty maintained an imposing silence, while the rest of us
appeared too tense to engage in conversation. The only exception was Roxanne, who seemed to
find the whole situation immensely amusing. Each time our gazes met, she would wave her
hand at me, but amidst the chaos, I had no opportunity to formulate a response. Finally, we
arrived at the designated location.
Kaikhosru had yet to make an appearance, and as we surveyed the surroundings, Samluch let
out a sigh tinged with a sense of admiration.

"I imagined that a new continent would be quite a spectacle," she mused. "But it seems a speck
of decency is required for this meeting... at least, that's what I believe."

Indeed, a barren wasteland sprawled around us, but directly in front of us stood a circular
structure, reminiscent of an open-air theater. Carved entirely from stone, it exuded an
unpretentious charm. Neatly arranged seats and tables hinted at a certain grandeur. Such
austere and noble surroundings hardly aligned with the tastes of the sixth King of Evil. Many
shared this sentiment and turned their gazes toward a particular individual. His Majesty
Sirius... However, he paid no heed to the restlessness of his vassals, his gaze fixed ahead.

If we assume that he had prepared this meeting place, what could it mean?

Was he prepared for anything from the very beginning?

After all, the encounter with the Corpse of the Dragon Star was an unforeseen anomaly, so he
couldn't have established contact with Kaikhosru before then. I couldn't fathom any other
explanation for how he managed to swiftly construct a meeting place at a location chosen by
the other side.

"What's the matter, Quinn? You seem rather lost," a playful voice interjected.

Suddenly, Roxanne's hand rested on my shoulder, causing me to sharply turn towards her
smiling face. She also wrapped her other arm around Samluch, who stood beside me,
prompting him to recoil.

"Hey, what are you doing? Don't cling to me like that," Samluch protested.

"Oh, how friendly we are, aren't we friends?" Roxanne teased.

"Eh? What are you talking about?" I attempted to address her, but the words barely escaped my
lips.

"Apologies, we'll talk later," Roxanne whispered, her face now raised with a sense of reverence
but also a hidden delight.

"Arrived."

In an instant, all of us, as if on cue, turned our eyes toward the sky. The majestic presence of the
Workshop of Annihilation still remained motionless, but something else emerged alongside it.
The dragon. The dragon soared... The avaricious serpent, clad in a coat of iridescent scales,
graced us with its presence, while the backdrop of destruction in the skies behind it enhanced
its sublime appearance. Four rainbow-colored eyes and rows of fangs glistening with a
precious radiance grew larger and larger. Of course, in terms of sheer size, it paled in
comparison to its father. However, due to its proximity, little time passed before Kaikhosru's
draconic form engulfed our entire field of vision. It could easily have wrapped itself around the
entire planet. Perhaps not much time had passed since our victory over Mashyana, but one
simply couldn't grow accustomed to such absurdity. This was the King of Evil, the embodiment
of absolute malevolence...

We all froze in place, almost forgetting how to breathe. If we were attacked at this moment, we
would meet our demise in an instant. Agreeing to this meeting felt like suicide, but then,
unexpectedly, the creature hovering above, one that couldn't be described merely as deadly,
turned its attention toward us.

"The numbers don't add up," the dragon's voice echoed with a hint of suspicion as if toying
with us. It uttered a few words, and in the next moment, its colossal figure vanished without a
trace.

"I did mention that this alliance would be an equal one. Surprising that you immediately
resorted to such trickery," a voice sounded from a different direction, prompting everyone to
hastily redirect their gaze.

A regal and handsome man, accompanied by several radiant maidens... Even in his human form,
an unimaginable power emanated from him. The same pressure that threatened to crush us
merely from being in his presence remained unaltered. This was the King of Evil, Kaikhosru.
Ruler of the Corpse of the Dragon Star and apparently the one who summoned us here.

On closer inspection, among the maidens in his retinue, I spotted Alma. However, what
concerned me most was a single word he had just uttered. Did Kaikhosru refer to an "alliance"?
This revelation shook me even more than the presence of the King of Evil himself.

The lords sitting in a row seemed to awaken from their stupor, their anxiety palpable. Indeed,
we were aware from the outset that this meeting would revolve around some form of alliance.
The physical connection between the Sacred Realm and the Corpse of the Dragon Star only
confirmed this.

Yet, in the end, it was all just a facade. An ornamental pretext for the inevitable bloodshed that
lay ahead.

The tension in the air was palpable as Kaikhosru continued to voice his grievances and express
his dissatisfaction. His piercing gaze fell upon each member of our party, scrutinizing us with
disdain. The audacity of his accusations, the way he belittled us, invoked a different kind of fear
within us—one that went beyond the fear for our own lives.

"Answer, Sirius. Do you take me for a fool?" Kaikhosru's voice dripped with scorn and
impatience.
King Sirius remained silent, stoic as a rock. It wasn't that we couldn't move or react, but rather
a sense of anticipation gripped us, spreading across our sides. We refrained from openly
showing our concern, perhaps out of loyalty to our king. Yet, the perplexed expressions on the
concubines' faces betrayed their surprise and incomprehension. All eyes were turned in our
direction, awaiting an explanation.

"Well, how impatient you all are. And here I was, hoping to enjoy the spectacle a little longer," a
mischievous voice rang out.

In an instant, our attention shifted to the source of the voice. Roxanne—the senior
concubine—stood alone, wearing a smile that seemed to carry a tinge of sadness, mocking
everything around her.

"Roxanne, it's you!" I couldn't help but exclaim. But before I could utter another word, chaos
erupted.

Fer's scream pierced through the air as she shouted, "Don't, Samluch, get away from her!"

Reacting instinctively, I grabbed Samluch and pulled her back, mirroring the movements of our
companions. The rest of our side, except for King Sirius, retreated as well. Roxanne, left alone,
simply lowered her shoulders and continued smiling—a smile tinged with a sense of joy and
innocence, but also one that held a hidden darkness.
"Ah-ah, how unsightly," she remarked.

"There's really no need to be so alarmed."

"Roxanne, it's really you!" I reiterated, my voice filled with disbelief.

She laughed, seemingly innocent, as if capturing someone else's family, plunging them into the
abyss of madness, and carefully using them as tools were nothing more than a playful game.

"Perhaps it was more difficult for me, but it's better for you to forget all about it. After all, we're
friends," she said, her voice laced with a disturbing sweetness. "And when someone I love
makes such a face, I just can't resist."

The realization hit us like a wave. Roxanne, the seemingly loyal and trusted companion, was
none other than Dragon Jewel Princess—the daeva of a special rank, second only to the Kings
of Evil in power.

"It can't be..." Fer ground his teeth in contempt, mirroring our thoughts.

While we were left stunned by this revelation, Alma, who stood among the representatives of
Zahhak, let out a groan of disbelief. She, too, possessed the ability to deceive recognition of
belonging to the Avesta, and now she recognized the same ability in Roxanne. The shock of
betrayal was evident on her face.
"How long? How did this seductress infiltrate the halls of the Sacred Realm?" I pondered, a mix
of anger and confusion swirling within me.

With a whole family and a rich history at her disposal, it was clear that Roxanne's presence
here was not a recent development. She had meticulously planned her deception, using her
charm to manipulate and exploit the emotions of those around her.

"Roxanne, you..." Sir Tulan's voice cracked with a mixture of shame and anger.

But before he could finish his sentence, a single word from Kaikhosru shattered Sir Tulan into
tiny pieces, turning him into a quartz crystal that fell to the ground.

"Scum like you don't deserve a voice," Kaikhosru sneered, his power over gem transformation
revealed.

"Know your place and prostrate yourself for eternity."

The display of power sent shivers down our spines. We were all at the mercy of Kaikhosru, and
there was no escaping the dire situation we found ourselves in.

"Is there no way out of here now?" Samluch's voice trembled with desperation.

"Calm down, Samluch," I replied, trying to maintain composure.

"We gathered here to establish an alliance, so we mustn't lose our heads. Right, Kaikhosru?"

Kaikhosru, still seething with anger, growled through his teeth, once again highlighting the
inequality in numbers. The concubines looked on with curiosity, and Roxanne took it upon
herself to provide an explanation.

"Armochka was originally an Ashavan. Her ability is similar to mine, so she should be
considered more aligned with the white side. And you have no right to be angry with her,"
Roxanne asserted.

"Besides, Kaikhosru is fully aware of everything, so if anyone has a problem, take it up with
him."

While this explanation satisfied the concubines, Alma, filled with fury, directed her gaze
squarely at Roxanne. Her mind must have been racing, grappling with the realization that she
should have seen through Roxanne's deceit before anyone else. With Roxanne, the princess of
Dragon Jewel, siding with the opposition, the delicate balance of power was disrupted. The true
meaning of the alliance remained elusive, but the glaring disparity in numbers clearly irked
Kaikhosru, the King of Evil.
Though…

Have your eyes failed you, Kaikhosru?"

King Sirius, who had remained silent until now, suddenly whispered something with a sigh in
his voice, as if he were mocking Kaikhosru. He continued speaking, seemingly unaffected by the
trembling that ran through our side.

"Ah, or maybe you are one of those husbands who can't leave the past behind? If you think that
the woman you left seventy years ago still belongs to you, I can only express my own
amazement. However, it goes without saying that I am not going to consider Dragon Jewel as
one of my subjects either. I appreciate her correctly, unlike you."

A flame of insanity ignited in Kaikhosru's eyes as he heard Sirius’ words. Roxanne's cheeks
flushed with a pink heat, and even the concubines thirsted for blood. We, caught in the middle,
found ourselves without a place to stand. His Majesty Sirius was fully aware of this, and yet his
voice remained steady, devoid of any trembling. Whoever dared to interfere with him, whatever
obstacle stood in his way, he was determined to march forward, never turning back.

I could sense Magsarion stifling a laugh behind me, finding amusement in the chaos unfolding.
"The neutral side, of course. I can't claim her as mine. Therefore, I believe it would be a mistake
to consider her as belonging to either side."

Upon hearing this, Kaikhosru threw his head back, Roxanne clutched her sides, and both of
them erupted into laughter. The fact that the sacred king proclaimed her to be neither black
nor white only seemed to amuse them further. This spectacle evoked in me the same emotions
I felt when witnessing Mr. Varhran's final moments. The very fabric of the universe seemed to
crumble before our eyes.

"You have lost here, Kaikhosru. Enough of this tedious bickering; let's get down to business,"
Sirius stated, his voice cutting through the laughter.

"Indeed, please take a seat as well. Standing apart at this point seems rather foolish. You can sit
wherever you like, but stay here, Alma," Kaikhosru said, pointing to a place next to him.

Perhaps he intended to hold her hostage, but if Alma displayed any displeasure, the King of Evil
himself, with a cheerful smile, said something unimaginable to her.

"Don't look at me like that. I simply can't bear to be separated from the woman I love, even for a
moment."

I couldn't begin to comprehend what was right or wrong anymore. How could a person
casually kill Sir Tulan with a single word, treating him as if he were mere garbage, and then
declare his love to Alma? And what about His Majesty Sirius, who witnessed this absurdity but
didn't even raise an eyebrow? And what about us, those who obeyed him without question?
A sense of teetering on the precipice permeated the gathering in the Sacred Realm and the
Corpse of the Dragon Star. Even though we were told to sit anywhere, those present still
remained divided into two distinct sides. No one dared to sit next to His Majesty, and Roxanne,
the supposed neutral side, stood to the side, between the two kings. Magsarion, as always,
stood towering in front of me, observing the assembly from a position of elevated authority.
The meeting took on the appearance of a gathering of four factions, causing a discomfort that
was impossible to ignore. The tension that had built up immediately erupted into a barrage of
questioning.

"So, my assignment was nothing more than a farce?" Alma's voice cut through, her tone filled
with bitterness.

"Don't be so direct, Armochka. I told you it was a kind of arranged marriage, and you and I are
in similar positions," Roxanne replied, attempting to diffuse the tension.

Roxanne and Alma were messengers sent from one king to another, serving dual roles as gifts.
Although Roxanne had assumed this role much earlier, their duties were truly similar.

"If I don't please my king, I can kill him. On the other hand, if the king doesn't please me, I will
be left alone in enemy territory and quickly meet my demise. If nothing else can be expected,
then we are back to where we started.”

"Share your thoughts as well, Sirius. After all, why should I have to persuade your subjects?"
Kaikhosru demanded, his gaze fixed on our king.

In response to the his demand, Sirius—the one we had believed to be our king—finally spoke,
his voice laden with the weight of shared memories that only Magsarion and I knew. No one
dared to challenge him, for the overwhelming surge of emotions within him rendered any
rebuttal futile.

"I once witnessed the final moments of Varhran—a sight from the depths of hell that will
forever haunt me. The sight of citizens who had once revered him betraying the universal hero
and subjecting him to a painful death."

Sirius’ voice grew fiercer with each word, his anger, grief, hatred, and despair merging into a
maddened prayer.

"And in that moment, I realized that this entire world is flawed. Now, only I and Magsarion
share these memories with him. Yet, no one can argue with the truth he carries, for the
tumultuous surge of emotions within him leaves anyone speechless. Justice alone cannot
salvage anything. As long as we remain obedient to the Avesta, victory will forever elude us.
Why? Because even Varhran himself failed. Even a hero of his stature, met with a similar fate.
What is this if not a grave mistake? It's a farce; it defies reason. There is no need to inquire
about the reasons behind it. The blame rests upon the very fabric of the universe. And thus, it
must be destroyed."

Sirius’ monologue became increasingly impassioned, his words resonating with the fury of a
tempest.

"All those who revel in empty rhetoric, the fools who speak of heroes through their polished
ideals—these are my adversaries. They know nothing of true injustice. Only one person in this
world comprehended it and yet persisted in such an existence. I cannot become what my friend
was, but if I am compelled to confront the god himself, casting my shadow upon him, then I am
more than capable of doing so. And if someone dares to call it perversion or consider me lower
than the lowliest worm—let them do so. I am impervious to shame; I am devoid of mercy and
remorse!"

As Sirius' impassioned declaration reverberated through the chamber, the weight of its
implications settled upon us all. The boundaries of our understanding were shattered, and the
world teetered on the precipice of an unprecedented alliance. Within the gathering of the
sacred realm and the star dragon remains, a tense atmosphere pervaded. Although we had
been invited to sit wherever we pleased, a palpable hesitation prevented anyone from taking
the seat beside the king. Roxanne, who had been deemed neutral, positioned herself between
the two monarchs. Magsarion remained standing before her, overseeing the assembly from his
elevated vantage point against the wall. Thus, the gathering resembled a meeting of four
factions, an arrangement that only served to intensify the discomfort and tension that hung
heavy in the air.

"We aim to defeat Nadare," Kaikhosru asserted, breaking the silence that enveloped the room.

"But our true objective goes far beyond that. We seek to dismantle the Avesta itself... What are
you whispering about? Why the surprise? The fact that we sit here discussing this should have
given you a clue that only one name remains in the annals of destiny.”

“Perhaps you are right, but..."

The notion of destroying the Avesta—eradicating all remnants of rationality and surpassing
the divisions of good and evil—sent shockwaves through my consciousness. It was an
unthinkable proposition, a path I had never fathomed. And yet, here we stood, contemplating
an alliance with the King of Evil in pursuit of a shared victory.

After such a proclamation, a profound silence descends, enveloping the surroundings in a

stillness so complete that not even the faintest whisper can be heard. Yet, it becomes
undeniably apparent that the resolute and unwavering will of His Majesty, coupled with his
fervent desire to challenge even the heavens themselves, begins to taint the souls of all present
with its indomitable hue.
This phenomenon can aptly be termed the spirit of hegemony, an essence that subjugates
everything and everyone, imbuing the very fabric of the environment with its newfound shade.

"Perfect. I too yearn to witness this new world with my own eyes, despite the ambiguity
shrouding its forthcoming spectacle."

Roxanne in turn, slowly inclines her head, seemingly acknowledging the King of Evil’s
sentiment, before subtly redirecting her attention towards Kaikhosru—a clear indication that
it is now his turn to speak.

"Patience, Dragon Jewel," Kaikhosru cautions, addressing her with a half-smile playing upon his
lips.

"The proclamation of my hegemony should not be uttered aloud. Simply trust in me."

He pauses momentarily, allowing his words to resonate before continuing, "What is it that you
stand to lose?"

"Do you truly wish to witness me groveling in the mire?"

"If you genuinely believe that such a fate awaits me, even after I have released you, then by
doing so, you will merely corroborate Sirius’ words. It is inconceivable." Kaikhosru raises his
hand, pointing upwards with an air of regality as he boldly declares, "Listen attentively, for
since Sirius and I forged our alliance, the logic governing this mad world has become
incongruous. Rationality has long been left behind, and no reasonable expectations can be held
from this point onward. In essence, comprehend that we have the means to bring down this
behemoth."

"But how precisely?" Alma ventures, her voice cautiously laced with trepidation.

Though she endeavors not to prematurely accept her impending demise, the fragmentary
memories of the tragedy that transpired two decades ago fail to instill optimism within her. In
an effort to assuage her fears, Kaikhosru gently wraps his arm around her shoulders and
proceeds to explicate.

"At present, he is engrossed in a battle against Bahlavan. In my estimation, the odds slightly
favor Farn at seven to three, but we can level the playing field."

"By having them annihilate each other?" Alma queries, her uncertainty palpable.

"Indeed, with her assistance," he interjects, involuntarily escaping with an astonished sigh as
Kaikhosru abruptly points in my direction.
"She is his creation, is she not, Sirius?"

"Indeed, she is," Sirius affirms.

"Hence, she possesses the capability to return to her creator."

"Please wait!" I interject, breaking the flow of the conversation.

From my understanding, they intend for me to teleport into the Annihilation Star Cluster and
dismantle my father's core. Yet, such an undertaking is simply implausible.

"I have no recollection of my birth," I explain, struggling to comprehend their request. "Even if
you were to command me, how could I possibly..."

"Merely take with you all the kin we have managed to assemble. The coordinates instilled by
your progenitor should reside within you, even if they elude your memory. Moreover, by
gathering more of your kind, our chances of reaching our intended destination increase
exponentially," Kaikhosru elucidates.

"However, if we were to assume that everything does not proceed as planned..." he trails off, a
note of uncertainty lacing his words.

"Yes, indeed, Farn is not so feeble as to perish from the mere loss of his astral form. He is
Nadare's favorite, a notion that may seem preposterous, but it is plausible that he shares our
nature. He possesses a slight advantage at seven to three due to his ability to 'disperse.'
However, without a distinct personality, he will devolve into a gargantuan monstrosity bereft of
anything but its size. The imbecilic Bahlavan is unlikely to yield in such a scenario."

Kaikhosru lays bare the details without hesitation as if he had premeditated his words.
Furthermore, His Majesty continues his discourse:

"Ultimately, the course of action described is merely one possibility among many. There is no
guarantee that everything will unfold precisely as planned, but the outcome remains
unequivocal—we shall emerge victorious."

"We will triumph.”

"Wait just a moment!" Samluch exclaims, startled by their declaration.

"What troubles you? Do you hold concerns regarding the success or failure of this cunning
plan?" Kaikhosru queries, bemusement tingeing his tone.

"I mean... Um... Damn it, her, in short!" Samluch exclaims, furiously scratching her head and
pointing angrily in my direction as if grasping at something gradually slipping away.

"Do you truly not care if she perishes in the process? Is it your belief that we will prevail in the
end regardless? Why should I lend you my ear?" she challenges.

"Samluch, hold on. Stay calm..." I intervene, grappling with her to keep her in place.
I am genuinely touched by Samluch's sentiments towards me, but it is precisely for that reason
that I wish for her to value her own life more. I do not wish for her to meet the same fate as Sir
Tulan.

"Our monarchs show little regard for the emotions of others. You could have phrased it more
delicately," Roxanne remarks, smirking as she observes the unfolding scene.

It appears she has taken on the role of a mediator, reproaching the others as though it were
none of her concern.

"If you claim that short-term victory or defeat holds no significance and that everyone awaits
defeat, we shall all be consumed by fear," Roxanne admonishes Kaikhosru.

"I thought you preferred to seize the moment with grandeur?"

"Ah, indeed. Naturally," Kaikhosru responds, his confident smile abruptly resurfacing, though
seemingly out of place given the recent conversation.
His voice adopts a gentler tone as he endeavors to uplift the bewildered Alma.

"Your companion shall also have an opportunity to showcase his abilities. I anticipate great
accomplishments from him, my dear Alma," Kaikhosru asserts, his words directed in a certain
direction.

"You hear that, Black..."

Before he can conclude his statement, something unexpected occurs. The gaze of the
assembled turns to where the malevolent king once stood—where Magsarion should have
resided—only to find an empty void in that very spot.

"Heh heh heh, I did not anticipate this. It caught me completely unaware, which is rather
amusing," a voice resonates, emanating from the direction in which the King of Evil had turned.

◇◇◇◇◇

He ventured only a short distance, though concealed by the stone wall, a mere couple of
minutes on foot.

Why, then, did he undertake this endeavor?

Given his profound aversion to social interaction, such behavior seems decidedly peculiar, yet
attributing it to a mere explanation feels far too simplistic. Is that truly the entirety of the
matter?
Hidden behind a steel visor, his countenance remains shrouded in enigma, and thus,
Magsarion's inner state persists in its elusive nature, much like in days of yore. Perhaps, even in
the future, the enigma of the black knight shall remain unaltered. His gaze ascends skyward, or
rather, to what cannot be rightly termed the heavens, for above lies only the splendor of the
Workshop of Destruction, stretching from horizon to horizon.

The slayer of his brother...

However, such a title would be unjust. Magsarion is acutely aware that it was not the King of
Evil who ended Varhran's life, but an entity known as "everything."

He had dubbed his brother a failure, warning him that his heart was in the wrong hands, and
indeed, the hero fell victim to those he was meant to safeguard. He perished senselessly,
cruelly, a pitiable fool deserving of naught but mockery, and one can scarcely describe his
demise as anything but justified.

Yet, why, then, does his demise linger in Magsarion's thoughts?

“You may believe you have emerged triumphant. Should you so desire, you may continue in
such a belief. However, soon, all shall become clear.”

A soft whisper akin to flowing lava escapes Magsarion's lips as he lowers his gaze. The anomaly
in the sky barely warrants mention now, but something extraordinary materializes before him
on the ground. They are crimson veils, akin to billowing fog. Like blood, resembling a gaping
maw, the undulating shroud creeps slowly toward him, only to reveal itself as a supersonic
wave.

Thus, the black knight stands resolute, making no effort to defend himself as the tempest
engulfs him in the blink of an eye. The metallic tang of iron permeates the air. The cacophony of
deathly screams reverberates. An echo of agony...

For a fleeting moment, he is immersed in a churning sea of crimson, a deluge of blood. As

swiftly as the storm had materialized, it passes, leaving behind a scarlet-stained earth, and he
finds himself face-to-face with its inhabitants.

"At long last, Sir Magsarion, we meet again. Words cannot convey how eagerly I have awaited
this day."

A fair-haired maiden performs a graceful curtsy, adhering to all the tenets of etiquette, her blue
gown seemingly bleeding into the surroundings. Standing behind her are a black-clad butler
and maidens adorned with smiles.
"I genuinely believe that you are the one destined for me, handpicked by fate."

Before him stands the fourth King of Evil, Frederica... The Princess of Murder revealed herself
once more.
 Chapter 10: What is Seen in Dreams - Translated by @ashmxt.t

1
"Brother Kaikhosru, I ask you for one favor. Could you restore my loyal servants to their
original forms?"
It occurred at the conclusion of the grand gathering, when the Kings of Evil, one by one, began
their retreat to whence they came. Frederica halted Kaikhosru and gracefully bowed before
him.

"I offer my sincerest apologies for the inconvenience we have caused you. However, it is simply
our nature, and since we harbored no ill intentions, I hope you can find it in your heart to
forgive us."

Under the influence of Kaikhosru's power, the eighty-eight assassins led by Frederica were
transformed into gemstones. Though there was a slim possibility that they would regain their
senses beyond the realm of the Corpse of the Dragon Star, Frederica harbored doubts that their
predicament would be resolved so easily.

Most likely, only Montserrat possessed the strength to resist such an outcome. The challenge
lay in the insurmountable difference in power between them, rendering distance insignificant
in its dampening effect. Thus, her only recourse was to implore for mercy. As always, her
frivolous demeanor lacked even a trace of remorse, and in truth, she did not feel any guilt. And
yet, she earnestly yearned for the release of her subordinates. Being entirely unfamiliar with
the workings of the world, Frederica found it arduous to maintain her refined lifestyle without
the aid of her servants.

"I ask this not only for the present but also for the future. I ask you, brother."

"Certainly, it poses no problem."

Objectively speaking, her request was undeniably self-centered. Yet, Kaikhosru pardoned his
"little sister" with little trace of displeasure on his countenance. However, when it concerned
him, there was no such thing as gratuitous charity.

"But there is one condition. It matters not what it is, but you must heed my words."

"As you wish. However, I must warn you that it would be highly embarrassing for me to become
your concubine hee hee."

"Cease your conceit, you impudent little creature. Return when you have matured in ten years'
time and stand on equal footing with others. Consider it a lesson for your own growth."

"What are you insinuating?"

"So, you wish to encounter a man, do you?"

At the sudden remark, Frederica involuntarily sighed. She glanced around, seemingly
embarrassed, as Kaikhosru began to point out her deficiencies in a mischievous tone.
"You claim to be in love? Don't be absurd; I would not hastily label you as a woman. Do you
desire to meet the object of your adoration, while unloading all the responsibilities onto your
subordinates? Even arrogance has its limits."

"...In other words, your condition is for me to assume that role without relying on my
servants?"

"That is the foundation of it all. Though it may appear foolish from an outsider's perspective, it
makes sense for you to undertake this task alone, Frederica."

Even if she lacked knowledge of cosmetics and her attire might seem peculiar, expressing her
feelings for another had to be done independently. Furthermore, external assistance would
only be seen as intrusive, embodying the spirit of a girl in love, as Kaikhosru tiredly pointed
out.

"However, I admit, according to this logic, I am also meddling in my own affairs. Thus, I desire
something entirely different from you."

"And what might that be?"

"Nothing overly complicated, merely keep to yourself. Until I instruct otherwise, do not hastily
pursue your beloved in your typical ruthless manner."

Frederica could not fathom the intentions behind his words. Agreeing to assist with her
servants did not seem equivalent to a demand to abstain from romantic impulses. She was
particularly vexed by the vagueness of the most crucial aspect of the agreement.

"Please clarify the timeline. You state that you will grant me permission, but when exactly?"

"Fear not, I shall not make you wait a hundred years."

With a sarcastic curl of his lips, Kaikhosru replied to her query.

"Until Farn and Bahlavan meet their demise."

"Wow…"

Frederica was left speechless by the unexpected response. If she were to await the deaths of
her two elder brothers, it might as well be an eternal wait. For the time being, the Yazatas
forbade their slaying, and if such conditions were imposed upon her, a far simpler option
presented itself. In other words, she could end Kaikhosru's life herself. That had been the
course of action just before the gathering, and she could discard these convoluted intrigues and
continue from where they left off. Annoyed by the superfluous conversation and the waste of
time, Frederica sighed. Yet, before she could declare an end to the negotiations, words failed
her once more.
"Are you suggesting that your beloved is incapable of such a feat?"

Khvarenah and Bahlavan...

From Frederica's perspective, both were mere monstrosities, yet Kaikhosru spoke of them as if
they were mere preludes to the main act. Partly taken aback, partly disappointed, he continued.

"It seems my eye has deceived me. You may forget this conversation. Carry on."

"...Please wait."

Reflexively, Frederica called out to her brother before he turned away and departed. Though
she could not fully comprehend her reasons, she felt compelled to object. It was as if she had
been subjected to an unimaginable insult. In comparison, she cared little for the revival of her
maids or her carefree existence. This issue resided on an entirely different plane.

"Very well. You are absolutely correct."

Frederica uttered these words, her gaze fixed on the floor. Kaikhosru, who had turned back,
responded regally, "Lift your head. I do not have time for those who cannot meet my gaze."

"I shall make a new temporary Commandment. If you require proof of my resolve, there can be
no better demonstration."

"No, I do not wish for you to undertake this out of necessity. What matters is what you truly
desire."

Speaking to her as if addressing a foolish pupil, yet accompanied by a smile so gentle it sent
shivers down her spine.

"When it comes to love, stand tall and proud. Believe unwaveringly that there exists no nobler
path in the entire world. For that is precisely what the world requires."

Thus spoke the dragon king, lifting Frederica's face with a touch of his fingers, as if granting her
a blessing.

...And so, the current scene unfolded.

"I sincerely believe that you are the one fate has chosen for me."

Consequently, Frederica did not undertake the temporary Commandment. If she were to seize
her beloved here and now, no punishment awaited her, and she possessed the freedom to act as
she pleased. Kaikhosru restored her servants to their former state, but that did not imply an
obligation to adhere to his demands.
First and foremost, it must be acknowledged that the revived maids did not exceed a mere ten
in number. Many succumbed to the allure of draconic splendor and remained as gemstones
even after his influence ceased to bind them. In short, a fundamental part of their being had
already perished, rendering their return to the realm of the living impossible.

Hence, Frederica could easily deem it a violation of their agreement, especially considering she
had never sought logic or protocol in the act of killing. All of this was apparent to her, and yet,
for the first time in her life, she suppressed the bloodlust that coursed through her veins. The
fact that the collapse of Nadare's world had unshackled the Garden of Bloodshed and brought it
to this place was also deeply symbolic. Her era of aimless wandering had reached its
conclusion, and the Princess of Murder must now stand firmly upon the earth and face the
world.

The black knight stood directly before her... She would prove that her feelings for him were not
mere illusions, but the most righteous path to take pride in.

"Forgive my frankness, but I ask you for a temporary truce. Allow me to aid you in your
endeavors."

Beneath the looming shadow of the Workshop of Annihilation, the fourth King of Evil and her
retinue knelt before Magsarion in unison. Such an act was akin to willingly accepting their own
execution, yet they harbored no concern for their own lives. Even if she were not immortal, she
would have made the same choice. Frederica was genuinely outraged by what she had heard.

"Let us postpone our encounter until we have eradicated the interference."

She wished for Kaikhosru to retract his words, to acknowledge that her chosen one was indeed
capable of such a feat. She needed to prove that no one but her could bring about his demise.
For they would vanquish Khvarenah. Bahlavan would be defeated. Such a triviality rested
squarely upon his shoulders, and she believed this not merely by force of conviction.

After all, she would stand beside him in battle. With this decision, she transcended the
boundaries of black and white. The thought of running side by side with him resonated clearly
within her chest. Frederica's gaze, crystal-clear, lifted upward to meet the black knight's. If this
was love, she was prepared to sacrifice herself for it...

Observing her, Magsarion silently retrieved his sword and raised it high above his head. The
blade shimmered... Frederica did not flinch, her gaze unwavering as the gleaming edge drew
closer to her face. In fact, she wished to behold it for eternity. For she knew the essence of
passion.

On that day, at that moment, he had captured her, and she proudly believed it to be the hand of
destiny. It was a moment of bliss and ecstasy, one that seemed to stretch into eternity.
 ◇◇◇◇◇

After hearing Kaikhosru's speech, disbelief washed over me like an unexpected wave. Amidst
all the fantastical events of the day, this particular revelation seemed the most surreal.

"Collaborate with Frederica? Ridiculous! She's not one to be tamed."

"Don't judge me by your standards. If I say I will do it, then so be it," Kaikhosru replied proudly,
his words lacking any definitive proof.

Yet, it was my own reaction that seemed out of place when I glanced around. I noticed that
most others couldn't hide their doubts either. There were, however, exceptions. His Majesty
Sirius and Roxanne seemed to hold a steadfast belief in the unfolding narrative. On what
grounds did they place their trust in such tales? To be honest, I couldn't explain it, except to
attribute it to a clouding of my own judgment.

"However, there is still a question. The king holds absolute power, but now there are two... No,
perhaps it would be more accurate to say three," His Majesty began to explain, speaking of the
world's rule as if it were an entity with its own will.

"In the end, only one color shall remain. The impossibility of hegemonies coexisting doesn't
warrant much mention. Even our current alliance is nothing more than a means to slay the
deity. In essence, we are still enemies, but this struggle will create a rift in the fabric of this
world. I've mentioned before that our union with Kaikhosru defies common sense, but the
same applies to us now. Simply put, in this realm, anything unpredictable can easily come to
pass. Thus, I do not expect your unconditional agreement. As king, it is my duty to guide you
even in your doubts."

In essence, they were telling us to obey without question, leaving little room for argument. And
to some extent, I found myself overwhelmed by their unwavering self-confidence. Yet, beyond
that, I couldn't deny the logic they presented, one that disregarded personal
sentiments—perhaps it could be called the logic of hegemony. The hegemony declared their
word as law, and when multiple hegemonies existed, distortions were inevitable. It was a
power that bordered on the absurd, capable of upending any situation.

Ironically, the collapse of common sense in the face of chaos seemed strangely logical. So, while
the two kings sought the downfall of Avesta, the truth remained that the process itself was
unknown, and yet they played with our lives.

Even if Frederica agreed to cooperate, no one knew how many of her comrades would perish in
the process. And in discussing those whose actions were impossible to predict, I couldn't help
but think of a few individuals even before her.

"I understand that Magsarion remains a question mark for you," Kaikhosru nodded in response
to Alma's remark, turning his gaze aside.
"While everything seems to have gone smoothly," he said, capturing everyone's attention. The
moment we saw whom he was referring to, a collective gasp swept through the room.

"Montserrat!"

It was difficult to discern who exactly uttered that hushed exclamation, but it was clear that the
prevailing tension reached its breaking point. Montserrat, the Daeva of a special rank and
leader of the murderers serving the fourth King of Evil, had suddenly appeared from the very
spot where Magsarion had stood moments ago.

"Pardon the intrusion without a proper invitation. I place my trust in your generosity. First and
foremost, allow me to express my delight at seeing all of you in good health, despite the
deplorable state of affairs in the world," Montserrat stated nonchalantly, with a touch of
frivolity.

"Likewise. It seems the world has returned to its original state," Kaikhosru replied, bowing
respectfully to the murderer's leader.

Then, he continued, showing a full understanding of our recent discussions.

"Lady Frederica harbors no objections to this alliance. However, it goes without saying that we
shall only abide by her will. So, let us proceed."

Montserrat casually gestured upwards, adding an even more astonishing statement.

"We have already come to an agreement with Sir Varhran's esteemed younger brother, Sir
Magsarion."

"What? That can't be," Fer exclaimed, unable to contain his surprise.

I wholeheartedly shared his sentiment, but the conversation continued as if nothing

extraordinary had occurred, disregarding our reactions.

"How intriguing. How did he come to recognize you?" Roxanne inquired.

"To the best of my humble understanding, milady decided to assess the character of her
potential suitor with her own eyes. From what I gathered, he halted his sword just a moment
before striking," Montserrat explained.

"Though it may seem inconsequential, considering Magsarion's temperament, it is quite

impressive."

"Do not trouble yourself with trivialities, Dragon Jewel," Kaikhosru interjected.
"However, if he is involved, then we can proceed. Is there anything else you wish to discuss,
Sirius?"

Sirius shook his head. "Not at the moment. If there are any further inquiries, they pertain to the
selection of our operatives."

These operatives would infiltrate the Annihilation Star Cluster to destroy the core of my father.
As the battle would take place in uncharted territory, the stronger our team, the better.

While each of us pondered our own thoughts, Montserrat cleared his throat with restraint and
calmly expressed his own perspective.

"If I may, I would like to share my own hope. In fact, it could be considered a natural conclusion
now."

What he proceeded to say seemed incredibly logical, yet it left an uncomfortably unsettling
impression.

2
It has been 18,000 seconds since the commencement of the battle, and with less than 500
seconds remaining, the end draws near.

Khvarenah, although firmly convinced of the predicted outcome, is overwhelmed by a strange

sensation—a feeling that could be described as pity. This emotion is directed towards
Bahlavan, as Khvarenah recognizes the untapped potential within him. The Locust King, a
formidable contender for the throne of the strongest, commands respect and admiration.

Khvarenah acknowledges Bahlavan's unwavering dedication and power, but it is precisely for
these reasons that he feels regret. Intuitively, Khvarenah believes that Bahlavan was born in the
wrong era, a time and world order that cannot fully appreciate his capabilities.

In Khvarenah's perspective, Bahlavan possesses the entirety of the universe within himself. He
is an extraordinary being, akin to a universe encapsulated in a single person. Immune to
external influences, untarnished by any flaws, he represents the pinnacle of "individuality"—an
ideal that the locust aspires to pervade.
However, for this ideal to be recognized and embraced, it necessitates a world that
acknowledges the possibility of such existence. Fighting amidst the intensity of the battle,
Khvarenah mournfully contemplates his thoughts.

In the current world, there are no means capable of elevating Bahlavan to his rightful place.
Without the fundamental conditions being fulfilled, it is only natural that deviations cannot
manifest in the world.
"As far as I know, this universe has no connection to multilayer expansion," Khvarenah reflects,
his words uttered with conviction.

"Therefore, the existence of an individual code can only be possible in an era where multiple
universes can coexist simultaneously. Until there exists a realm that can be called the parallel
time and space of possibilities, it is impossible for an external entity to attain perfection while
remaining foreign. And that is why you will lose."

However, as always, Khvarenah's statements fail to faze Bahlavan.

"You won't understand. I will prevail over everything!" Bahlavan declares, his determination
unyielding.

Despite his severely battered and distorted fist, Bahlavan manages to obliterate a fifth of the
Annihilation Star Cluster—an act that aligns with Khvarenah's calculations. Khvarenah
unintentionally voices his admiration for his opponent's prowess, acknowledging the
completeness of his strategies.

"Clearly. So, you will never deviate from your own path. Just like your very being..." Khvarenah
remarks, his words partially involuntary, causing interference within the consciousness of the
Annihilation Workshop itself.

However, in the midst of the battle, Khvarenah's thoughts take an unexpected turn.

"Wait. What am I saying? What was I thinking? What was my intention with those words?"

Khvarenah questions himself, bewildered by his own momentarily disrupted stream of

thought. There is a feeling deeply ingrained within him, almost unbearable in its intensity.

"What is it? What are you thinking?" Bahlavan demands, interrupting Khvarenah's
contemplation.

Bahlavan strikes Khvarenah with a powerful blow, causing an enormous sphere to emit a
terrifying creak. The magnitude of the wound surpasses all expectations, indicating an error in
Khvarenah's calculations. Disorder creeps into the equation of cause and effect, spiraling into
chaos and disrupting the prevailing harmony. Yet, Khvarenah's consciousness remains focused
on seeking an answer to the arising puzzle, rather than reassessing his position.

Khvarenah laments the tragic fate that befalls Bahlavan, recognizing the pathetic nature of the
Locust of Ferocity. His existence is predetermined on a level where his strength holds no
significance, and the circumstances that fate has dealt him prevent him from achieving his
goals. It is a true tragedy—one that no one deserves. And yet, Bahlavan persists in following his
own path, driven by obstinate ignorance.
It seems so ■■■■■■■■■■■. Because you are so ■■■■■■■■■, so close to that
precious illusion ■■■■■■■ that I once dreamed of. ■■■■■■■... He ■■■■p■■■■.
■■■■■■■■■■ Creatures need ■■■■■■■■. My name is Khvarenah... The incarnation
of ■■■■■■■ who swore by "everyone" to ■■■■■■■■ the universe.

The situation feels agonizingly poignant to Khvarenah. Bahlavan is so close to attaining the
precious illusion that Khvarenah once dreamed of, and it fills him with a mix of emotions. The
words that emerge from Khvarenah's inner turmoil are fragmented, his mind teetering on the
brink of collapse.

As Khvarenah dodges Bahlavan's onslaught of tidal-wave strikes, his consciousness flirts with
the precipice of annihilation. His thoughts are in disarray, and yet, perhaps, such an outcome
was inevitable.

"Ah... How did it come to this?"

He hears from within the voice of his own soul, the existence of which he forgot to even think
about. It cannot be considered anything but feeble-minded babble, but that is why the appeal
to the lost truth shakes the Workshop of Annihilation as strongly and sincerely as no cry could.

"Who are you?" As the battle raged on, Khvarenah loses control, causing billions of artifacts to
scatter in all directions. The ensuing explosion engulfs Khvarenah and Bahlavan in a manner
beyond imagination, surpassing any prior expectations.

◇◇◇◇◇

"Quinn, it appears we have crossed paths once again. I am relieved to see that you are in good
health."

Weariness seeped into my voice as I faced Frederica's sickeningly innocent smile. I knew any
ironic retort would be futile, and although I wasn't particularly inclined towards this encounter,
showing disgust would serve no purpose at this moment. Personal emotions must take a
backseat now; they are our allies if we ignore them.

"Indeed, it seems neither have you changed," I responded to her, meeting her gaze with a tired
sigh.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mistress Quinn. I am Elnaz. Farangis."

As the maids dutifully followed Frederica's command and mechanically bowed before me, I
recollected the events leading up to this encounter.

Montserrat's request had been clear: "Do not bring anyone with you, if possible."
We had forged an alliance with a group of purebred killers, bearing no responsibility for the
consequences in the presence of their primary prey. Consequently, only Magsarion and I were
participating in this operation alongside the retinue of the fourth King of Evil. Although many
had opposed this decision, it was deemed the best among the realistic options. To ensure a
smooth operation, we had distanced ourselves from the rest.

This place was the heart of the Garden of Bloodshed, the path we had treaded upon and now
found ourselves entrenched in. Surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colors, all of which belonged
to Drujvants, so we couldn't find peace of mind. Yet, this wasn't the time to complain about
discomfort. I suppressed anxiety and discontent, reminding myself of the task at hand. Even
though I was designed to fulfill any command, things were far from simple now.

His majesty's plan aside, I worried about Alma, Samluch, and Fer, who were left behind. But
most of all, I was curious about his true intentions.

"Thus, there are exactly ten of them, including Montserrat, Sir Magsarion. Please regard them
as your own subjects and dispose of them as you see fit," Frederica stated, her voice dripping
with enthusiasm.

Magsarion appeared to ruthlessly ignore her fervent chatter. He exhibited no desire to

cooperate, which was strange, considering the circumstances. His rationality seemed to exceed
the expected boundaries. His attitude towards the alliance with Kaikhosru and his assistance to
Samluch hinted at a clear change following the events in the Sky Burial Sphere.

What had caused this shift in him?

And what did it truly signify?

Accepting everything as it appeared would imply he had grown kinder, the change I had long
desired from his youthful incarnation. However, knowledge of Lord Varhran's death shattered
any such optimism.

One thing remained certain—Magsarion remained a dangerous ticking time bomb. I couldn't
afford to divert my attention from him. Irritated by Frederica's frivolous presence around him, I
inserted myself between the two.

"It would be wise to keep your distance from him. He's going through a difficult time," I
cautioned, my annoyance driving the question that had been on my tongue for a while.

"Why do you even know his name? As far as I recall, Magsarion never disclosed it."
It was this disregard for the fundamentals of communication that defined him. Furthermore, he
had nothing in common with the leader of the daevas, and even I could count on one hand the
number of times he had spoken. Even if he were capable of engaging in a normal conversation
with Frederica, I doubted it would proceed as smoothly.
"Oh, if that's what you're referring to, Montserrat informed me. According to him, it has
something to do with his Pledge and the alignment of perspectives. If you're interested in the
details, I can ask him to share them with you... Oh, look, he has just returned," Frederica replied,
pointing towards the approaching figure of the black-clad butler.

Montserrat carried a large bag in each hand and bore a heavy load on his back. It was almost
comical to witness his impeccable posture and unwavering steps despite the circumstances.
Yet, there was no laughter in me, given the nature of his burden.

"Apologies for the delay, milady. Here are the items entrusted to us," Montserrat greeted,
presenting the objects.

Frederica commended his work before suggesting it was time to commence our mission.
Father's creations, amassed within the Sacred Realm and on the Corpse of the Dragon Star,
were brought to us by a special-ranking Daeva. While not all the stocks were present, since
some, like the Seal of Freeze, could not be transported once activated, the collection was
substantial. Among the array lay weapons that were immediately recognizable, seemingly
ordinary tools, and objects whose purpose eluded comprehension.

Though haphazardly thrown together, resembling a pile of refuse, each item was undoubtedly a
diabolical work of art capable of upending entire realms. My brothers, who shared my lineage,
would serve as navigators to guide us through the Annihilation Star Cluster. To be honest, I
hesitated to entrust Frederica with them, even for the sake of the mission. These killers had the
uncanny ability to transform anything they touched into a deadly weapon. Combining their
skills with their father's creations could prove fatal.

"I understand your concerns, but for now, they are baseless. As long as you refrain from
showing aggression, we will not harm you in any way. That is the nature of killers," Montserrat
reassured me.

Frederica supported his statement, emphasizing that we had intended to rely on conventional
weapons from the beginning. Unnoticed by me, Frederica had picked up a scythe at some point,
while the maids retrieved their favored tools. They lacked an imposing aura, but a certain
kinship tied them together. Curiously, they appeared uninterested in Father's creations.

"Very well, let us proceed," I relented, gathering my thoughts and settling atop the mound of
assembled brothers.

Ironically, this reminded me of the day I was born, along with the scenery of the Garden of
Bloodshed that greeted me upon awakening. These parallels might aid my journey back to my
homeland.

"Please, touch me," I whispered, suppressing the revulsion that threatened to consume me.
Temporarily, I allowed the killers to lay their hands upon me. Uncertainty lingered regarding
Magsarion...
"Join hands with me instead. It might not be the same, but it should suffice in some way,"
Frederica suggested, aware of Magsarion's circumstances.

Though I couldn't discern the extent of her knowledge, her proposal held some merit. Both she
and Magsarion embodied bloodlust, and even a handshake wouldn't necessarily violate the
Commandment. Regardless of my personal offense, I had to acknowledge the truth.
Furthermore, since Magsarion was already attired in Father's creation, he could participate in
the teleportation indirectly. After a brief pause, he reluctantly clasped Frederica's hand. While
the action lacked visible energy, his grip was forceful enough to elicit an audible strain from her
bones. Yet, she responded with exuberant laughter, unyielding in her hold.

"Your enthusiasm warms my heart. Come, everything is prepared, Quinn," she cheerfully urged.

Suppressing my annoyance, I requested a moment of silence to focus. Closing my eyes, I pushed

aside extraneous thoughts and forged a path. Delving deep into the past, I sought the moment
when I was drawn into the very heart of the Annihilation Workshop.

Where was it situated?

What did the place entail?

Grasping onto the thread that snaked through my receding consciousness, I caught a
glimpse—however fleeting—of the scene I sought.

"We are in motion," I murmured, as thunder rumbled overhead, mimicking the shattered
heavens.

It wasn't due to any action on our part; once the teleportation had been initiated, it couldn't be
halted, even with the realization that something had befallen the Annihilation Star Cluster. And
in that instant...

"Oh... Sir Magsarion!" Frederica exclaimed, surprise lacing her voice.

Yet, I couldn't immediately comprehend the cause of her astonishment, nor could I rectify it
even if I had. We were being transported to the heart of the King of Evil Khvarenah, severed
from all that remained on Earth, hurtling toward the battlefield where our fate would be
decided—a field we might not return from.

◇◇◇◇◇

From the heavens above, it descended—a body discarded by the ejection of artifacts. With
astonishing speed, it hurtled towards the ground, defying gravity's grip. Yet, it was no ordinary
meteorite, no mere fragment of a broken artifact, nor a stray projectile. The anomalous nature
of this body became evident as it left a trail in its wake upon impact. As it crashed onto the
Garden of Bloodshed, the castle shattered into small fragments, forming a massive crater.

However, amidst the destruction, the magnificent flowers that bloomed in the garden remained
untouched. The shockwave created by the impact was compressed on an incredibly condensed
scale, allowing even the vegetation directly at the site of collision to continue growing
undeterred from the concave earth's firmament. Such a phenomenon would typically be
deemed impossible.

An object falling from space would naturally adhere to the laws of physics, and yet, why did it
seem as though nothing had happened here?

What set apart the broken from the untouched?

The answer was simple, yet unfathomable. The surviving vegetation remained unharmed solely
because it consisted of living organisms. It wasn't an act of cherishing life or a merciful choice
to spare the innocent and weak. The distinction arose from a basic criterion—life itself.

Amidst the aftermath, a lone figure rose from the depths of the crater. This figure embodied the
true essence of the heavenly object, accounting for the peculiar destruction it caused. Standing
over two meters tall, with a fiery red mane of hair, the giant exuded a terrifying presence. And
yet, his gaze, surprisingly, brimmed with love and respect. However, despite the seemingly
conflicting traits, there was no denying that his value system could not be classified as good.

In the blink of an eye, flames engulfed the surrounding vegetation. The same plants that had
been protected from the impact were now being consumed by fire, leaving no trace or even
ashes behind. The wave of ardor spread mercilessly, obliterating everything in its path, from
roots to leaves. There was no trace of compassion or discretion—only an overwhelming pride
bordering on insanity, acknowledging no one in this world but itself.

"Do you see me? Do you know me? Do you breathe the same air, stand on the same earth as I
do? Then you are my rival. It is time to prove that I am stronger. I will not run, nor will I accept
surrender. If you wish to survive, fight me and emerge victorious..."

This man, driven by his loyalty to the ideal of the strongest, fought with all his might, even
against silent plants, trampling them without mercy. His pilgrimage would not cease until he
had destroyed all creation, ascending to the summit as the last living being, transcending all
others. He was Bahlavan, the third King of Evil. And now, amidst an unforeseen break in his
battle with Khvarenah, he found himself on the border between the Sacred Realm and the
Corpse of the Dragon star.

"So, what shall I do? I had hoped to finish what I started, but it seems there is ample worthy
prey here. Dealing with them first also sounds interesting."
Grinning, Bahlavan was covered from head to toe in countless wounds. It was evident that he
had sustained these injuries during his battle with the Workshop of Annihilation. Yet, in the
blink of an eye, the wounds healed and disappeared, a testament to his extraordinary
regenerative power. Typically, he preferred not to utilize his healing abilities, reserving his
power solely for relentless attacks. However, the circumstances demanded a different
approach.

The battle had been abruptly interrupted, catching him off guard. While Khvarenah’s plans had
been thwarted, things did not go as expected. It meant they were once again at a stalemate, and
part of their strategy involved recovering their strength. Gaining even more power before the
second round seemed like a prudent choice to Bahlavan.

"I didn't anticipate this turn of events. I suppose I owe Nadare my gratitude. She knows I have a
weakness for such situations."

Bahlavan's smile brimmed with barely contained enthusiasm. Confronted with numerous
tempting options, the locust king felt his excitement reach its pinnacle. With a jubilant stride,
he advanced as if entering an amusement park. However, in the next moment, his gaze, along
with his fist, sharply turned to the side.

"So, you are the first?"

A deafening explosion followed as if the very air had been rent asunder. The human silhouette
struck by the back of Bahlavan's fist hurtled through the air like a bullet, colliding with the rock
and raising an immense curtain of dust that threatened to erupt. It had likely been an attempt
at a stealthy attack, but such tricks held no sway against this formidable opponent.

Bahlavan, the third King of Evil, long surpassed the ordinary notion of a seasoned warrior. He
sensed any bloodlust and hostility faster than the eyes could perceive. And thus, the battle
concluded. Though it lasted less than a tenth of a second, there was no trace of dissatisfaction
in Bahlavan's heart. Anyone who dared to challenge him, even the weakest of beings, deserved
his affection. Therefore, he could only welcome their attempts and respond with his full might.

"Who's next? Come forth! I will neither run nor hide."

Bahlavan continued his stride, exuding a flourish, when his attention was abruptly drawn to
something peculiar. His previous opponent had not perished. Indeed, the thirst for blood
emanated from behind the veil, even more fervent than before, hanging in the air like a shroud
of darkness.

"Oh, this is interesting. Few can claim to have survived my blow."

Such a statement was an understatement of immense magnitude. Bahlavan's steel fist could
effortlessly cleave even planets. Furthermore, it personified the ferocity of a battle monster
that fought relentlessly, always striving to reach greater heights without respite. Adding to that,
he had just emerged from a desperate confrontation with Khvarenah. Logically, practically no
one in the universe should be able to survive, let alone retain their form. And yet...

"Identify yourself. You have intrigued me," Bahlavan demanded.

In response, the veil parted, revealing the silhouette of a knight clad in black armor from head
to toe. It would be inaccurate to say that he was unscathed. His limbs twisted in different
directions, his neck at an unpleasant angle—like a broken scarecrow attempting a macabre
dance. Yet, undeterred, he drew nearer. There was no delay, no hesitation. With an
inexhaustible spirit that seemed to deepen before their eyes, he closed the distance. Horror
itself seemed to take shape. The Black Knight... Magsarion coughed up blood, yet he managed
to mockingly piece together his words.

"Come on, scum. Is that all you've got?"

Bahlavan's eyes ignited with indescribable joy. In this moment, there existed only the two of
them in the world. The battle that ensued surpassed any description, an unparalleled clash of
titans.

3
The Peacock King, known as Melek Tawus, dons a black steel armor that, while relatively plain
compared to other creations of the Workshop of Annihilation, serves a crucial purpose. Its
primary function is to harness its own power, transforming into an amplifier in the hands of
the Drujvant, granting the Ashavan abilities beyond their natural capacity. In essence, it is a
device designed to augment personal potential and compensate for weaknesses. However, its
effects are inherently limited, for a tool of mass orientation cannot exhibit extraordinary
power.

Just as hair scissors cannot cut through stone, every instrument is bound to work within the
constraints suitable for its intended purpose. Hence, even for Melek Tawus, there exists a
certain threshold. While the essence of one's power may lie in defying the laws of nature, such
absurdity still adheres to specific conditions. First and foremost, there is the matter of fuel.
This armor lacks the ability to materialize matter out of nothingness, necessitating a source of
sustenance. Surprisingly, the sustenance it requires is emotions—more precisely, the source of
emotions.

Initially, the power of oneself is rooted in the ability to accomplish the impossible through
sheer force of will. The notion of power fluctuating based on one's state of mind is logical, with
nothing particularly surprising about it. Ultimately, Melek Tawus serves as a modification of
this power, a means of enhancing and channeling it. It is widely believed that Ashavans do not
possess the power of oneself due to their collective nature, which compels them to exist for the
sake of "everyone."
An individual possessed by such an insane conviction that allows them to influence reality
itself, particularly for selfish motives, disrupts the established harmony. Consequently, the
power of oneself has become a defining characteristic of the Drujvants, often referred to as the
power derived from extreme selfishness. However, Ashavans are not lacking in emotional
intensity.

The fusion of souls and the concentrated emotions that surpass the sum of their individual
parts are not exclusive to Drujvants. Ultimately, there is minimal disparity between the
capabilities of both sides. Both are capable of accomplishing the impossible and manifesting
absurd phenomena through the power of their hearts. Whether one views this as a miracle or a
violation of the established order is an inconsequential debate in a universe where black and
white are fundamentally incompatible. What truly matters is the marginal difference between
them.

Enter Melek Tawus, erasing that fine line. It warps the region of the brain that inhibits the full
display of one's strength, obliterating it entirely. In terms of efficiency, this represents a
remarkably appropriate trade-off. Whether it involves switching sides or bolstering a feeble
Drujvant, altering one's inherent way of life necessitates an influence that carries a heavy
burden. Consequently, wearers of this armor are condemned to wield power of extremely short
duration. Their emotional core overheats, rendering the multitude of feelings meaningless.
Merely one or, at most, two large-scale battles are sufficient to reduce them to feeble-minded
husks, representing the aforementioned limit. The system is engineered in such a way that,
owing to a finite supply of fuel, it cannot operate indefinitely. However, there exists an
exception to this rule here and now.

"Come on, scum. Is that all you can do?"

Magsarion's being is consumed by nothing but bloodlust, hatred, and disgust. If these emotions
can be encompassed in a single word, it would be anger—variations of anger that surge within
him like an unfathomable abyss. Whether his other emotions have been incinerated or simply
lie concealed is an inconsequential matter. What warrants particular attention is the relentless
nature of his rage.
A cursed conviction of unparalleled intensity that continues to escalate, surpassing the
limitations imposed by the armor. Magsarion treads a divergent path from his fellow Ashavans
in every aspect, to the extent that he may possess the power of oneself. Consequently, the
amplifier, whose anomalous possessor has shattered all reasonable boundaries and
relentlessly exploits its capabilities, has long ceased to resemble its original form. The fury of
the black knight refuses to wane, no matter how much it is nourished.

The Raging Spirit Axis remains indomitable, to the extent that it transforms the armor itself.
Were Melek Taus utilized by a King of Evil level Drujvant, it would succumb to the
overwhelming power of oneself, leading to the artifact's destruction. Its purpose is to support
the weak, not to be wielded by an extraordinarily powerful wielder. This represents the second
limitation. But how should the current situation be characterized?
Magsarion effortlessly surpasses the capabilities of the armor while restraining the
unfortunate artifact from malfunctioning, compelling it to continue serving as his peculiar
engine. The consequences of this arrangement, in all likelihood, elude even its creator, the
Workshop of Annihilation. Melek Taus has not so much evolved as transformed into a zombie,
stripped even of death.

What exactly does it absorb from Magsarion?

What changes does it enact within him?

The answers to these questions remain elusive, but one undeniable fact prevails—none of this
currently concerns anyone in the slightest.

"If you won't do it, then I will."

The moment Magsarion takes a step forward, a force of unimaginable magnitude strikes him,
akin to an explosive eruption above his neck. The weight and stupefying strength of a fist
comparable to the size of an adult head—or perhaps an overwhelming violence that surpasses
the concept of a mere fist. Regardless, this is merely the initial onslaught, for the matter does
not conclude with a solitary blow.

The second strike finds its mark in his heart.

The third targets his solar plexus.

Subsequently, a succession of four blows resembling massive waves crashes upon the
retreating Magsarion's abdomen, each blow striking vital organs and carrying the unabated
power of the King of Evil capable of shattering planets. Furthermore, Bahlavan raises his leg
and brings it crashing down upon the sprawling black knight's spine with unrestrained might.

The earth itself erupts upon impact, releasing a deathly roar. It defies description other than
the act of a god of destruction capable of piercing the earth’s crust like an eggshell with a single
step. Even as magma mixed with fresh blood cascades upon him, not a single burn mars the
hardened body of the King of Evil. Had it not been for the locust's principle, preventing harm
from befalling bystanders, that single kick could very well have reduced the planet to dust.

Thus, viewed from a different perspective, one can scarcely fathom the sheer force Bahlavan
has unleashed upon Magsarion. No one can survive this—according to not just common sense
but even the most terrifying nightmares. Yet Bahlavan squints with satisfaction and utters
something utterly unbelievable.

"What are you? That can't be all you're capable of."

The phrase, clearly a retort to the previous provocation, is structured in a manner that
anticipates a response. And soon enough, someone capable of providing that response
emerges. Slicing through the sea of seething magma, the tip of a blood-stained sword emerges
from beneath the King of Evil's feet. Aimed directly at his abdomen, Bahlavan effortlessly
intercepts the blade with his thumb and forefinger. Simultaneously, the man who has endured
more than fire and water bestows an innocent smile upon Magsarion, his form engulfed in
scorching molten rock.

"I had a feeling those strikes didn't quite hit the mark. Were you interfering with my attacks?"

If one were to count the initial strike upon their encounter, this makes six attacks in total thus
far. To an external observer, each blow carried the power of a natural disaster, yet Bahlavan
himself finds them somewhat lacking. While it may sound like a cruel jest, the fact remains that
Magsarion still draws breath.

"I presume, huh? Truth be told, I'm not entirely certain I'll always strike true. Surely, you had
opportunities to dodge or deflect my blows aside. But if that's the case... I'll strive to strike with
pinpoint accuracy."

Bahlavan's fierce grin remains unbridled. Concepts such as "no" or "impossible" hold no sway
over this individual. They serve no purpose other than fueling his extraordinary power of
oneself with an unwavering desire to triumph over such logical constraints. The raised right
fist of ferocity contains power rivaling that of a supernova explosion, while the sword remains
firmly clenched in his left hand. Evading the strike is futile, and ordinary brute strength is
insufficient to break free from these shackles.

Thus, Magsarion finds himself with but a single option—to relinquish his sword. Such an act is
tantamount to suicide, yet it represents the only means of avoiding imminent death. However,
the choice he makes a moment later deviates from all conceivable expectations. Without
releasing the sword, but without retreating either, he employs the energy of the blow and
descends to the ground precisely as Bahlavan's fist is poised to strike. This turn of events is
difficult to believe for two, perhaps even three, reasons.

Despite Bahlavan's imposition of precise targeting into the blow, the knight seemed to have an
epiphany and found an escape route. Furthermore, even after being subjected to unparalleled
destructive energy, he continues to grasp the hilt of his sword. Lastly, his blade remains intact,
undamaged by the ruthless treatment it has endured.

The defensive technique employed—shifting his center of gravity to absorb the impending
assault and utilizing the enemy's force against him—bears striking resemblance to the style of
Sirius. However, unlike the Blade of the Holy King, which adheres to a stringent logic,
Magsarion's technique possesses an unsettling, unhinged quality, bordering on the hopelessly
deranged.
It is more intimidating than skillful. This grotesque style, neither delicate nor overtly clumsy,
leaves an indelible impression upon Bahlavan. Yet, this adversary himself defies conventional
norms.

"Do you pledge to forever clutch a weapon within your grasp?"

The statement held a certain irony, evoking amusement. Bahlavan, too, could not loosen his
grip on the sword. Though, to be precise, it appeared even more astonishing in comparison to
Magsarion's firm hold with both hands. The King of Evil, gripping him with a mere two fingers,
seemed even more extraordinary. They were bound together by the blade, akin to slaves
shackled in combat, ceaselessly fighting until one perished. Now, even a throw of the sword
would not grant them distance...

"…Gha-ah!"

Suspended in mid-air, Bahlavan forcefully drew Magsarion along with his sword, meeting him
with a powerful punch to the stomach. This time, he found satisfaction in the impact... The full
force of the Locust of Ferocity unleashed within, causing the black knight himself to let out an
agonizing scream. And, of course, it did not end there. Neither of them would let go. Bahlavan
refused to release his grip, just as Magsarion clung desperately to the sword.

They both clutched the opposite ends of the blade. Subsequently, Bahlavan swung Magsarion
down to the ground like a pitiful straw effigy. The earth cracked beneath their feet once again,
and amidst swirling sand and erupting magma, they relentlessly exchanged blow after blow.

The planet reverberated with their clash, oceans surged in waves, and a nascent continent
shattered. Despite the onslaught of such violence, the heretic yazata, Magsarion, still did not
relinquish his grasp on the sword. It was an astonishing fact, bordering on incredulity.
Magsarion appeared consumed by an obsession, an unwavering determination to clutch the
sword. It could not be considered a mere illness; rather, it resembled a form of suicidal
devotion.

As Bahlavan observed, no other explanation presented itself other than a Commandment. It

was a binding commitment that compelled one to always wield a weapon, to remain in a state
of readiness for immediate bloodshed.

"To always be on the battlefield, is that it?" Bahlavan comprehended the similarity.

He, too, bore a comparable inclination. All other aspects of life held no importance for him.
Engaging in combat, exchanging blows with formidable adversaries like Magsarion, relishing in
their crushing defeat—this was the sole purpose that gave his existence meaning. The third
King of Evil proclaimed, his voice resounding with conviction, that the purpose of life was to
announce his strength to the entire world.
"Do you hear? Still alive? You dare not die until I permit it. And do not utter a word if I decide to
end your life. The decision lies with me. Because I am stronger. Understand that your past,
present, and future revolve solely around me!"

Magsarion, a bloody mess of flesh, was repeatedly driven into the ground with unwavering
force. It was nearly impossible to fathom that he still retained a semblance of humanity.

"There is no forgiveness for you, how splendid!" Bahlavan's words intermingled with laughter,
while a feeling akin to love surged within, fueled by his majestic power.

"What are you? Is that all you are? Don't die, not yet! Entertain me further, for you have no
other obligations. Rise, crumble into dust, surpass every conceivable limit. I will pulverize you
to dust—reveal a strength that I cannot even fathom. Bestow upon me the ecstasy of
conquering even that which is forbidden!"

The storm of prayer, sounding nonsensical to others, resonated with crystal clarity within
Magsarion. Suddenly, it was abruptly cut off. It felt akin to the cold of absolute zero, yet
simultaneously possessed the potential to incinerate everything in its path with a violent, black
essence.

"Fool."

In an instant, the sword slipped from Bahlavan's grasp. It appeared as though he had simply let
it go, but this departure from his previous resolve was far from ordinary. After all, he had
sworn never to relinquish it. Going against his own words proved more difficult than upending
heaven and earth, and Bahlavan's determination remained unyielding. He had intended to
continue holding the sword, yet he couldn't. Clearly, neither oversight nor chance played a role
here.

So, what was the cause?

Magsarion had already been flung away, but Bahlavan rose to his feet without casting a
backward glance. Instead, he stared at his own hand, his expression betraying genuine
surprise. Scarlet blood spattered incessantly, as the two fingers that had previously clutched
the sword were severed at their roots, their exposed flesh a grotesque sight. The fingers of the
King of Evil, the same fingers that had seized countless anomalies in his quest to seize the
throne of the strongest, were now severed like some insignificant vegetables.

Certainly, wounds were nothing foreign to Bahlavan. Having witnessed countless battles, he
was acquainted with the scars and pain that accompanied them. Yet, without his knowledge, in
a manner unknown to him, he had been wounded for the first time. It was an unprecedented
slip in his memory spanning eighteen hundred years of carnage—an unexpected, astonishing,
and unforeseen occurrence.
"You struck a weak spot... Although, no, not quite. You are more so a creator of vulnerabilities,"
Bahlavan whispered in a cold, composed voice, as if the fervor of the recent clash had
dissipated entirely.

His principle of never restraining himself ensured that neither carelessness nor arrogance
played a part in this incident. What is usually referred to as vulnerability was practically
nonexistent within him.

"So, you sought to create something that does not exist? You perceive what cannot be seen.
Such is your strength," Bahlavan declared, raising his head with a guttural laugh reminiscent of
a ravenous beast.

The crimson blaze in the eyes of the King of Evil fixated upon the black figure of the madman
standing amidst the lava.

"Heh heh heh... Admit it, you don't sleep, do you? When was the last time you ate? Or
defecated? Or even blinked? It can't be that you simply refuse to release the sword. You have
only devoted yourself to killing, haven't you?"

Magsarion's response came as a voice akin to a cursed howl carried by the wind. The earth
simmering beneath their feet froze under the weight of his black prayer, and Magsarion
seemed to be stating the obvious. It was a truth even more absurd than the initial
Commandment that forbade any contact except for killing.

"If I close my eyes, I will lose sight of scum like you. If I fall asleep, a gap forms in my thoughts. I
do not possess a second to pause or rest."

The fact that he couldn't let go of the sword was merely one particular condition that caught
Bahlavan's attention. The eternal battlefield... Bahlavan's supposition had proven correct, yet it
failed to encapsulate the entire reality. It could confidently be asserted that such
meticulousness was unlikely to be found elsewhere.

"So, I discard all excess to forge myself. Becoming the sharpest, swiftest, boundless, and
unparalleled blade that eradicates all traces of you... even this conversation..."
Magsarion, his figure trembling and flickering amidst the scorching air, vanished in the next
instant.

"...I still don't require it."

His stride, covering the distance in the blink of an eye, was not too swift for the human eye to
track. The reason Bahlavan failed to keep up was that the world had shifted in that split second,
a moment his gaze had missed. The swing's trajectory swept across the ground, then soared
steeply as the sword hurtled toward the neck of the King of Evil. This attack was utterly
unforeseen, yet Bahlavan's extraordinary instinct, born from the fighting instincts of the locust
and his amassed experience, allowed him to evade it at the last possible moment.
However, a small scratch marked Bahlavan's cheek, and blood flowed once more from his stony
body. It was a vulnerable spot that should not have existed—a fragile point that Magsarion's
blade found with millimeter precision. Perhaps death itself materialized wherever his sword
made contact, yet the outcome remained the same.

The furious gaze, behind which only an unending thirst for blood lurked, discerned precisely
where to strike in order to vanquish the enemy.

Bloodied limbs, propelled by bottomless hatred, moved with a lethal efficiency.

The malevolent black glare flashed repeatedly, encircling the locust king from all angles.

Magsarion did not possess innate martial talent, but his indomitable will bestowed upon him
an incomprehensibly potent sixth sense. It was a Commandment so breathtaking that it was
unlikely to be replicated by anyone else.

"Die! I despise the very fact that you breathe!" Magsarion shouted.

He did not sleep.

He did not blink.

He did not eat, nor did he feel the need to defecate.

For he had cast aside everything he deemed superfluous.

The moment he resolved to eschew friendships and forsake love, dedicating his life solely to
battle and killing, Magsarion incinerated all that he considered unnecessary.

He would forever grip a sword in his hands. No, he himself was a formidable weapon—a sword.

His heart perpetually thrived on inky black hatred, and his resolve to offer his entire being to
the mercy of blood-drenched tempests within the arena could no longer be described as a mere
curse.

Perhaps there existed no words capable of encompassing such a phenomenon. Consequently,

Magsarion acquired a never-ending second wind on the battlefield. It converged with the
Commandment of No Touch, and the stronger his bloodlust, the more desperate and futile the
carnage, the sharper his instincts honed like a blade decapitating the universe. He perceived
the chance required to kill, the weaknesses, the gaps... and he exploited them. The void
necessary to kill and avoid being killed became a crack, a fissure... and he sensed it with his
very skin, slipping into it.
Naturally, it was the man who had forsaken all extraneous trappings that gained a tremendous
advantage in matters of battle. Undoubtedly, he could endure such unbearable effects thanks to
his armor, but this did not mean he did not experience torment...

The mere decision to impose such conditions upon himself spoke volumes about his
destructive willpower. To put it frankly, it was insanity.

Who could learn such a truth without trembling?

Faced with Magsarion's meticulousness, most individuals would likely lose faith in themselves,
and those who had dedicated themselves to battle would recognize their own inferiority all the
more. However...

"So what? I am stronger."

At this moment, the battlefield transformed into a monstrous stage, where fear failed to grip
the rampaging warrior. On the contrary, Bahlavan could not help but burst into laughter,
reveling in the joy that was unparalleled strength.

"No matter what you do, no matter what curse you bear, it is meaningless before my might. You
seek to create openings and gaps, but they matter not. I am the wielder of the most
impregnable armor, the one who possesses the ultimate strength! Show me your desperation,
your true power!"

As he swung his sword once more, the resulting gust of wind unleashed a hurricane of flames,
surging toward Magsarion. The clash of blades, the collision of opposing wills, resounded
throughout the infernal battlefield.

“If I get carried away, even I can fight without food, water, and sleep for at least ten, at least
twenty years. And not only me, Zairi and Taurvi are also capable of this frivolity.”

Bahlavan's nonchalant demeanor belied the profoundness of his words. While he hadn't
imposed the same restrictions upon himself, it was simply because, in his value system, such
restraints were ingrained. The notion of refraining from touching others unless it involved
killing, and discarding anything that didn't pertain to the locusts as a whole, was merely
common sense to him. However, he couldn't dismiss Magsarion's extraordinary nature with a
wave of his hand.

"Indeed, I must acknowledge that what you have undertaken is far from easy. If the price for
your power lies in suffering, then with the same Commandment, I would not perceive the
world as you do. In that sense, it is truly unique, and I cannot replicate it."

As a high-level Drujvant, blessed with inherent strength since birth, Bahlavan couldn't fully
grasp the depth of sacrifice that the less fortunate had to endure. While he aspired to overcome
all that seemed impossible, embracing the strength of the weak proved to be an exception.
After all, to achieve that, one must first become weaker, and what could that be if not a
misplaced priority? What was his course of action in such circumstances?

As a contender for the title of the strongest, faced with a power that differed in quality from his
own, he didn't require an answer.

"Come, I shall reduce you to dust," Bahlavan calmly called out, his body covered in blood from
the countless strikes of the enraged warrior.

No matter the path of death Magsarion's blade traced, it would have no effect on
him—Bahlavan would crush and tear through it. And indeed, even though his form displayed
numerous wounds, they all appeared as mere superficial cuts. Enveloped in armor forged by
the greatest self-will in the universe, his body remained unscathed.

How could one strike him?

How could one pierce through his defenses?

"I shall scatter you to the wind," Magsarion murmured with a venomous whisper on his lips, his
blade poised for another assault.

The prelude had concluded, where an ordinary individual would have perished in the opening
moments. Now, those who refused to yield under any circumstances revealed their true
potential. In this very instant, ferocity and fury clashed head-on, causing the very fabric of the
universe to tremble and crack under the weight of their confrontation.

4
"Quinn, Quinn... Can you hear me?"

The unfamiliar voice pierced through the haze of my consciousness, prompting my foggy mind
to attempt to make sense of what had transpired. It felt as if everything had unfolded in a
whirlwind, leaving me with no time to process. Several jarring events had occurred in rapid
succession, yet the details eluded me. Or perhaps, deep down, I didn't want to remember. I had
no desire to dwell on the multitude of problems that had accumulated, forming a daunting
mountain I had temporarily chosen to evade. Admittedly, indulging in such thoughts would
lead to no good outcome. Yet, the temptation to forget it all, even for a brief respite, proved
difficult to resist.

"Very well, then. In that case, let's try a more direct approach. Our priority is to keep her alive,
after all. Farangis, may I ask for your assistance?"

A hint of brusqueness entered the voice.

"As you command. I shall work to expedite the process, so I suggest you stand back," came the
response.

"...What are you contemplating here!?"

But my fleeting hope of escaping my imminent fate was shattered as I abruptly rose from the
ground with a cry. It dawned on me that something terrible was about to befall me.

"Oh, you're already awake. I'd say I've never encountered such treacherous individuals, but
since you're not exactly human, I'm at a loss for words here. Montserrat?"

"I believe it can be attributed to the creator's peculiar taste, milady."

"That's it, precisely! In other words, brother Farn is to blame for all of this."

The pounding headache I experienced couldn't solely be attributed to waking up too abruptly.
As I furrowed my brows and struggled to my feet, I had to confront my reality once again.

"I apologize for the inconvenience. As you can see, I am already awake, so there's no cause for
concern," I interjected, attempting to regain some semblance of composure.

They had discussed that as long as I remained alive, everything would somehow fall into place.
However, I had no desire to delve into the standards of the immortals regarding such matters. I
distanced myself from the murderers encircling me and cleared my throat, an attempt to regain
my inner calm.

"...So, can I assume that we are within Father?"

"I'm afraid I cannot provide a definite answer to that. However, this place is undeniably
peculiar," Frederica responded with a wide smile.

I followed her gaze and observed the world in which we found ourselves. To begin with, we
were situated at the bottom of what resembled a deep gorge, affording us a limited view. Yet, it
was far from impossible to discern our surroundings.
Firstly, the composition of the ground eluded comprehension. Its appearance gave the
impression of crystal, but the peculiar softness and elasticity made it akin to rubber. On the
other hand, this hinted at the material's strength, suggesting that the entire gorge consisted of
one solid mass. Gravity seemed notably weakened. The fundamental constituents of the
atmosphere remained a mystery, but it was evident that it was one of those unique instances
where numerous gases mingled.

Since neither I nor the immortal assassins required breath, it was vexing that we couldn't
ascertain if this air was toxic to ordinary individuals. The temperature reached around forty
degrees, yet I couldn't fathom the source of the heat. It seemed that the fixed stars, which
served as our sun, held no influence here, unlike their impact on the ordinary celestial bodies.
The sky overhead bore an intricate marble pattern I had never before laid eyes upon. Gold,
purple, red, green... and an array of other shades eluded my identification. Countless hues
beyond my grasp intermingled, merging and diverging like a vast kaleidoscope. As a yazata, I
had witnessed many planets in the past, but standing in such an enigmatic realm for the first
time left me at a loss for words. It may sound trite, but I could only describe it as an
"otherworldly" place.

The notion that we had arrived at the core of the Annihilation Star Cluster seemed to manifest
naturally.

"What a captivating landscape. Truth be told, I find it quite appealing," Frederica remarked, her
eyes still fixed upon the mesmerizing sky. Though I felt inclined to disregard her comment, the
next statement demanded my attention.

"How I wish I could show it to Sir Magsarion..."

Ah... At that moment, I realized his absence. Startled, I turned towards Frederica and
approached her, inquiring about Magsarion's whereabouts.

"What does this mean? Why Magsarion... Where is he?"

"Calm yourself, Quinn. I am just as sorry... Ha-ah, dealing with him can be quite challenging, to
say the least. He's not like ordinary people."

Her response, lacking substance, only served to irritate me, and Montserrat interjected from
the periphery.

"Milady is feeling somewhat disheartened, so I would appreciate it if you didn't burden her
further. As you can see, Sir Magsarion is not with us at present, but it was his own decision. At
that moment, he chose to let go."

"So Magsarion remained behind?"

"Most likely. While you were deeply focused, I sensed a tremendous surge of power vanishing. I
dare say it was Bahlavan."

With a general understanding of the situation, panic began to overwhelm me.

"How could this be... So he stayed to confront Bahlavan?"

It was a reckless move. Even if the rumors I had heard were true, the third King of Evil stood as
a monstrosity among monsters. Even Zariched or Taurvid, who managed to defeat the Sacred
Realm with just the two of them while we were in the Sky Burial Sphere, likely paled in
comparison to the Locust King himself. Facing him alone, without a plan, was a decision made
by someone far from rational. Yet, I knew that such widely accepted opinions held no sway over
him...

"Since we normally rely on the garden’s rules, teleportation is beyond our control. Hence, it all
falls to you," Montserrat conveyed.

I comprehended the underlying message. Should we press onward or turn back? Defeat my
father or go to Magsarion's aid? The choice rested solely with me. I bit my lip and clenched my
fists, but after a few seconds that felt like an eternity, I ultimately chose the former.

"...Let's proceed. I have faith in Magsarion."

Common sense dictated that this was utter folly. Yet, I genuinely placed my trust in Magsarion,
hoping that perhaps, against all odds... Moreover, being so close to my birthplace, I yearned to
uncover its secrets. To achieve that, reaching the core of the Father was imperative. My
intuition whispered that missing this opportunity meant there would be no second chance.

"As you wish. However, engaging in back-and-forth travels would be rather hasty, to be frank. I
doubt we can indefinitely access this place, so waiting seems more advantageous than
retreating," Montserrat added.

I appreciated his agreement, though it didn't bring me much joy to hear him voice this.
Montserrat smiled respectfully, and I reciprocated with a nod out of courtesy. His Majesty and
Kaikhosru, regardless of how the plan to mutually destroy the first and third Kings of Evil had
faltered, remained unconcerned about trivial matters. We had believed that regardless of the
outcome, victory was assured. I wished to witness that miracle. Doubts may have plagued my
mind, but now that I was embroiled in this predicament, I had no intention of settling for
half-measures.

"Lady Frederica, should you wish to contest her decision, simply order me to change her mind.
I will employ every means at my disposal to do so," Montserrat stated, unsettlingly casual.

However, his mistress, instead of considering his proposition, shook her head vehemently.
...Wait, why was she looking at me with such a peculiar gleam in her eyes?

"I believe... Yes, indeed! I, too, have faith in Sir Magsarion. Absolutely!"

Her words were accompanied by her tightly gripping both of my hands and shaking them
vigorously. Hold on a moment... Why was the King of Evil so fervent?

But I would not relent! I had more faith in Sir Magsarion than she did! I would brook no
objections to that!

"Hey, hey, calm down, you two!"

Enough of this! It was going too far. I was on the verge of engaging in a physical altercation.
Now, I would give her a piece of my mind!

"Ahh, what an impassioned mistress!"

"Rival... When we say 'formidable enemy,' we mean 'friend'..."

The maids joyfully exclaimed, inexplicably adding to Frederica's excitement. Meanwhile,

Montserrat watched this peculiar spectacle unfold with a smile. What was all this about? Some
sort of initiation ceremony? I was beginning to regret my decision to forge ahead, but clearly, it
was too late to turn back now. Regardless, the murderers and I pressed on without Magsarion,
deciding to continue our mission.

◇◇◇◇◇

Emerging from the treacherous gorge into which we had fallen, we found ourselves standing on
an expansive plain, stretching endlessly before us, adorned with the enigmatic shimmer of
crystalline formations. There was no denying that we had arrived at the heart of the colossal
Annihilation Star Cluster, a cosmic expanse of unfathomable magnitude. The immensity of our
surroundings only compounded the arduousness of our search. Contemplating the daunting
task ahead, I was filled with apprehension, but I chose to banish those thoughts, grateful that
they did not linger. In this surreal realm, where uniformity reigned supreme, there was one
striking anomaly that caught our attention.

Amidst the bewildering variations in scale, estimating distances with the naked eye proved
challenging. However, on the distant horizon, a solitary protrusion emerged, reminiscent of an
inverted cephalopod resting upon the ground. Countless towering columns intertwined like
desperate hands reaching skyward. Chaos and disorder seemed to coexist with a peculiar
geometric harmony, akin to the intricate workings of a finely crafted timepiece. The sight
instilled both fear and reverence within us, an inexplicable fusion of emotions that resonated
deep within our souls.

The structure defied conventions and norms, inviting me to christen it a "temple." Undoubtedly,
this edifice was far from ordinary. It defied reason to imagine that the heart of the workshop
lay elsewhere. Hence, we resorted to teleportation once more, positioning ourselves near its
formidable walls, and subsequently venturing inside. The unknown lay ahead, shrouded in
anticipation, yet we embarked upon a dimly lit corridor spiraling upward. The incredible
tension of the situation should have rendered us speechless.

"Oops! My apologies!"

...Yet, the maids, one after another, stumbled and collided, their behavior eroding any
remaining seriousness. Our procession moved at an agonizingly slow pace. Frustratingly
enough, their clumsiness stemmed not from mere happenstance, but rather, it was a deliberate
consequence of Frederica's command.
"Do not gaze around. Ignore everything you see. Keep your eyes closed whenever possible."

Her thoughts, if she had any at all, had always been inscrutable. However, there was an unusual
weight to this particular directive. And so, I strived to comply as best I could, despite my
waning patience. Eventually, I decided to inquire once again.

"Frederica, what purpose does this serve? It may do more harm than good before long."

"Well... I believe it would be far worse to witness things as they truly are."

As she spoke, she peered past me, squinting and tilting her head. Perhaps her mercurial nature
had always hindered clear explanations. Yet, if this continued, we risked being caught off guard.
With that in mind, I avoided meeting her gaze, gestured towards our surroundings, and
continued my argument.

"We find ourselves truly engulfed by the creations of my Father. It is imperative to remain
vigilant in this environment. Excessive curiosity and the temptation to meddle with suspicious
artifacts are best avoided. However, wouldn't disregarding our surroundings also entail
dangers? True, you may be immortal, but it would be unwise to take such matters lightly."

"Well... Lady Quinn desires a thorough analysis of the available information."

Before I could continue, Montserrat interjected gently from the side. His eyes remained tightly
shut, yet he exuded an air of tranquility that belied any inconvenience he might have
experienced. Surprisingly composed, he proposed an alternative approach.

"I believe it is crucial to exercise discernment. Rather than avoiding everything entirely, we
should selectively observe what we can. Perhaps, if you permit me to suggest, we could start by
looking at each other?"

"Aha, that's an excellent idea! Indeed, there's nothing for us to fear in doing so!"
Frederica wholeheartedly commended the butler, her smile reminiscent of a blossoming flower.
She turned to the maids, clarifying her previous order.

"You may exchange glances among yourselves, just as before. It will make our journey easier,
wouldn't you agree, Quinn?"

"Yes, it seems quite reasonable now."

While this did not resolve the issue of the temple's attention, being able to communicate openly
with one another would help us avoid unforeseen circumstances. Contemplating whether
conceding on this matter was worthwhile, I suddenly noticed Montserrat, his eyes open,
regarding me with an unusual expression.
"Is something amiss?"

"No, I merely believe you should understand something. Given Milady's encounter with Farn at
the gata, it is safe to assume her decision holds merit. In my humble opinion, her command to
avert our gaze is indeed peculiar."

His words nearly elicited a groan from me. Montserrat's observation held truth: it was
unfathomable for Father to participate in the gata with his colossal form. This implied that
Frederica had witnessed the true visage of the Workshop of Annihilation. Had she seen it and
thus commanded us to avert our eyes? What could be the true significance behind her
directive? I turned towards her as she chatted amicably with the maids while walking.

"Frederica... What did Father’s core truly look like?"

"I couldn't tell you, really." She responded in a disappointingly ordinary manner.

"He appeared human, I suppose. However, the details escape me, and truth be told, I don't
recall it vividly. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it didn't make a particularly striking
impression..."

Yet, beneath her words, I sensed the potential danger entwined with Father’s truth.

"Dangerous?" Frederica echoed my words, surprise widening her eyes.

"No, I wouldn't say it's dangerous. Most likely not."

"Then why did you instruct us not to look at anything?"

"Lady Quinn, recall the Commandment."

Becoming increasingly anxious, I moved closer to her, only to be halted once more by
Montserrat's composed voice. His demeanor remained unchanged as he continued his
disjointed narrative.

"If this could be considered an 'attack,' then my mistress had no way of evading it. Therefore,
the probability of any malicious intent concealed within Farn’s appearance is minuscule."

"But still..."

"Yes, the spectacle is hardly pleasant, to say the least. To the point where Milady wished to
erase it from memory... And what if, by gazing directly at him, those of our standing would
suffer..."

In his concluding remark, his tone took on a teasing quality, though it failed to elicit any
amusement from me. The image of a diabolical countenance, an embodiment of such
overwhelming information—be it in quantity, quality, or both—that it overloads the mind of
any who dare to behold it. If such a phenomenon truly existed, then it was best to avert our
gaze.

Tales of powers that turned others to stone with a single glance abounded, and while
Kaikhosru possessed such a power, it manifested only when intentionally directed. In the case
of the progenitor, however, it seemed to exert its influence inadvertently, staining everything in
its vicinity. Could this be considered an imposition of dominance?

"Well, we shall manage somehow. If we have concluded our discussion, let us proceed with
renewed vigor!"

"As you wish, milady!"

With little regard for my mounting unease, the group, deceptively adorable at first glance,
resumed their progress. I trailed behind with a sigh, about to take another cumbersome step...

"Be cautious. The path ahead rises abruptly."

"Oh, yes... Thank you... I appreciate it."

Nearly stumbling and careening downhill, I was saved by Montserrat's timely grip on my
shoulder. Grateful, I instinctively expressed my thanks and, out of a mixture of shame and
curiosity, attempted to meet the gaze of the black butler. Yet again, I found myself captivated by
his peculiar gaze.

"Is something the matter?"

"Well..."

The roles seemed reversed this time, and Montserrat's gaze diverged from his usual
disposition. He regarded me tenderly, almost with a smile—a comparison inappropriate as it
may be—like someone beholding a long-lost beloved...

Nonsense!

This assassin could never harbor such emotions. He was, at his core, a daeva, while I, a yazata.
Perhaps we were presently compelled to work together unwittingly, but fundamentally, we
could never truly reconcile.

Then why did he look at me in such a manner?

"Why do you follow Frederica's orders? Do you consider Mr. Varhran inferior to her in some
way? On what basis did you arrive at that decision..."
"It's unusual to hear such words from you. I am a drujvant, a creation of the dark side. Hence,
it's not particularly surprising to find a gentleman I admire, a soul that captivated me, was born
from the same darkness as myself."

"These are mere words." I replied with confidence.

After all, there was no one as infinitely grand as Mr. Varhran. While it was true that he may have
been defeated by Father and met his demise at the hands of those he was meant to protect, I
sensed that his vision extended farther than anyone else's. I held firm in the belief that
someday he would achieve a true victory, a sentiment he expressed with a smile in his final
moments. Those who had once heard his words, including myself, harbored dreams of such a
future.

Both His Majesty and Magsarion, through their exposure to Mr. Varhran's final moments,
embarked on a path that defied the conventional dichotomy of black and white. The current
chaotic state was undoubtedly born from the hero's demise. Therefore, it stood to reason that
Montserrat, too, must have felt the influence of Lord Varhran.

The evidence lay in his unwavering allegiance to the victor, irrespective of their affiliation.
While it could be considered a Commandment, there was an abnormality to it. Sharing the
same shackles of subservience, I understood that he had crossed a certain threshold. And the
way he casually spoke about love within the realm of darkness seemed all too contrived.

Could it be that this assassin no longer fit within the Avesta's dichotomy? And if he truly
regarded me with tenderness, why did he forsake his allegiance to the hero and become the
right hand of the King of Evil?

“Unable to forgive me for my act of betrayal, you stand before me, covering your sentiments
perfectly. I comprehend your perspective entirely, for I, myself, am far from whole.”
Montserrat nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders, a hint of self-deprecation lingering in his smile.
Despite the menacing saw clutched in his hands, his innocent countenance radiates through.

"I am bound by two solemn Commandments. One of them you are already aware of: ultimately,
I am nothing but a tool. By faithfully executing my duties at my assigned station, I acquire the
strength necessary to fulfill the desires of my master. Yet, in addition to this, I possess the
ability to meld perspectives in order to adapt to the expectations of others. I can even delve
into minds. That is how you witnessed the demise of Mr. Varhran and little Magsarion."

Yes, in a dream I had during an abundance of idle moments. Montserrat acknowledges me with
a nod, and I implore him to continue with a fleeting glance. Everything he has managed to
convey, I already know or can easily surmise. However, the reason behind his claim of
inferiority remains elusive to me. It is undoubtedly linked to his second Commandment.

"However, the other Commandment is now beyond my grasp. Sir Varhran seized it from me.”
“Seized?”

Utterly dumbfounded, I am rendered speechless by such an unexpected response. In what

manner was it "seized"?

"He possesses the capability to appropriate the weapons of those he vanquishes. One might call
it a form of trophy: on occasion, he has assimilated the powers of the defeated. In my case,
however, he seized the Commandment itself.”

“By virtue of being the victor?”

“Precisely.”

Recalling it now, I believe I heard something akin to this in my dream. The more victories Lord
Varhran claimed, the stronger he became. In exchange for the Commandment to remain
invincible, he acquired wings that propelled him forward as long as he upheld the image of a
hero.

"Hence, I am now flawed. I should clarify that I "had" two Commandments, and one remains
detached from me. As logical decision-making cannot be expected of me initially, it would be
unwise to place great importance on the behavior of your dutiful servant.”

“— Ah, wait!”

Attempting to halt the conversation, I seek to call him back, but the displeased voice of
Frederica resounds from up ahead.

"What are you two doing over there? Let's move along quickly!

"I apologize, milady, right away. Respectfully abiding by her command, Montserrat follows suit.
I continue to gaze at his retreating figure and pose one last query.

"What was your lost Commandment?"

I do not anticipate a response at all. Yet, I do not wish to leave the conversation unresolved and
make an attempt to assert my will, even if only formally. Upon hearing this, Montserrat halts
and looks back at me, a smile playing upon his lips.

"The ability to peer into the future. Even if only for a few seconds."

With that reply, he meets my gaze and offers a smile in return.

"Well, you see, dwelling on that won't lead us anywhere. As long as Sir Magsarion fights
valiantly, we cannot afford to waste a single moment.”
"I apologize, milady. It's just that Lady Quinn strikingly reminds me of the esteemed lady.”

"Hmm, are they truly that similar? I assumed they were merely coincidental namesakes. Who
knows... This is merely my subjective opinion, so I cannot claim objectivity, but truth be told, it
is not about appearances, but rather a feeling."

After rejoining the others, I disregard any further conversation. To be more precise, I am
engrossed in ruminating over our earlier dialogue, leaving no room for new information within
my mind. Montserrat's second Commandment, the ability to see the future, now belongs to Mr.
Varhran. How exactly did it manifest?

For starters, he certainly did not acquire it in its original form. If he is capable of appropriating
others' Commandments upon victory, then Mr. Varhran is undoubtedly unburdened by their
constraints. Otherwise, it appears more akin to self-destruction or punishment, rather than a
"right of the victor."

Let us begin by considering the fact that it is commonplace in war to repurpose acquired spoils
and employ them for new objectives. Since the new possessor entails fresh responsibilities, it
must be surmised that Montserrat's Commandment underwent some form of alteration. But in
what manner did it transform?

The changes are undoubtedly not limited to degradation or simplification. Numerous instances
exist wherein the potential of a new owner leads to remarkable advancements and even
evolution, particularly when dealing with an unprecedented figure like Mr. Varhran. The hero
witnessed glimpses of the future, even if Montserrat's vision extended no more than a few
seconds—gazing into the distant horizon.

Does this imply that Varhran foresaw it all?

Did he anticipate everything and embrace death willingly?

But for what purpose?

"So, Quinn, are you paying attention?"

“— Ah, yes…” Once again, another voice interjects, shattering my chain of thoughts. I raise my
head and find Frederica pouting at me, her hands resting on her waist.

"I'm delighted that you find Montserrat's past so engrossing, but the present and the future
hold greater significance.”

Indeed, it was precisely this future that had captivated me, but I cannot argue against the
notion that the current circumstances are ill-suited for such contemplation. No matter how
much I am wounded by the idea of the leader of murderers imparting wisdom upon me. I
wonder to what extent she herself is acquainted with Montserrat's past. At the very least, she
seems accustomed to playing the role of a mistress, and I would not be surprised if she took an
interest in the personal lives of those in her retinue. Although, it is likely that she forgets
everything they confide in her.

“We are deliberating on which path to pursue. Share your opinion with us.”

—Choose a path? It's easier said than done... We have been traversing a narrow, spiraling
corridor for an extended period, yet there is no end in sight. Due to the prohibition against
closely examining my surroundings, I can only perceive them in broad strokes, and my instinct
to return home remains dormant. However, I can surmise that there are numerous apertures
dotting both sides of the walls. One can assume that further along, the structure begins to
resemble an anthill.

"For now, I believe it is prudent to proceed along the most conspicuous route," I propose.

"It appears that the main thoroughfare lies before us, and venturing too far off course would be
excessively risky."

"And the most important individuals are often situated at the summit. Therefore, I concur that
we should press onward, milady."

Though the wording may seem somewhat simplistic, I find it to be a remarkably accurate
assessment. The dark-haired young woman who agrees with me cheerfully addresses her
fellow maid, with whom she seems to share a friendship...

“Yes, Farangis? Do you agree?”

...Suddenly, everything loses all meaning.

As soon as "He" emerges from the side tunnel behind the back of the girl named Farangis, a
surreal spectacle unfolds before our eyes, shattering the fabric of our senses.

Colors, once vibrant and distinct, now blend into a chaotic mosaic of fragmented hues. The air
crackles with otherworldly energy, resonating with a dissonant cacophony that assaults our
ears. A peculiar scent, reminiscent of ancient manuscripts and burning embers, wafts through
the air, intertwining with a hint of ozone.

■■■■■■■, ■■■■■■■, Before us stands a creation that defies comprehension, a

manifestation of an absolute ■■■■■■■. Like a celestial wanderer adrift in the vast expanse
of the cosmos, it pays no heed to our presence, its purpose shrouded in mystery.

‘He’ exists as a conundrum, defying categorization, evoking a primal fear and awe that consume
our very beings. Words fail to capture ‘his’ essence, for ‘he’ transcends the limitations of
language and defies conventional ■■■■■■■. ‘He’ is a blend of the diabolical and the divine,
an amalgamation of contradictions that challenge the boundaries of perception.

‘He’ is the harbinger of a new era, a seeker in search of a lost prayer, driven to the brink of
exhaustion by an insatiable longing, torn between laughter and sorrow for its gluttonous
existence.

‘His’ face, radiant and ethereal, resembles a halo woven from a tapestry of miracles, each
thread an embodiment of wonder. To behold ‘him’ is to witness the birth of a new reality, an
incandescent enigma that defies reason and expectation.

"Brother... Farn"

The name reverberates through the depths of my being, a proclamation of truth that
transcends mere sound.

Frederica was right. There are no words that can describe this. It can't possibly be defined.

For ‘he’ defies definition and challenges the very notion of ■■■■■■■. For ‘he’ is too
extraordinary, too sublime to be confined within the boundaries of ordinary understanding.
‘He’ demands to reign as the progenitor of ■■■■■■■■, a revelation that defies the
constraints of the known.
"Who are you all?"

His voice, resonating with a cosmic timbre, reaches out to us, a lament that yearns to dissolve
into the vortex of the universe. Its crimson eyes, profound and alluring, hold depths darker
than the abyss itself, intertwined with a luminosity that rivals the brightest stars. In the face of
this enigmatic being, we stand as witnesses to an unfathomable revelation, captivated by its
otherworldly presence and gripped by an indefinable sense of both fear and reverence.
 Chapter 11: That Which Cannot Be Forgotten - Translated by @ashmxt.t

1
In the face of an immense wave, the ripples caused by a pebble swiftly dissipate. When the
disparity between two opposing forces spans magnitudes, coexistence becomes an
impossibility, even in the absence of ill intent. A colossal value system, relentless in its
imposition, taints everything down to the very roots. It is this phenomenon that confronts us,
and just when it seems that any trace of individuality will be erased, an unexpected "voice"
interjects.

"...My apologies."

Though senses have been rendered almost meaningless, his words resound clearly within my
ears. I can also discern the subsequent action upon my skin, devoid of any hindrance. Despite
the astonishing nature of the situation, there is no time to dwell on its intricacies. Thus, we are
left with no choice but to entrust ourselves to his caprice...

"We must temporarily retreat. Any reproach directed at me shall have to wait."

Montserrat... The butler, once pledged to serve the hero, now faithfully attends to the fourth
King of Evil. With a single swing of his saw, he carves through the spiral corridor, cleaving a
path. In an instant, we lose our footing and succumb to the pull of gravity, hurtling into a
seemingly boundless abyss. The duration of this chasm remains a mystery... Yet, within this
indeterminate span, I glimpse a solitary memory.

These thoughts are not my own. Yet, the profound sense of kinship they evoke forbids me from
perceiving them as foreign.

The one I know so well.

Perhaps it is here where the tale of Quinn begins.

◇◇◇◇◇

"It's my fault, it's all my fault! I have no excuses, I couldn't stop 'her'!"

The girl lies prostrate, her face buried in the ground, offering heartfelt apologies. The waves of
horror and regret flood my consciousness, mirroring her emotions, yet there is a striking
absence of self-defense within her. She bears the weight of failure, burdened by remorse and
shame for not fulfilling her duty.
Fear seeps through her, a dread of the dark future her actions may have wrought, and so she
beseeches for forgiveness. No, she is even willing to embrace death, recognizing that no
amount of apologies can rectify the damage she has caused.
"I implore you, execute me here and now. Let my wretched life not become a deserving
retribution for what I have done, but if my deeds come to light, it will bring trouble. I am
certain this wickedness will fracture the very fabric of universal unity."

"Truly, your death now will not mend anything."

"But..."

"That's enough," the resounding male voice cuts through, stern and icy, as if bearing an
unbearable pain.

I am familiar with that sensation.

"I yearn to fulfill my dream. For the sake of an ideal that must be safeguarded, I shall not
tolerate tears from any of my comrades. This is what we call an impeccable denouement, one
that cannot be disputed, and you must play your part in it."

"So... you deign to pretend as if nothing happened?"

"Raise your head."

At his command, the girl obeys with utmost care. Through her eyes, I too catch a glimpse of her
savior. Before her stands none other than the Holy King Sirius himself. He appears much
younger than the image I hold of him, perhaps around twenty years old, yet the weightiness of
his deep-set gray eyes remains unmistakable.

In my previous dream, His Majesty bore a radiant and unclouded smile, but now he exudes an
entirely different aura. Considering his apparent age, this dream must have taken place in the
past, leaving me perplexed about its significance.

Was there already a shadow behind his smile? If I now perceive everything through the eyes of
the girl alluded to by Mr. Varhran and Mrs. Nahid, what kind of relationship did they share?

And most importantly, how does this intricate tapestry of events intertwine with my own
existence?

Questions arise, one after another, yet the relentless gears of fate continue their inexorable
rotation.
"I have no right to love as an individual. My position forbids it. But if, by protecting you, I draw
closer to realizing my dream, then I shall shield you until the very end. I swear, you shall never
shed another tear."

"...Does it suit you?"

"I should be asking you the same. Perhaps you have reservations? Would you be willing to
accept me as your partner?"

In response, the girl lowers her head once more, her voice barely above a whisper as hot tears
stream down her cheeks.

"What are you saying? How could I be unhappy? Though I am but a hopeless being, I promise to
give my all in meeting your expectations next time."

"I told you not to shed any tears. Don't embarrass me."

His Majesty kneels down, enfolding the girl in his arms, and continues to speak. His words
carry weight, firm and resolute, yet laced with a gentleness that squeezes the heart.

"Every victory is in the name of the hero. Both you and I are destined to follow in Varhran's
footsteps. That is our path."

The way he murmurs her name softly, I can no longer hear.

◇◇◇◇◇

"...Lady Quinn," a voice calls out, pulling me back from the fleeting mirage, back to the grim
reality where the murderer gazes down at me.

"I'm glad to see you're unharmed. Do you need an explanation about our current situation?" he
asks.

"...No," I reply, my memory piecing together most of what has transpired.

The unexpected encounter with my Father, swiftly halted by Montserrat's intervention. Though
his methods may have been crude, considering the alternative fate that awaited us, there is
little room for complaint. But what truly concerns me is the recent dream.

Whose memories did I witness, and what was their significance?

I struggle to comprehend why I am now privy to these fragmented recollections, and

objectively, I can only attribute it to mere chance.
Yet, there is a part of me that accepts it as a given. I cannot speculate or offer explanations, but
there is an eerie symbolism that connects this seemingly unrelated dream to our current
reality.

"Milady, wake up. Milady," Montserrat's voice breaks through my thoughts.

Could it be that Montserrat's longstanding connection to Mr. Varhran is responsible for this
anomaly?

However, to unravel this mystery, we must first escape our current predicament, which
requires defeating my father.

"Still, I did not expect this. In the past, I have faced Brother Farn directly, but never have I felt
such overwhelming power. What could be the cause?"

"It is likely impossible to kill participants during the gata," Frederica responds.

"Though we do not know the principle behind it, the presence of a restraining force during the
ritual could account for the disparity in our experiences."

"Are you implying that the brother I know is not the real brother?"

"It seems plausible. Another possibility is that recent confrontations with Bahlavan have
caused changes in Farn. Under such conditions, deviations from the norm are to be expected,"

"Hmm, that does sound reasonable. But what should we do then? If we can't even get a good
look at him, and our numbers have dwindled," I sigh, surveying our surroundings.

We find ourselves in a wide pit, and though everyone who was initially present remains, only
Frederica, Montserrat, and I are conscious. The young maids still lay motionless, trapped in a
vegetative state caused by their encounter with my father.

"I wonder if my Father will pursue us?"

"Indeed. I retreated quite far as a precaution, but it would be unwise to assume we have
escaped his pursuit. After all, this planet is his body, granting him not only the ability to find us
but also to teleport effortlessly," Frederica remarks.

Yet, he remains unseen.

"What do you think, Quinn?"

Caught off guard by the sudden focus on me, I take a moment to gather my thoughts before
responding, "The father I know was always logical and calculating. While he possessed traits
that were unacceptable for an ashavan, he exhibited rational behavior for the most part. So, at
first glance, he seemed predictable... or so I thought."

As I speak, memories of our recent encounter flood my mind. Was it truly the same Wokshop of
Annihilation? There was an indescribable aura of grandeur emanating from him, surpassing
anything I had ever sensed before. It was to be expected from the one who assumes the mantle
of the first King of Evil, a formidable threat without a doubt. And yet, there was something
about his behavior that left me deeply suspicious.

"I thought he had lost touch with himself. The fact that no one sensed his presence until we
stumbled upon him suggests a high possibility that he is practically unconscious. He might
have forgotten about us and continues to wander aimlessly," I speculate.

"You don't sound very confident. If the probability is high, could you present a more convincing
argument?" Frederica challenges.

"I'm afraid that's impossible," I shake my head in response to her whimsical demand.

"All of this is merely my conjecture, driven by the fact that he has become unfathomable to us.
Our main objective now is to understand him."

And yet... there remains one perplexing detail that I cannot overlook. Ignoring Frederica's
protests, I turn to the enigmatic butler dressed in black.

"Montserrat... how were you able to move?"

Our conventional understanding fails in the face of my father. How could this man maintain his
composure in the presence of an unimaginable being whose mere sight could drive others to
madness?

"Well, this is truly remarkable," Frederica interjects. "Tell us, Montserrat, how did you manage
it?"

With his usual serious demeanor, Montserrat responds, "You should already know, milady.
Being practically blind, Farn’s appearance had no effect on me."

He adjusts his glasses as if to emphasize his point. His confession sounds so matter-of-fact that
I cannot help but be astonished.

"Oh, indeed, how forgetful of me," Frederica exclaims, coming to my support. "After all, the
same cannot be said for you, can it?"

"Just a moment," I interject.

If Montserrat can barely see, then his behavior, which suggests otherwise, is indeed impressive.
But the question remains: why? He is an immortal assassin, a Daeva of great power. Impaired
vision seems incongruous for someone like him.

"Why haven't you found a solution for it? I'm sure it wouldn't pose a significant challenge for
you," I propose.

"True, if it were an ordinary wound or ailment, even if it were congenital, I could manage
somehow," Montserrat acknowledges. "However, this impairment is tied to the Commandment,
Lady Quinn. As I mentioned before, it was bestowed upon me by Sir Varhran, granting me the
ability to see glimpses of the future. Thus, there is no escaping the consequences."

"A Commandment? But he..." I start to say, my voice trailing off in realization.

"Yes, Sir Varhran extracted it from me. These fetters no longer hold much significance since his
departure, but they still remain partially intact. I used to be completely blind, so my current
condition can be considered a significant improvement. I hope this clarifies matters for you.”

He draws a conclusion to our conversation, leaving me speechless. Not because he has

convinced me, but because more questions arise, demanding my immediate attention. Two
fundamental inconsistencies emerge.

Firstly, my father's devilish visage is not a phenomenon that ordinary myopia can protect
against. It reaches much deeper, touching a core within the soul that transcends mere visual
perception. While I am unsure of how to counter it, Montserrat's explanation provides a
possible explanation. The extraordinary physical potential of the murderer, combined with a
mutual neutralization due to his status, could account for his resistance. Initially, I had assumed
Montserrat would be powerless against such a force, given Frederica's own reaction.

However, factoring in Mr. Varhran changes everything. Could it be that this assassin remains
under the influence of the hero? Perhaps the Commandment, which he was supposed to have
relinquished, still binds him, preserving his sanity in the face of his father's malevolence. This
explanation holds logical merit. Yet, at its core, a fundamental discrepancy arises. After all, Mr.
Varhran is deceased. How is it possible to perceive the heartbeat of someone who no longer
lives?

"In that case, Montserrat, I have a request for you. Can you merge our perspectives or
something similar? If we share your vision and confront the allure of Farn, we might have a
chance at exacting revenge. Does that proposal meet with your approval, Lady Quinn?"

"Yes, please proceed," I acquiesce, following Frederica's plan while silently grappling with the
doubts that assail me.
Our current predicament seems unlikely to be resolved by any other means, and there is a
considerable chance that I will find the answers I seek by witnessing the world as Montserrat
does.

"In that case, I request that both of you stand here." He raises his hands and gently touches our
closed eyelids, his voice whispering with a note of caution, "Let me warn you, I can barely see
anything. Even Milady will face difficulties until you get used to it. Synchronizing with me
might cause you great discomfort and even pain."
"I am prepared for it. Proceed," I respond, determination in my voice.

"You worry too much, Montserrat. Lady Quinn has made her decision, and you must follow her
will in silence," Frederica adds confidently, her chest swelling with pride.

As instructed, we close our eyes, surrendering ourselves to the darkness. It is an eerie

sensation, knowing that we are about to witness the world through the eyes of a daeva. I brace
myself for the burden it will place upon my senses, understanding that there may be moments
of repulsion and rejection. But I am resolved to prove that I can endure it. I believe that in this
shared perspective, I will uncover something valuable. I have always been ready to confront
danger head-on, and this is no different. I am aware of the trials Montserrat endures, and I
cannot afford to linger.

"In that case..."

I begin, feeling Montserrat's touch on my forehead. Slowly, a strange image starts to form
within the darkness behind my closed eyelids.

It is a swirling amalgamation of blood, agony, and hatred—the suffering of those who fell
victim to the murderer. To separate our perspectives, we must first overcome the barrier of
differing perceptions. And so, it begins. The disgust is overwhelming, as expected. Yet, I remain
resolute. I experience Montserrat's life firsthand, preparing myself for the decisive moment.
Memories flood my consciousness, the day that marked the turning point for the most
formidable of murderers.

I'm sure it was the day of his defeat at the hands of Mr. Varhran. But beyond the sea of blood, a
blurry and radiant figure emerges—a silhouette unlike any other.

I guess you are unable to witness my future.

A ‘Blade.’
I am trapped in a perpetual loop, devoid of the concept of time. The absence of a future, and the
inability to distinguish between present and past—these realities have become my prison. I
find myself merely repeating the same actions, caught in an eternal cycle of monotony.

The realization strikes me—this is what Montserrat saw.

Confusion, anger, horror, and resentment—an indescribable sense of defeat from which sweet
despair emanates. The soul-destroyer, who believed himself the ruler of destinies, met the
absolute on that day.

I have grown weary of weaving tales of heroes, crafting narratives of valor and triumph. If your
yearning to end my life burns so fiercely within you, why not embrace a different path and
serve me in your quest?

The words, their meaning not entirely clear to me, elicit an immediate response from
Montserrat. He falls to his knees, carving a Commandment of service in his soul, believing it to
be his fate.

"I will obey you. I will dedicate myself to you completely. I will forsake everything personal, and
at the cost of my own life, I will fulfill your will."
But you, a being of such worth and valor, who would willingly join me as an accomplice in
embracing my apoptosis... Or perhaps... No, it is likely a mere figment of imagination, a wistful
notion that flickers like a distant mirage.

I am still unable to discern the identity of this enigmatic presence. Nevertheless, those eyes,
glistening with a mesmerizing blend of gold and silver, akin to celestial stars, appear as
ethereal scales embodying the essence of duality in the universe—both captivating and elusive.
Strangely, an inexplicable yearning starts to stir within me, drawing me towards their allure.
Yet, abruptly, the unfolding vision before my eyes shatters, leaving me in a state of sudden
disconnection.

"Ah..."

A strange pain surges through my back, causing me to collapse. The strike is light, yet it carries
with it incomprehensible emotions. Someone has pierced me skillfully, as if they knew my
every move and weakness.

"Elnaz, what are you doing?!"

Montserrat's furious cry pierces the air. It is the first time I have witnessed such an emotional
display from him. So, one of the maids attacked me? But they should still be unable to move.
How did she manage to rise?

"How uncivilized. We haven't finished our preparations yet... No matter. Proceed," I say,
resigned to the situation.

Lying on the ground, I open my eyes to assess the scene. Montserrat’s procedure was
interrupted, but we have still achieved some degree of success. The view that greets me is not
my own, but what he currently sees. As he had warned, his eyesight is extremely limited. The
dark veil surrounding him resembles a midnight storm, with only a few blurry silhouettes
discernible within it. But it's not just them—there is something distinctly different from the
maids.

Exquisite ■■■■■■■■■■ outlines that defy explanation, even in this realm of darkness.

"Do I know you? You..." Montserrat's voice trembles as he stretches out his hand, a mixture of
pleading and recognition.

An idea that was previously at a level too high for me which I could hardly even hear, is being
put into words ...

"Divine Blade."

My father calls me that, as if cursing me.

2
The battle had escalated to a point beyond the realm of mere ferocity. Two combatants, one
possessing boundless endurance and the other exuding an unmatched thirst for blood,
continued their ascent, their clash now transformed into an eternal spectacle of unbridled
savagery, fueled by the resonating power coursing through their veins.

Magsarion's thrust pierced Bahlavan's abdomen, while the locust's steel fist collided with the
black knight's temple. Both strikes were lethal, devoid of any semblance of restraint or testing
of strength. Despite enduring maximum damage, neither combatant faltered— their
movements remained unabated. The sickening sounds of flesh cracking, bones crunching, and
innards churning permeated the air—a symphony of a true fight to the death.

Amidst the chaos, sporadic bursts of laughter and enraged roars intermingled, drowning out
the absence of pain-filled cries. To be precise, cries were forbidden, especially from
Magsarion's armor.

The armor had long surpassed its breaking point, yearning to crumble and dissipate into
oblivion. Yet, the skilled master refused to grant it that release. With each strike from
Bahlavan's fists, he forcibly injected hatred into the armor, compelling it against its will to
maintain its form. Initially, the armor lacked the strength to withstand the onslaught of the
wicked king. Nonetheless, the infernal torment continued, whispering, "it's too early, feed on
more."

The part once known as the stomach, now obliterated beyond recognition, had been eradicated
entirely. And yet, how could it possibly accommodate the surge of bloodlust coursing through
it?

Lost in the abyss of unending suffering, the armor began to forget its own existence.

Yes, within this realm of oblivion, salvation surely awaited. If it was forbidden to fade away,
then let the boundaries between self and others dissolve. To cease being oneself, to blend with
the swirling currents of hatred, and together, wander the desolate wastelands until the end of
time, as nameless entities united in purpose.

Ah, so… please eat me.

Your prayer is like an unchanging ■■■■■, and thanks to it I learned that my destiny is to
become a part of it.

Even the most silent of equipment succumbs to madness under Magsarion's command. The
clash with Bahlavan subjected Melek Tawus to a relentless exploitation, leading her to the
brink of fatal degradation. This marked a turning point in the battle.

"Hm?..."
Bahlavan sensed this anomaly slightly earlier. It was challenging to articulate precisely, but the
sensation of the blows had undeniably changed. It no longer felt like striking a solid body.

Was it liquid?

Gas?

No, it was something more ephemeral, yet unyielding—a notion, perhaps?

"Die."

With an icy black voice, the sword's gleam soared, cleaving through Bahlavan's chest. The
brutal strike pierced the armor of his strength, leaving the deepest wound he had ever
received. Yet, true to his nature, Bahlavan remained unfazed. Without hesitation, he retaliated
with a humming fist, only to encounter that same peculiar sensation once again. This sensation
existed on a qualitatively different level, beyond simple brute force. Bahlavan's vast combat
experience allowed him to grasp this, causing him to bare his teeth and burst into laughter.

"So what if I break you into pieces!"

"You shall disappear here."

Their intersecting fist and blade created a shockwave that tore them apart and sent them
flying. It was a mutual blow. Bahlavan suffered severe wounds, his arm nearly severed, while
Magsarion did not shed a drop of blood.

Or did he?

Bahlavan let out a guttural laugh of delight, assuming a fighting stance, while Magsarion
remained on his knees, bewildered, his helmet concealing her expression but clearly displaying
her astonishment.

"I don't know what has happened to you, but you are merely 'on the verge' for now. Your vision
is clearly limited."

With a roar, Bahlavan raised his fist to his face and clenched it tightly, not to heal his wound,
but to seal it with the density of his muscles. Then, he pointed out Magsarion's lack of
experience, barely restraining his laughter.

"You were caught off guard, weren't you? I, too, know how to create openings for strikes.
Although, to be honest..."

His words hung in the air, and in the next moment, Bahlavan's massive body soared into the
sky.
"...I have no idea how this works!"
Like a comet descending from the heavens, his right fist plummeted. Magsarion swiftly rose,
ready to retaliate, only to be struck directly from the side.

"...Kh?!"

A bloody cough obscured her vision. The blow had penetrated her defense system, striking
with precision, and the so-called "body on the verge" emitted a chilling creak.

Was it a feigned attack? No.

Teleportation? Not that either.

The fact remained that Bahlavan's right fist continued its descent, while external interference
compelled Magsarion, stumbling, to miss the blow. Even as he fought back with his indomitable
Commandment and willpower, a single mistake exposed an overwhelming disparity in sheer
power. He could no longer evade the violence of the King of Evil, and he would not release him
until his last breath. Like waves relentlessly crashing against towering cliffs, Bahlavan's fists
and legs, capable of rending stars, relentlessly assaulted Magsarion, blow after tireless blow.

"Ha ha ha! You still won't break, huh? Funny, truly amusing! You are the first of your kind I have
encountered!"

Despite the fact that every attack struck precisely at his blind spots, Bahlavan had no intention
of resorting to stealth. He remained true to himself, fighting with unwavering honor. He had
sworn to always face his opponents head-on, never stooping to cunning tactics—never even
entertaining the thought. However, on rare occasions, such enigmatic phenomena occurred.

Only Zariched and Taurvid had witnessed it and lived to tell the tale. And aside from them,
Nadare and Khvarenah. In other words, it only transpired in battles against extraordinarily
formidable adversaries or those who shared a similar nature. The true meaning behind it
eluded even Bahlavan himself.

Yet, he knew one thing for certain—it happened.

He intended to strike once, yet one blow automatically gave birth to two or three more. And
somehow, these additional blows affected him as well. It was as if multiple Bahlavans clashed
within the same battle.

Ferocity Locust... The swarm of sinister insects from which he derived his name had long been
considered a natural disaster, feared and despised since time immemorial. However, it did not
manifest itself at all times, occurring only under specific conditions—a kind of metamorphosis.
When encountering someone so eerily akin to him, an explosive replication took place. It
assumed a diabolical form, swarming locusts devouring everything in sight until nothing
remained. Even when alone, he would fight himself. He would never succumb to the fear of
solitude. Thus, when Bahlavan encountered someone he deemed his equal, replication
occurred effortlessly. Perhaps this was the embodiment of his deepest desire, a rehearsal for
the moment when he would be truly alone in the universe.

"I am you. And you are me. So, for the sake of our cause, I shall show you who is stronger."

In reality, it was a mere technique, enabling Bahlavan to create one or two copies of himself.
Each of them was a fully realized entity, possessing identical density, qualities, and skills,
engaging in a true battle royale to determine the strongest. The fate of those entangled in this
absurdity was self-evident, and this particular replication surpassed all previous instances. Not
even Khvarenah and Nadare fully comprehended Bahlavan's Commandment.

In their battles, he had not achieved the manifestation of complete copies, and they had merely
witnessed an abnormal number of arms. However, now, the perfect replication unfolded before
their very eyes. The four Bahlavans, oblivious to their own replication, encircled Magsarion
with the intent to kill. Indeed, it could not be considered stealthy nor a numerical advantage.
Each Bahlavan believed himself to be the sole existence in the world, propelled solely by the
flames of his dreams and his individual strength.

Yet, in reality, it amounted to naught but a chaotic skirmish, engulfing Magsarion in a

maelstrom of ferocity. Could the raging warrior, no matter how keenly he perceived the line
between life and death, find a way to surpass such an astonishing display of combat power?

"What is the matter? Is that truly the extent of your capabilities?!"

"It cannot be! Surpass my expectations!"

"Even so, I shall shatter you into countless fragments!"

"Dedicate yourself to making me even more formidable!"

"Know this, I...I...I...I am the one and only..."

Amidst the crimson spray of its own blood, the Locust of Ferocity erupted into thunderous
laughter.

"…I shall claim the throne of the strongest!!!"

"…I shall claim the throne of the strongest!!!"

"…I shall claim the throne of the strongest!!!"

"…I shall claim the throne of the strongest!!!"

"…I shall claim the throne of the strongest!!!"

Magsarion's limbs hung broken and limp, his torso twisted at an unnatural angle, and his skull
marred by countless dents. He does not even let go of the sword from his hands, continuing to
persevere, still standing amidst the tempest.

"Brother..."

In a haze of delirium, he whispered faintly at the precipice of death…

"I can hear your heartbeat."

3
This territory, situated not far from the domain where the ferocious locusts held sway,
maintained an unexpectedly tranquil appearance. At first glance, it seemed like an
extraordinary miracle, but in truth, there was nothing inherently complex about it. The only
caveat was that the two kings, perched at the forefront, paid absolutely no attention to
Bahlavan.

"Tell me, Sirius, do you recall your Varhran so fondly?"

Even Kaikhosru's beautiful countenance bore a faint smile as he engaged in lighthearted

banter. Naturally, such a calm demeanor was not shared by the subordinates on both sides,
including his concubines, but it didn't pose any significant problems. As long as the hearts of
the kings remained serene, this territory remained under their watchful guardianship. It was
only natural that the leader's will would affect all subordinates without exception—there was
nothing peculiar about this.

"I never had the chance to know him personally, so I would appreciate hearing about him from
you, if you don't mind. What kind of man was this hero you hold in such high regard?"

"Even if I were to recount everything I know about him, it would barely scratch the surface of
his essence. Needless to say, both his skills and character defy description. However, if I were to
name one truly remarkable aspect of him, it would be his perspective on life."

"Oh?"

Sirius responded in a somber tone, launching into an explanation of the hero's distinguishing
qualities, while Kaikhosru eagerly prodded him on. Perhaps his intention was to ensure that
everyone present could hear this tale.

"Everyone around us is enthralled by the Avesta, living solely for the sake of war. Even when
they speak of victory or peace, it's unlikely that they can truly envision them. I, too, was caught
in that cycle until I met him."
"But Varhran was different, wasn't he?"

"He always pondered what would come after the war, after our victory... No, he contemplated
the true meaning of victory itself. Perhaps his Commandment was taken precisely to
understand this. Victory was a given for him, so he continually questioned its significance and
value. And since he had chosen the path of ceaseless pursuit, it's no wonder that he saw the
world through a completely different lens than we do."

"Hehe, indeed, he must have been quite an amusing individual. However, I, too, contemplate the
future, and I will have greater experience in this regard."

Maintaining the guise of a conversation, Kaikhosru retained a sense of antagonism in this

alliance, which only elicited a sigh from Sirius.

"I have no intention of arguing with you. I did warn you that my opinion alone wouldn't
suffice."

"Well, yes. Each hegemony is unique and exclusive. Even if we can sympathize with one
another, coexistence is impossible."

Roxanne observed the exchange between the two kings with a malicious smile on her face.
Their astounding ability to disregard their surroundings inspired a sense of sympathy for Team
Quinn. They were surely confident that once a problem was defined, solving it would be a mere
trifle. Yet, it wouldn't hurt for them to cooperate a little with others. Alma, trembling with
impatience at Kaikhosru's side, faced an unenviable position. She yearned to break away and
rush to her comrades' aid. However, such decisive actions were currently inaccessible to her, as
leaving Sirius unprotected by capable yazatas would be unwise.

"It's difficult when you're unsure of what to believe and what not to."

Whispering to herself, Roxanne tucked her blond locks behind her ear. Since her younger sister
seemed to be struggling, it was only appropriate to share her concern. With such a
commendable thought, Roxanne redirected her attention to the events unfolding outside.
However, her visage still retained the innocent yet cruel smile of a child crushing a string of
ants.

"So, here's what I think. If someone can only explain complex matters in a way that renders
them still complicated, they are undoubtedly a fool. Agree, right? Well, say it, say it!"

Ignoring the boisterous call directed at him, Ferdows remained silent. He and Samluch, tasked
with repeating the same hollow speech, stood guard to prevent any foes from infiltrating the
meeting. He understood that their role was purely ceremonial. Sirius himself had assigned
them this duty, but his majesty likely had no desire to be protected, nor was there any need for
it. In truth, they had simply been politely expelled from the meeting. Yet Ferdows followed the
order, for he saw no futility in it.
"By the way, something fierce seems to be transpiring on the other side. Are we certain we
shouldn't intervene?"

"What occurs there is none of our concern. Soon, we will have our own guests."

"Hmm?"

They stood at the very edge of Kaikhosru's barrier. Consequently, the battle between Magsarion
and Bahlavan seemed oddly distant to them, its repercussions failing to reach their ears.
However, they would inevitably have to venture outside, where they would assuredly be
engulfed by the same tempestuous storm of bloodshed. And this would likely transpire
imminently.

"Alright. You're clearly a clever individual, so I trust your judgment. However..."

The tall Samluch stooped down, gazing intently into Ferdows's eyes. The innocent and pure
color of her eyes, devoid of any discernible emotion, tugged at Ferdows' heartstrings.

"At least tell me your name. What should I call you?"

"I..."

A lump formed in Ferdows's throat, rendering him unable to proceed. Moreover, what could he
possibly say to her? He had already noticed peculiar changes in Samluch even before they
arrived on this continent. After all, she had been revived from the brink of death, and surely,
she had paid a steep price.

Intermittent yet noticeable lapses in memory. A growing regression into infantile speech and
behavior. Like an elderly man succumbing to progressive dementia, Samluch's memory is
slipping away at an alarming pace. She can no longer recall her own name or Quinn's, or even
how they first met. The days they spent together as comrades-in-arms, however brief, have
been wiped clean from her consciousness. All that once existed between them has faded into
oblivion. But it doesn't end with these isolated incidents—her memory of everyday objects and
their significance is mercilessly vanishing. In the near future, she will transform into an
insensate invalid. And what separates such a fate from death itself?

"Hey, don't be so self-important. Well, tell me your name, what do you want?"

"...A lot. You won't hear my name from me."

He snorts deliberately, refusing outright. He believed that someone as useless as him, who
cannot even aid her, doesn't deserve a place in her memory.

Damn it, worthless Ferdows...

He has no right to form bonds with those he cares about. He must accept his place and move
on. While everything around Samluch fades into dullness, the dark, putrid flame within the
young man burns brighter and brighter. It is a hellish inferno known as "self-flagellation,"
threatening to consume him entirely. Perhaps it is this scent of sulfur and the searing heat that
have lured them here.

"Oh, look how cozy it is. Nadare certainly knows what she's doing."

Suddenly, the air in front of them warps strangely, and a familiar voice echoes from the hazy
landscape.

"N-n-nothing admirable about her, you idiot, you imbecile. I will... I will end her. I will definitely
end her. And I'll kill you too."

Following these words, a characteristic stutter scrapes against the air, like the sound of
sandpaper.

"Get to work, Samluch."

"Yeah. I don't know what's going on, but something is infuriating me to no end."

In response, two yazatas step beyond the barrier's threshold. The intertwining hues of blue
and crimson merge into an unyielding purple, revealing two daevas of exceptional rank. Yet,
can this truly be called a two-on-two battle?

"What an intriguing expression you have. Trying something new after your defeat?"

"Well, something unexpected occurred. If you truly wish to know, I can enlighten you. But first,
let me make this clear—I don't recall ever losing to you."

Only the right half of Taurvid's body remains, its once joyful smile frozen in place.

"Are you... laughing?" Samluch stammers.

"Fine, laugh all you want. I... I was genuinely caught off guard, and I'll graciously acknowledge
it. But that won't save your life."

"...So, just hold on a moment..." Zariched, even gloomier, reveals only its left side beneath the
head.

Thus, they merge together, becoming a single entity. Like conjoined twins or a long-forgotten
god of war from ancient pagan beliefs. Within this amalgamation, abomination, and revulsion
coexist with sublimity and beauty, epitomizing the world's collapse.
Living together as a cat and dog, they must face great difficulties not only in battle but even in
the most basic locomotion. Yet, the density of their flaming power rejects such assumptions,
rising several steps higher. Confronted with this violet locust, a threat to all living beings,
Samluch's eyes widen as she poses an impossibly direct question.

"You make me feel like you know me, but who are you, really?" Zariched is left speechless as
Taurvid bursts into uproarious laughter.

"Ah, you are hideous-ah-ah! What's this? Not only do you lack a face, but your mind is empty
too?! F-you won't leave here alive-and-and!"

"Wow-ha-ha! Excellent, excellent! This just got much more interesting!"

Curves and straight lines merge as they take flight. Contradictory, yet equally destructive, a new
trajectory hurtles toward Ferdows from Samluch. This moment serves as the signal to
commence another battle, not for survival, but for death itself.

4
The collapse of the world of Nadare was shrouded in countless enigmas. Such an act, capable of
disrupting the cosmic harmony and altering the alignment of stars, defied comprehension by
its very nature. The source of this extraordinary power, however, remained the greatest enigma
of them all.

Nadare often dismissed herself as nothing more than a fool, overshadowed by others' superior
talents and possessing only longevity as her distinguishing feature. Yet, the Kings of Evil knew
that her self-deprecating demeanor was merely a facade, unable to account for certain
peculiarities that set her apart. Her personal power seemed infinitesimal at first glance, easily
mistaken for that of an ordinary daeva, which contradicted her role as the harbinger of all
Drujvants.

But why was this the case?

It was the unsettling, unnatural sensation that engulfed everyone in Nadare's presence, as if the
very fabric of reality was unraveling, that caught the attention of the two-faced locust.

"How marvelous, how courageous... I have heard much about you and longed to witness your
presence," Nadare greeted.

Banished from the sacred realm by Sirius, Zariched and Taurvid found themselves
unexpectedly alongside the second King of Evil. Whether it was fortune or destiny that brought
them together, they would choose the former without hesitation. While momentarily taken
aback, their predisposition for battle and conquest predetermined their course of action.
Nadare, the oldest King of Eevil—a formidable warrior who had once crossed paths with
Bahlavan and survived. Undoubtedly, she proved to be a more than worthy opponent, and given
their Commandment, they could not ignore her.

The locusts quivered with anticipation and with a battle cry, they stormed into Angra Mainyu.
It was during that encounter that they not only witnessed the might of the Collapse of the
World, but also began to grasp the significance behind its name.

"How remarkable that you managed to withstand Bahlavan's assault without being broken. His
ill-fated fortune defies any explanation, and yet you genuinely believed it was within your
reach. I cannot help but pay tribute to your indomitable willpower. As aspiring transcendents
on the path to becoming the strongest, there is nothing I can fault you for," Nadare praised.

Sabers of blaze howled through the air, and the spear of thirst lunged forward. Blocking the
red-blue onslaught with their black-and-white blades, Nadare extolled the locusts' way of life,
celebrating it as if in a jubilant ceremony. Zariched grew annoyed. What was it about her?
Taurvid grew puzzled.

What was happening here?

It wasn't merely the shower of compliments that puzzled them. Many Drujvants had a habit of
commending worthy adversaries during a fight to the death. Even if one of them ultimately bid
farewell to life, unlike the Ashavans, they refrained from staunchly committing to a single side.
Their respect for talent transcended affiliations and could be considered a virtue. In fact, both
Zariched and Taurvid were among those who held an almost affectionate regard for formidable
rivals.

However, this led them to wonder: Nadare's behavior was somehow distinct from their own.

Although they understood that she genuinely admired them, it was as if her admiration was
"too sincere."

"A counterfeit like me stands no chance against you. Words fail to express the depth of my
admiration for you," Nadare confessed.
To be frank, Nadare's fighting style seemed undeveloped, lacking finesse in her techniques. Yet,
she didn't fit the mold of those who relied solely on instinct and defied established systems
through sheer overpowering strength. It was evident that she had received training in a
particular school, but had fallen short of mastery. One could compare her to a novice knight
who had squandered her time. In simple terms, Nadare lacked talent.

Despite having lived for countless millennia, her skills were mediocre to the point of inducing
yawns. The locusts' experience made it clear that she was no more than a minor nuisance. Yet,
why were their blades and spear, which they believed to be unrivaled, unable to overtake her?

With each attack, a bewildering succession of misses occurred. Nadare assumed this peculiar
stance, humbly apologizing for her audacity. She felt both deep shame and overwhelming pride
within her. Nothing made sense anymore. She failed to recognize someone as formidable as
herself—her envy and praise for the genuine intermingled with a sense of her own superiority.

So feeble and yet so mighty.

So potent, yet diminished.

Her contradictions declared that she shone brilliantly from unattainable heights. The
circumstances that had led her to this state remained obscure, but they left an utterly repulsive
impression. With each clash of her blades and every word she uttered, it felt as though the very
foundation of rationality crumbled beneath her feet. This absurdity manifested most
prominently in her eyes, flickering black and white, encapsulating the entire essence of the
dualistic universe.

"To overcome Nadare, one must comprehend what 'everyone' truly means. It seems that
transcendents like you are at a particular disadvantage because of my presence. Therefore, I
shall grant you a head start," Nadare proposed.

Zariched grinned mischievously, her captivating black and white eyes gleaming.

"N-no need. I will kill you, and that shall be the end of it."

Following suit, Taurvid declared his resolve, issuing a challenge.

"Victory shall be mine. I require no further truths."

Physically disoriented and forcibly transformed into something entirely different, the locusts'
morale remained unyielding, fascinating Nadare as she narrowed her eyes.

How enchanting, how enviable. My sincerest apologies... Alongside her own prayer, known only
to herself, Nadare proclaimed her own oath:
“Unlike you, I had chosen my path rather late, yet I also have a lifestyle that I adhere to, a
lifestyle that was uniquely my own. Precisely because my path is so inconspicuous, I believe
that I should at least fulfill the duty entrusted to me.”

With those words, Nadare executed a mesmerizing, orchestral-like turn of her blades,
embodying her role as the "universal king of evil."

"May you have a happy dream. I wish for your life not to descend into farce, and may you
transcend time itself, remaining in this world as a true radiant pattern."

And so, the battle reached its conclusion. It was difficult to determine winners and losers in
such a clash, but one thing was certain—death had become an impossibility. Caught in the
collapse of Nadare's world, Zariched, and Taurvid, merged into a single form, and were
expelled from the singularity.

They were forcefully teleported from one place to another, their fate resembling a billiard ball
careening through the vast expanse of the universe. Eventually, they arrived at their current
location—the union of the Corpse of the Dragon Star and the Sacred Realm. They humbly
bowed before Magsarion, finding themselves amidst the battle between Khvarenah and
Bahlavan, divided into two fronts within this unpredictable chaos. The situation grew even
more unfathomable.

As per Nadare's plan, which she believed would lead to happiness, they would become one of
the many lights adorning the stage. However, they cared little for this outcome. What mattered
to them was the shame they felt from their defeat, as well as the surprise and joy of discovering
that there were still many formidable opponents in the world, surpassing their imagination.
Their unwavering fighting spirit and their Commandment to surpass all others remained their
sole focus.

"Don't bother me, you idiot," Zariched retorted.

"You better not drag me down, bitch," Taurvid added.

In a sense, the two were even less compatible than good and evil, yet they managed to merge in
a harmonious way, retaining their distinct personalities and habits. They began to mimic each
other's techniques, giving birth to diabolical deeds that were seemingly impossible. Their
fusion took the form of a straight spiral—an embodiment of their unwavering belief in their
own superiority. It resonated with their kind and multiplied their strength, defying common
sense and surpassing all limits. It was an unstoppable force, ignoring cause and effect,
transcending past and future.

Without exaggeration, they could rival Bahlavan in his prime. Confronted by a purple flash,
Samluch and Ferdows assumed a counterattack stance, issuing a battle cry. The impact was like
a planet-shaking roar, a blast of energy. Samluch's blade of ardor clashed with Fer's
swordsmanship, while Taurvid's rushing spear of thirst met Samluch's roundhouse kick. Their
combined force neutralized the direct onslaught. This individualistic act defied logic, seemingly
disregarding the usual reliance on collective strength. However, their power was both precise
and originated from the heart of the white side.

"I don't know what it is, but I'm on a roll. Come on, neither fish nor meat, I'll butcher you now!"
Samluch declared.

"This time, I won't let you escape. I will end you here and now," Ferdows vowed.

Samluch had lost her memories that could explain the phenomenon unfolding, while Ferdows
no longer recognized his own dignity. Nevertheless, their understanding and awareness of this
phenomenon were irrelevant, as the power bestowed upon them continued to grow.

This was a miracle—the Demonbane Blade, once wielded by a hero and their companions. It
represented the culmination of countless prayers collected over an unimaginably long period.
Samluch and Ferdows were referred to as "vassals" by Sirius. This suggested that the holy king
understood the true nature of this energy, and it was likely the reason why he instructed them
to confront the locusts.

Sirius was confident in their ability, yet he showed no reverence for their vassal status, willing
to crush them if necessary. Although the answer to this remained elusive, the source of this
emanation could be deduced.

Quinn stood at the center of this miracle.

The mysterious force that temporarily stunned Mashyana in the Sky Burial Sphere shared the
same essence as Samluch and Ferdows' surging energy. Considering the chronology of events,
it was not difficult to guess its origin.

Having confronted her father face to face and traversed the Annihilation Star Cluster, Quinn
was closer than ever to her own truth.

She retraced her steps, returning to the state she was in before creating the Workshop of
Annihilation. The catalyst for this change was the deadly duel with Frederica on the Corpse of
the Dragon Star.

The vessel known as "Quinn," which had taken form in the hands of the King of Evil, was
ruthlessly shattered.
Additionally, the bloodline connection between Frederica and Quinn's past life further
contributed to this transformation.

Now, the layers of Quinn's exterior were beginning to peel away.

The amplification of Samluch and Ferdows served as a clear manifestation of this change, and
the growing power of the miracle mirrored a countdown. Yet, in the midst of the ongoing
battle, these details went unnoticed and unimportant.

"How amusing. Simply pulverizing you would be too dull.”

"It seems Bahlavan is here too. Once I tear you apart, I'll finally take his head."

The two opposing forces propelled each other to unprecedented heights. This battle was a
bloody clash, increasingly shocking and furious, defying reason and logic. It was a display of
relentless ferocity, escalating beyond imagination.

5
Amidst the eruption of countless sparks, Nadare observes from within the singularity. Although
she lacks clairvoyance, there is something akin to it that she experiences in those fleeting
moments when the world collapses or the gates of the abyss open. Strictly speaking, without
any known details or visual input, one cannot say that she "sees" anything. Yet, she senses
certain changes—an intuition or a form of flair.

This ability is incredibly limited, vague, inconspicuous, and somewhat dubious. However,
Nadare takes immense pride in it, considering it more valuable than all her other abilities.
Indeed, this talent is unique. It is not a power or a Commandment. In a world where individuals
gain boundless possibilities through various constraints and obligations, there is no attribute
more scarce and extraordinary than pure, untouched potential.

Even those blessed with innate talent often seek divine intervention for victory, making
constant improvement a natural course of action. Thus, the simplicity that can genuinely be
called one's own strength is practically non-existent in this universe. Nadare's sixth sense,
however, stands as one of the few exceptions.

She did not acquire it immediately, and her present destiny has no connection to it. It is
unquestionably not a result of her extraordinary personal prowess.

But then, what is it?

This concept that defies the established order of the universe, Nadare refers to as
"immutability."

"Something that should never be forgotten. Memories of shame... a whirlwind of regrets. In a

world where everything changes and fades, I wish to remember 'everyone.' I desire to engrave
in my heart the radiance of all those destined to change, in an unchanging form," Nadare
muses.

"It is my duty," she whispers, the oldest of the Kings of Evil.

As if in a solitary prayer, she speaks to herself, sensing the intricate pattern of chaos unfolds.

"I aim to be the final Nadare. Do your best, my love. I know you are capable of more than this.
The war between the Drujvants and Ashavans, instigated by Nadare's past, was far more bitter.
I am certain she did it because she shared my sentiments. She did not want to witness a repeat,
yet she couldn't resist the allure of returning... What a paradox."

With a guilt-ridden smirk, Nadare's instinct detects the presence of another. She blinks her
black-and-white eyes, bursting into a joyous, silent laughter.

"Ah, look, would you like to join as well?" she asks unexpectedly.

"Though unexpected, I welcome it. Show me your best and embellish my plea."

To the new guest, who leaps onto the stage, Nadare extends sincere words of encouragement.

◇◇◇◇◇

Contemplating my greatest advantage, I pondered on the unique qualities bestowed upon me,
setting me apart from my adversaries. It mattered little if this advantage couldn't be classified
as my forte; what truly mattered was that it could become my most formidable weapon.

To illustrate this point, even something as mundane as being inept at cooking could create a
divergence between me and others, presenting an opportunity for a decisive blow. The crux lay
in the method and timing of its application—the key secret to success in combat was seizing
these moments flawlessly.

I was willing to do whatever it took, regardless of the consequences or how unsightly it

appeared. The risks involved were a secondary concern, merely occupying the tenth or
twentieth spot on my list of priorities. I fought on, bearing scars as evidence of my indomitable
spirit—a spirit that neither made me invincible nor allowed me to forget. I thanked my
opponents for showcasing their unwavering willpower.

Or so I believed.

Now, however, questions filled my mind.

What were my strengths and weaknesses?

What were my likes and dislikes?

Who, in essence, was I?

Did the person standing before me truly represent my true self?

I didn't know.

It was all slipping away...

Ever since arriving here, it felt as if I was rapidly losing everything that defined me.

Consequently, my thoughts remained scattered, and I couldn't devise any specific tactics.

"What's the matter?" I sneered, concealing the turmoil within me. "Are you sulking about your
lonely existence, since nobody wants to engage with you?"

"Shut up, as if you're the life of the party!"

Yet, the battle raged on. My attacks seemed increasingly monotonous, and my fighting style
grew clumsier. On the other hand, my brute strength continued to amplify. The enemy lacked
imagination too. From our first clash, the unremarkable woman before me relied solely on
direct, straightforward attacks. True, she possessed no extraordinary powers either. As a result,
neither of us had a distinct advantage, reducing the confrontation to a petty brawl reminiscent
of children. This meant we were both preoccupied. I needed to identify the difference between
us and exploit it, but I no longer even comprehended my own identity.
The recent exchange of provocations vaguely triggered a sense of familiarity, yet the void in my
memory deepened...

"It's not just about the armor, is it?" I remarked, catching a glimpse of my own strength. Heh
heh heh... Have you fallen for me so deeply that you've resorted to plagiarism? Shameless and
ugly."

"But who... would ever imitate you?!"

Her words pierced me to the core, prompting a surge of anger that made me want to claw at my
own heart. I despised the notion of being considered similar, of being regarded as kindred
spirits—I vehemently rejected that notion.

"I am not like that. I have never been like this!"

To whom did these feelings truly belong? The somber woman rambling nonsensically held no
importance to me now. There was someone else, someone whose face and name eluded my
memory, but whom I couldn't purge from my thoughts. I remembered how he taunted me for
despising someone so similar to myself. It seemed that this person, through their actions rather
than words, hinted at this truth.

What did I truly think of it back then?

Perhaps, in some part, I even acknowledged it.

We were both crude and stubborn individuals, ill-suited for deceitful tactics—we were simply
incapable of such artifice. Instead, we relied on our fists to strike those we disliked, even if it
meant tearing pieces of ourselves apart in the process. When we first met, I was astonished by
his ability to swiftly defeat a formidable foe, and a strange warmth overwhelmed me. I didn't
like him, yet I began to perceive him as a stronger version of myself. And when his recklessness
surpassed my wildest expectations, for some reason, anger surged within me, an anger I
couldn't bear... I won't claim that he betrayed me. I was merely too naïve, for he had been true
to himself from the very beginning, while I had been the fool.

But... that no longer mattered! A fiery red aura blazed brighter, wrapping around my
withdrawn fist, granting me tremendous strength in exchange for all that I had lost. I shouted:

"I don't recognize him. When this is all over... I will settle the score with him!"

The clash of another collision seemed like a distant echo. Yes, he appeared so far away now. I
acutely realized that the one whose path had seemed a natural continuation of my own was, in
fact, something indeterminate. The better I understood him, the more grotesque and sinister
he seemed, yet I also saw a brightness within him. It became increasingly difficult to discern
which of us was right.

Hence, it no longer mattered whether someone would intervene or save us. Sermons held no
sway, and pondering the concepts of good and evil seemed like an exercise in futility, a waste of
precious time. Within the ethereal, translucent realm, a single desire burned fiercely in my
chest.

"Allow me to strike you with all my might."

"I want to defeat him."

That was the driving force that sustained me. It was the one thing I must never forget. I vowed
to hold onto it, no matter what transpired and continued to charge forward relentlessly.
Looking only ahead, I sought to witness that wretched man writhing in pain.

"I will show him how much stronger I am, yet I will remain true to myself, even under his
conditions. Otherwise, how will he ever understand, huh?"

"Y-You speak nonsense..."

Needless to say, my enemy couldn't comprehend the oath that seemed like gibberish. However,
there was one who listened intently and understood it clearly. Another manifestation of Melek
Tawus, born from Mashyag, this "he" obeyed the rules of duality while possessing a character
both similar to and different from his elder sister. Functionally, both brother and sister served
as generators of their own power, but they relied on different sources of fuel.
While the sister fed on emotions, the brother thrived on memories. Both could reduce their
wielders to mere husks in exchange for temporary strength. Yet, it was evident that the
brother's power was far more fearsome. This was because memories couldn't flow endlessly
from one's thoughts. Memory was finite, and since it formed the basis of all emotions,
suppressing it could deprive the bearer of a chance—a chance to overcome.

In essence, the sister was an insatiable glutton beyond control, while the brother exhibited a
more rational and refined taste. Until now, he had meticulously executed a plan set in motion
since his birth. But now, a change was underway in that plan.

"But I noticed you were ignoring me. How sassy," Samluch scoffed. Melek Tawus came to an
abrupt halt, freezing like a malfunctioning machine.

Following suit, Samluch also froze, her body heavily reliant on the armor, leaving little room for
evasion. Beside her stood a young man whose identity remained a mystery, his face draining of
color. As time distorted, everything slowed to a surreal pace, and the scarlet spear and blue
blades traced a vivid purple spiral.

"Taurvi Asto-visat."

"Zarich Asto-visat."

The destructive technique approached them simultaneously from both sides. The momentary
pause caused by an unforeseen misfire was no more than a fleeting instant, yet it held the
power to determine life and death. Retaliation was out of the question, and evading the attack,
even with every nerve in their bodies strained, seemed near impossible. Even if they managed
to avoid a fatal blow, they would be left unable to continue the battle, leaving them with only
one option.

They had to choose a glorious death, to take their opponents down with them to the grave.
Samluch and Ferdows, having made the same choice, prepared to strike back after weathering
the onslaught, when another unexpected event unfolded before them.

A gust of wind swept through, wedging itself between the combatants, emanating a powerful
spiritual presence that vaguely resembled the recent fluttering of Vohu Mana's silver wings.

"Refrain from going on a rampage, my lord. Let us retreat!"

Thanks to the mysterious wind, Samluch and Ferdows managed to dodge the attack. Rather,
they were forcefully propelled backward, but the outcome played into their hands. Taken aback
by the sudden turn of events, they looked up to find a small figure in their previous location.

"Heh heh heh, the day has finally come."

Thirteen years of working as a nanny would stress anyone out, s... Ah, ah, ah-ah-choo! The girl
grumbled and sneezed with all her might, creating a cloud of dust that seemed detached from
the mortal world.

At first glance, she appeared no older than ten, yet there was an odd mixture of youth and
mature demeanor about her, coupled with beastly habits that rendered conversation futile. And
what was with the hair that twitched on its own? Resembling the ears or wings of a bird,
perhaps even a dog's tail? Could she have summoned the wind that blew just now? The
mysterious girl turned toward Samluch and Ferdows, raising her middle and index fingers near
her eye, and introduced herself with enthusiasm.

"Ashenka is here, so you can rest assured, my lord. You'll see, I'll exceed all expectations, sir!"

"...No, no, but who are you?"

Even if Samluch hadn't lost her memories, she would have asked the same question. It was
their first meeting, evident from Ferdows' skeptical gaze. However, the voice recognizing
familiarity came from an unexpected source.

"Are you still alive? What memories! It's been five hundred years since we last saw each other,
and I haven't forgotten.”
Both locusts expressed surprise, yet a fiery flame of hostility burned brightly within their
hearts, hinting at their shared history. And indeed, the girl, with a dismissive glance, retorted:

"Ah, Grumpy and Duryndid, I believe? Pardon me, I'm not very good at remembering those
weaker than myself, sir. Especially when they resemble some kind of joke heroes. And what do
you think you are?"

Such a casually delivered, yet cutting, response caused Taurvid to clutch his stomach, while
Zariched howled, tugging at her hair.

"Ha ha ha ha, I'm glad you haven't changed!"

"Ah, you little brat! I'll pluck and roast you!"

Simultaneously, an inexhaustible surge of self-igniting force threatened to consume the very

heavens. The respite granted by the girl's interference had come to an end, marking the
beginning of the second round.

"Hey, you kids. Lift your jaws off the ground and lend a hand, sir."

Sporting an air of arrogance that belied her appearance, she began issuing instructions to
Samluch and Ferdows, who were still trying to grasp the situation.

"By the way, where did Quinn go?"

Ashozushta, the Celestial Spirit of the Sky Burial Sphere, joined the battle.

Chapter 12: To Become Immutable - Translated by @ashmxt.t

1
"We must address the immediate threat at hand, sir," Ashozushta declared, her voice carrying a
resolute tone.

With a swift motion, she turned on the spot, causing the wind to dance around him. The gusts
grew denser, taking on a tangible form.
"And it seems you've taken on quite the convenient challenge for yourself, like crickets on fire,
sir," she added, a sly smile playing on her lips.

The wind materialized into a winged rod, resembling a toy at first glance, but the power it
exuded was unmistakable. Even Ashozushta's allies couldn't help but become alert in the
presence of such evident strength.

However, when the gem at the tip of the wand shimmered, it produced nothing more than a
frivolous beeping sound, leading to an awkward silence.

"...What? What the hell is this joke?" Samluch exclaimed in confusion and anger as she
involuntarily stepped closer.

The actions of Ashozushta seemed utterly meaningless to her, and she had expected much
more. Yet, there were those who saw the significance.

"Damn, what a mess..." cursed Zariched's face twisted with frustration as she lunged at
Ashozushta, followed closely by Taurvid, who shared her body. Samluch and Ferdows, still
trying to grasp the situation, suddenly heard a sharp command.

"Don't let your guard down, scatter!"

Ashozushta's noble spirit summoned a new whirlwind, lifting Samluch and Ferdows into the
air. Ashozushta soared up after them, wearing a wide grin.

"They won't be able to find us anymore, sir," she assured them.

One glance revealed that Zariched and Taurvid were genuinely unable to see them. The two
heads looked around in annoyance, shouting, "Where are you?" and "Come out!"

It was more than just strange. It was unfathomable how bloodthirsty locusts could lose sight of
their prey so easily, and yet Samluch and Ferdows made no effort to hide. But then, what was
the purpose of it all? Realizing this, Ferdows turned to Ashozushta and posed a question that
bordered on a statement.

"Have we become invisible?"

"From their perspective, yes. My Commandment and power have concealed our presence, sir."

"Power... So you're a Star Spirit?" Ferdows inquired.

"Yes but a bit inexperienced, sir," Ashozushta responded, her voice carrying a hint of modesty,
yet also pride.

It was evident that she often lacked seriousness, but the incredible power at her disposal left
no room for doubt. Until now, their stealth had only been effective through mutual agreement,
requiring complete trust between both parties. Given that Commandments tended to reinforce
one's own abilities, this limitation was natural. However, now that Ashozushta had become a
Star Spirit, her powers had expanded significantly. In the Sky Burial Sphere, there would be no
barriers for her, and even in a foreign land, making eye contact with an ashavan would be
sufficient to forcefully employ stealth.

Moreover, the masking effect itself had become much stronger. There was no denying that
having such an ally was capable of confronting locusts on equal footing.

"Quinn mentioned that they both swore an oath not to attack without mutual awareness, sir,"

"So, by doing this, we practically nullified one of their Commandments?"

The invisibility of their opponents rendered Hazah Ruma ineffective. Ashozushta had
effectively neutralized the locusts' perpetually moving crown, albeit unintentionally.

"Oh, I might not fully understand, but it pleases me nonetheless. So now we can simply pummel
them without fear of retaliation?" Samluch asked with a hint of hope.

"...No, it's not that simple," Ferdows interjected, his gaze filled with tension.
Unlike Samluch, he still retained memories of their previous encounter. The same held true for
Ashozushta, as the sworn enemy of the locusts, who had not forgotten the true
Commandments of Zariched and Taurvid.

"As always, only rife deception and cunning. Far from the allure of true battle," Ferdows
remarked, his voice tinged with disappointment.

"The main thing is not to die, and your path to victory need not be glamorous. You need not
fear as long as your journey to triumph lacks charm," Ashozushta replied, her voice laced with
humility, yet unwavering determination.

One gritted his teeth, while the other couldn't help but chuckle, albeit filled with regret.
Nevertheless, both tightened their grip on their weapons, their spear and blade radiating a
furious flame of their inherent power. In a moment of urgency, Ferdows sensed the impending
danger and let out a short cry.

"Hey, throw them up!"

"I know!" Samluch responded swiftly.

It could be said that they managed to react just in the nick of time. Zariched and Taurvid
extended their arms like wings, unleashing their devilish technique upon the surroundings.
Without Hazah Ruma, their strikes were aimless, raining down with the fiery blade and the
thirsting spear. Had Ashozushta's wind not lifted Samluch and Ferdows into the air, they would
surely have been caught in the attack. Although the meeting place was guarded by Sirius and
Kaikhosru, even the strongest locust assault would have been repelled. However, Ferdows
realized that more than half of those present were their enemies. He couldn't simply ignore the
situation.

While he was reluctant to endanger Alma or the lords, his instincts guided him. He understood
that provoking Kaikhosru and Sirius at this moment would be unwise. It wasn't a logical
decision but an intuitive one, warning him of potential irreparable consequences. The Avesta
was no longer an undisputable truth, and the definitions of good and evil were mired in chaos.

Ferdows, having lost faith in himself, could no longer embody the pride of a yazata or his
unwavering sense of justice. Yet, intuitively, he knew that this was the boundary he must
defend. He realized that sooner or later, he would have to confront the hegemons and their
ambitions. But, at least for now... Frankly, he had no room for mistakes. The situation had
already become unpredictable, and he couldn't afford to act recklessly. It wasn't clear whether
his decision was correct, but it demanded a heavy price.

"Ghhhh!" Ferdows grunted in pain as the blade of ardor grazed his leg, leaving a gash in its
wake.

With the passing of the moon, healing such a wound quickly would be impossible.
"Are you alright, Ferdows?" Samluch inquired, concern lacing her voice.

"Shut up! There's nothing to worry about!" Ferdows replied, his angry retort masking the
internal turmoil he felt.

It was astounding how untalented he appeared, almost laughable. The way he suffered due to
his own pride was unforgivable, outrageous, and unbearable. The darkness of regret emerged
within him, enhancing the anguish coursing through his body and staining his soul. The pain
and bloodshed honed his desperate blade, sharpening it further.

"Ah, there you are! I can smell the blood!" Taurvid exclaimed triumphantly.

Even though the strike missed its intended mark, even a mere scratch was enough for Taurvid
to determine Ferdows's location. The azure blade, grinning like a crescent moon, traced a
destructive arc in the air. However, due to a slight miscalculation, Ferdows managed to dodge
the attack at the last moment. Yet, the weakening of his disguise meant he had to defend
himself. Understanding the situation, Ashozushta proposed a plan.

"We attack from Zariched's blind spot. Any objections?"

"None. This woman's strikes are rather random," Ferdows replied.

At present, the locusts' attacks could only be described as uncontrolled. However, it was
evident that Taurvid posed a greater threat due to his Commandment. Forced to merge their
conflicting Commandments, Zariched and Taurvid were closer to Hazah Ruma. Consequently,
Zariched's chances of hitting an unseen target were minimal. Previously, their sudden
intervention had merely weakened the ardor blades. The spear of bloodthirst hadn't been able
to touch anyone.

Although their battles from before might not be indicative of their current combined state after
Nadare's world had collapsed, it was unlikely the spear would miss its mark entirely. Yet, it was
true that Zariched's strikes were somewhat random. Therefore, the logical choice was to attack
from their blind spot. The problem was that the enemy had access to the same common sense.
The Locusts of Ferocity were seasoned veterans, having fought numerous battles. Monsters of
war, sworn to exterminate all life, it was only natural for them to anticipate such tactics. In a
sense, Samluch and Ferdows were rushing into the beast's lair, with no other viable option
before them.

The anticipation hung heavy in the air as Samluch and Ferdows prepared for the crucial battle
ahead. It was clear to Samluch that their survival hinged on their unity and unwavering
support for each other. With a solemn tone, she leaned closer to Ferdows and spoke in a
whisper.
"I'm forgetting...losing parts of myself with each passing moment. Soon, I won't even know
which way is up or down," Samluch confessed, her voice filled with a sense of resignation.

"Will you forget this conversation too?" Ferdows asked, his voice tinged with concern.

"Probably...no, definitely. So be aware that I might act contrary to our strategy when that
happens. And there's something else I don't quite understand myself." S

amluk's words revealed the internal struggle she faced, the fear of losing herself completely.
Ferdows listened attentively, understanding the weight of her words. He knew that Samluch's
sudden loss of control could lead to a fatal mistake. However, he saw an opportunity in this dire
situation.

"Alright," Ferdows replied calmly yet assertively. He stared into Samluch's eyes, his face pale
and his gaze filled with determination.

"When that moment comes, I'll leave you, or better yet, take advantage of it."

There was no response from Samluch, but her resolve spoke volumes. Empty words of
encouragement seemed out of place in the face of such determination. She was willing to
sacrifice herself to give Ferdows a chance to defeat the enemy.

"Ferdows, can you really finish them off?" Samluch asked, seeking reassurance.

"Yes, they cannot survive. I will make sure of it," Ferdows replied with conviction. Despite the
doubt and uncertainty that plagued him, he believed in his ability to prevail.

"I will kill them without fail, you'll see."

"Then I trust you," Samluch said, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

"And if all goes well, maybe you can marry me."

The phrase she spoke was familiar, evoking a sense of nostalgia and warmth in Ferdows. He felt
tears welling up in his eyes, knowing that only he remembered the significance of those words
in this moment.

"I...hate big women," Ferdows choked out, his voice trembling.

"There's no denying that," Samluch replied, a hint of a smile on her lips.

"Maybe in ten years, you'll like one."

"You're talking about your own death, yet you're worried about me?" Ferdows questioned, a
mix of disbelief and admiration in his voice.
The exchange between them felt bittersweet, their words carrying a weight of finality. Samluch
had accepted her fate, and Ferdows knew he couldn't protect her. But they clung to this
moment, cherishing their last conversation as they prepared to face the impending battle.

"Very well. But I don't want Quinn to be angry with me later, so I'll do everything I can, sir,"
Ashozushta sighed, her voice filled with resignation.

"And how long are you going to keep us waiting? Don't tell me you were thinking of running
away!" Ashozushta's calm yet commanding voice cut through the battlefield, bringing their
attention back to the present.

"Don't disappoint me. Fight with all your might and prove your worth as the strongest!" she
exclaimed.

The clash resumed with a ferocity that matched the intensity of their determination. Samluch,
Ferdows, and Ashozushta dodged the onslaught of attacks, their movements coordinated and
synchronized. Each of them focused on their respective roles, knowing that their success relied
on perfect execution. As Ferdows stepped back, preparing for a decisive strike, Samluch moved
forward, ready to become the bait. Ashozushta positioned himself between them, providing
support and raising his winged rod towards the sky.

"I'm still not fully accustomed to this technique, sir, so controlling it is challenging," Ashozushta
admitted with a hint of uncertainty.

Having recently become a Star Spirit, Ashozushta was still grappling with the newfound power
that surged within her. While she had faith in his abilities, she knew that any misstep could
lead to dire consequences. However, Samluch and Ferdows relied on him, and he was
determined to help them with all his heart. Not as an ashavan, but as a comrade-in-arms bound
by a deep connection.

"Sir, let me show you everything I'm capable of!" Ashozushta declared, her voice filled with
determination.

The swirling wind enveloped them, and the blessings bestowed upon Samluch began to yield
astonishing results. The gift of flight was surpassed by a new power, granting her lightning-fast
mobility that approached the speed of light. Samluch found herself hitting Zariched with a
devastating blow before she could even blink. The force behind her strikes was unparalleled,
aided by the armor's strength, the aura of mortal wounds, and the energy of acceleration.
Zariched's self-power protection shattered, leaving her vulnerable to the relentless onslaught
of Samluch's blows.

It was a display of power and speed that even the seasoned Locusts of Ferocity struggled to
withstand. Zariched, in her state of disbelief, managed to utter words of admiration amidst the
pain. But Samluch wasn't done yet. She continued her barrage of attacks, each strike hitting
with precision and unrelenting force. The combination of her invisible presence and
unmatched speed left the locusts with no chance to counter.

"I...it hurts, but it's amusing. You're strong," Zariched admitted, a mixture of pain and pleasure
evident in her voice.

For those who claimed to be the strongest, the word "impossible" acted as a catalyst, pushing
them beyond their limits. As the tide turned in Samluch's favor, her confidence soared. She
tapped into a scarlet power within herself, surpassing her sixth sense and creating a new sense
to locate her elusive enemy. She believed that her strength placed her above all, granting her
the ability to see everything. But amidst her triumph, Taurvid, the second locust, made his
move.

He flew towards the ground, his blade tracing a lethal arc in the air. Despite the setback,
Ashozushta intervened, his wind manipulation neutralizing the destructive attack. However,
his own wounds and exhaustion were taking their toll.

"I don't want to play anymore. I'm bored," Taurvid declared, his voice dripping with disdain.

Though grounded, Taurvid still possessed the ability to sense his unseen foes. With his
calculations, he aimed his blade at Ashozushta, striking her with a powerful blow. Ashozushta,
hanging in the air, screamed in pain as she felt the impact of the attack.

"Are you alive?" Samluch asked, concern lacing her words.

"I'm holding on... for now," Ashozushta managed to reply, her voice strained. The situation grew
dire as the locusts stood on the ground, their wounds mysteriously healed. Samluch and
Ferdows knew they couldn't afford to let their guard down. They needed to endure and give
their small comrade-in-arms a chance to strike.

"Magsarion must be active as well, leaving us no choice," Samluch said, a note of determination
in her voice.

"Magsarion?" Ferdows questioned, curious about the mention of the name.

A strange warmth enveloped Samluch, as the spoken name echoed in her mind. It was a name
she had never heard before, yet she felt a deep connection to it, as if something important was
tied to that name, something she couldn't forget. From her vantage point high above, Samluch
could easily spot the person mentioned by Ashozushta.

A figure clad in black armor, his body stained with blood. Despite the distance that separated
them, he continued to sprint relentlessly across the desolate, scorched wasteland. Her gaze
fixated on his back, unable to tear away. It was a vow she made, a promise never to avert her
eyes, and even though she couldn't recall the exact circumstances of that pledge, she knew
deep within her being that it was something she could never forget.
"Here they come again, launching their attack," Ashozushta remarked.

"Yeah, we won't back down," Samluch replied, her consciousness still focused on the distant
figure of Magsarion.

In the face of the approaching Locusts of Ferocity, Samluch remained resolute, her attention
firmly fixed on Magsarion's back. By all rational standards, this was a suicidal decision, one that
would divert her focus from the immediate threat. But she believed that it was the right choice,
undeterred by the potential consequences.

"I won't give up. Not just for you." Samluch whispered, knowing that by keeping her thoughts
anchored to Magsarion, she would ultimately achieve her most important victory.

2
He had fought even before his existence came into being.

Those distant times were now lost in the annals of forgotten memories. Back then, devoid of
reason, he couldn't recollect or erase what transpired. It was in the perfect universe known as
the womb, a paradise that served as a singular cradle, where his battle persisted. Who his
opponent was remained a mystery to him.

At that time, he lacked the ability to discern himself from others, and the concept of "others"
eluded his understanding. Yet, they existed. Someone undeniably existed. The moment he
recognized something hostile, vying for supremacy in this world, his transcendent pilgrimage
commenced. Objectively speaking, one could argue that even before his conception, he had
vanquished his own kind.

"I will achieve the goal."

"Only I will become myself."

Though every living being engages in a struggle against countless versions of themselves, he
owed his uniqueness to conquering the throne of the strongest.

"I alone live in this world..."

That initial triumph bestowed upon him dreams and pride, shaping the trajectory of his entire
existence. As soon as self-awareness dawned upon him, he broke free from his mother's womb,
devouring it. Merely four minutes after birth, he obliterated his father, the leader of the
Drujvants, and his entourage.

Confidence in his own might became his life's calling, propelling him forward on his chosen
path without a moment's pause. He felt no dissatisfaction, no doubts. Regret, introspection, and
compromise were foreign to him, reserved for the weak. As long as his strength remained
unrivaled, he could live and kill without a shred of uncertainty.

Bahlavan, the Ferocity Locust, had fought more than any other being since the creation of the
world. His wealth of combat experience surpassed all others, standing firmly at the pinnacle.
His wanderings eclipsed even the most gruesome massacres, earning him the title of the god of
battle. He sat upon a mountain of victories and corpses heaped by his own hands, an ecstasy
engraved deep within his soul that the uninitiated could never fathom.

The first war, where he proved his superiority over the entire world and came into his own,
remained etched in his memory. Despite lacking reason at the time, it was an event he
remembered. It birthed an indescribable satisfaction, an ebb and flow of delight and awe that
sent shivers down his spine. This indicated that it was his most exhilarating and arduous battle.

In terms of sheer skill or strength, it may not have been his most prolonged or refined
engagement. Yet, such facts held no relevance for him; he knew of no other battle that could
rival its perfection. His adversaries were identical to him in every aspect, making it natural that
none held an advantage. Emerging victorious, Bahlavan became the embodiment of surpassing
limits. In the depths of his consciousness, a prayer silently kindled, yearning to experience it
again.

They say it's lonely at the top.

At the end of the path, there would be nothing left. Such desires were dismissed as senseless
madness. This common sense became Bahlavan's adversary.

How could they know?

They had never stood as the strongest, so how could they pass off their conjectures as
indisputable truths?

He disagreed, comprehending not a single word. Let his fists speak, let him attack.

"I know it all. I emerged triumphant in the primordial championship, a world where no one but
me existed. I fought millions, billions of myself and emerged victorious. That is why I stand
here now."

Hence, there was no need to fear loneliness. This confidence became his Commandment, a
Commandment to shatter even the void itself. To forever engage in that sweetest of wars,
transcending his past without limits. To battle countless versions of himself in the boundless
and infinite expanse, relentlessly surpassing his own boundaries.

This, he believed, was the essence of being the true and unrivaled strongest. The summit
remained unattainable because it eternally rose higher. He refused to heed those who, with an
air of omniscience, claimed the world would end alone, content in their despair. Whoever stood
in his way, he would not falter. For he was stronger. Regardless of their attempts to dissuade
him, he would not yield. Because he mattered.

If they wished to challenge his ferocity, they should enchant him with a lifestyle that surpassed
even his own strength. Only then would he acknowledge them. Otherwise, they were
inconsequential. Thus, Bahlavan reached his present position. These unconscious convictions
remained deeply ingrained within him, rarely spoken of, as they shaped the foundation of his
being, an irrefutable truth. The joy of his first battle with himself became his greatest asset,
surpassing all else in excitement. He understood that this was the essence of being the
strongest, and the desire to experience it once again permeated his very being. Perhaps, in
truth, all he saw was himself.

"I am stronger than everyone, and thus, my opponent should be me. I will not settle for
anything less than myself. Become me."

That his true Commandment only emerged when facing those he felt a kinship with was
evidence of his inability to recognize the differences between himself and others. From the
very beginning, Bahlavan yearned for a battlefield of one, desiring to exterminate all life in the
universe.

"I wish to recreate that battle as soon as possible. Thus, nothing but me is needed in this
universe. Vanish without a trace."

A universe filled with himself was his transcendent ideal, the path he strove towards. Having
slain his copies and once again left alone, Bahlavan coldly surveyed the black knight prostrated
at his feet. He couldn't help but feel a tinge of regret, as if he had expected more from him. The
opponent had come remarkably close, yet failed to become one with him. Such an expectation
was absurd, and this trace of sorrow seemed entirely out of place.

"I won't say I'm disappointed. Through you, I felt a glimpse of something elusive. Though you
turned out to be nothing more than temporary entertainment... Yes, I enjoyed it."

As his fervor waned, Bahlavan instinctively retreated into the depths of his soul, concealing his
own truths. It was an unconscious habit, a door that would remain shut until he eliminated all
others. However, this time, the door creaked loudly. It should have closed already, yet it
strained and faltered, as if an external force prevented its closure.

A sensation he had never experienced before, akin to irritation, welled up within Bahlavan,
almost against his will.

"Tell me, why are you laughing?"

A voice, dry but distinct, reached his ears, and Bahlavan couldn't believe what he heard.
Magsarion, whom he thought he had irrevocably destroyed, laughed, lying prone on the
ground.
"What's so funny?"

The black knight's gaze turned skyward, his voice echoing with darkness and heaviness, as
though pulling him into the depths of an abyss. Oddly enough, that wasn't the greatest enigma.
Bahlavan was certain he had killed Magsarion. No, he had unquestionably slain him, never
having erred in his judgments before. This mistake, almost childlike in nature, was absurd. The
door should have closed by now. Yet, it groaned, bending and wobbling, obstructed by an
external presence. It aroused a sensation within Bahlavan, akin to irritation, a feeling that was
entirely foreign to him.

"Why are you laughing?"

The answer came, but what did it signify?

"Magsarion."

Upon hearing the same dry, yet distinct voice, Bahlavan's entire body tensed. It was a response
that defied conventional conversation, yet represented a profound mutual understanding. At
first, Magsarion knew naught but rejection and bloodlust, and speaking of himself, even in a
distorted manner, was entirely uncharacteristic. It was as if he declared that his answer would
become a blade, slicing the enemy to pieces.

"Forgot that you asked me to name myself? Or perhaps you didn't hear me? I am me."

Magsarion continued to laugh, a guttural sound, mocking and derisive.

"Do not even think for a moment that we belong together. Your presence sickens me, your filthy
stench polluting the air you fake."

In the next instant, the steel fist of ferocity howled once more. Due to Bahlavan's prodigious
talent, the blow dealt to the prone Magsarion became the most powerful he had ever delivered.
Considering he had just fought and emerged victorious against his own copies, it was evident
that he had never witnessed such rapid growth.

Magsarion's laughter pierced the air, despite being knocked into the ground, a malevolent and
mocking sound that echoed with contempt. His words, dripping with venom, cut through the
tension-laden atmosphere, questioning Bahlavan's true capabilities.

"Naive, feeble, utterly fragile," Magsarion sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

"You, too, are nothing more than a fraction of the fickle scum. A mere doll made of sand, easily
dispersed by the gentlest breeze."
Unexpectedly, it was Bahlavan's own hand that lay shattered, broken not by an attack but by a
single blow from Magsarion. It was as if the indomitable king had solidified into an unyielding,
unchanging force, lost within the depths of an impenetrable conviction. Yet, this did not alter
the fact that Magsarion knew no retreat, for within the locust king's lexicon, the word "retreat"
did not exist, nor had it ever.

"A-ha-ha, what is this? How did you achieve such a feat?"

Magsarion chuckled, pushing away the remnants of Bahlavan's fractured hand with an almost
tender gesture. But why, then, did the towering figure of evil recoil like a bullet, a specter of
impending cataclysm on the verge of an unimaginable descent? Contrary to the chaos
surrounding him, Magsarion's voice shifted, becoming oddly friendly—a stark contrast to his
recent insults.

It was a gentle, calm timbre that seemed out of place coming from a warrior brimming with
fury. Paradoxically, it held a more ominous and chilling quality than any scream could muster.

"Your curiosity amuses me," Magsarion spoke, his tone unsettlingly amiable.

"It seems you oppose the nauseating 'everything,' yet paradoxically, you are intricately
connected to it. Ah, how intriguing it becomes. I was just pondering the very same idea."

In a strange turn of events, Magsarion covered his eyes with his hands, revealing a shattered
armor and helmet that no longer protected his ravaged form. Not a single bone remained intact
within him, and the armor bore the scars of relentless assault, oozing a murky liquid that
defied classification as blood or bone marrow. Yet, amidst the grisly spectacle, the eyes within
the helm burned brighter than ever, gleaming with impenetrable darkness, foreshadowing an
impending cataclysmic eruption.

Indeed, Magsarion's true essence remained intact, untouched by external carnage. He had
ascended to a new, unparalleled level, one that defied all opposition. His true essence, hidden
from the eyes of the world, surged forward with a menacing rumble in an even more terrifying
direction.

"Thank you. I must admit, our encounter has proven beneficial," Magsarion uttered, his words
laden with chilling gratitude.
His unsteady, staggering gait carried him forward, a sight that belied his status as more than
half-dead. Yet, it made no difference—before them stood an immeasurable anomaly, a
manifestation of heartlessness and ruthlessness ready to rend and devour heaven and earth,
but relentlessly forging ahead.

"So, come forth!" Magsarion bellowed.

Bahlavan's cry, enough to annihilate any ordinary monster, shattered the silence, and in an
instant, he closed the distance between them. Ignoring the state of his battered fist, he
clenched it with unwavering determination, launching a blow that surpassed all previous
limits, fueled by an ever-increasing power. The ensuing scene unfolded like a painting after a
mighty explosion, the echoes of its deafening roar still resonating.

Bahlavan's fist, bloodied yet unwaveringly strong, had adapted to the mysterious fortress that
was Magsarion. His cultivation knew no equal, his unwavering resolve marking him as an
extraordinary warrior. Yet, Magsarion refused to repeat the events of the past.

He didn't recoil or budge an inch when Bahlavan's blow struck his forehead. He stood firm,
unyielding, a testament to his resolute nature. In a deathly silence, as if both combatants had
forgotten the very essence of breath, they stared into each other's eyes at point-blank range,
attempting to incinerate one another with their gazes.

Each of them understood that even the slightest careless movement could spell their demise,
while their verbal confrontation intensified in its ferocity. The whisper of Magsarion slithered
across the ground, serving its purpose, driving deeper into the core of their rivalry.

"Our similarities hold no meaning; I am not you," Magsarion proclaimed, his armor and helmet
creaking with laughter as he exposed Bahlavan's only flaw.

It was a flaw that even Khvarenah, with his forgotten purpose, had found enviable, a flaw that
had left Bahlavan's self-assurance susceptible to scrutiny and ridicule.

"Tell me, if you deem yourself the strongest, then why do you fight?"

Magsarion's voice carried a tone of profound bewilderment.

"Why slay everyone you encounter, yet refrain from raising your hand against those who
cannot see you, merely because it seems unfair? What does that make you? Do you
comprehend? Alas, it is not surprising."

A blade pierced through the ground, cleaving Bahlavan's chest and forcing him to retreat for
the first time. But Magsarion made no move to pursue him. Instead, he continued to speak, his
voice unwavering and raised, despite his shredded hand.

"First, you extol yourself as the strongest, only to proclaim your intent to claim the throne. Who
defends their title here, and who lays claim to it? Your contradiction leaves you teetering back
and forth, unsteady," Magsarion elucidated, his mangled armor and helmet serving as a
backdrop to his piercing insights.

"I have no inkling of how you arrived at this juncture, but I have surmised that you carry within
you a Commandment, unbeknownst to even yourself. It must have occurred before your very
existence."
Within the depths of Bahlavan's subconscious, a door long sealed shut, a shuttered chamber of
forgotten memories, creaked open once more, urged forth by Magsarion's direction.

"I may not comprehend the intricacies, but it appears that once, in a world devoid of any but
yourself, you had already become the strongest," Magsarion revealed, his voice tinged with a
sense of awe.

"And you did so unconsciously. Perhaps, your attempt to meld the roles of champion and
contender stems from that time. However, it is your journey to unravel."

The steel shutters, guarding the primordial prayer within Bahlavan's soul, began to shift,
emitting a resounding creak. He was reminded of the sweet bliss that had been carved into his
being, a time long past, where battles raged with odds so closely matched. It was a memory
that haunted him, even after eighteen centuries of wandering—an era he yearned to relive,
where chaos reigned, brimming with both awe and exhilaration, where the future remained
shrouded in uncertainty, and anyone could emerge victorious.

He didn't want to win at all.

For in a world where everyone is but a fragment of himself, the distinction between triumph
and defeat becomes meaningless. And if the last survivor is strong, the title of the strongest
holds no claim to invincibility.

In the relentless cycle of combat, Bahlavan's existence was not driven by a quest to defend the
greatest throne or to claim it as his own. Rather, his fervent desire was to taste once more that
original satisfaction, the euphoria that could only be found in the midst of a grand and
boundless battle where victory or defeat held no sway. However, this longing clashed against
the notion of being the strongest, distorting itself into a precarious way of life.
“Oh, oh-oh ... Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh!!!”

But now, in this very moment, he stood in his rightful place. Magsarion's words had not merely
opened the door but shattered it, unleashing a plea of transcendent ferocity that reverberated
through the air. Let this fact, of course, promise only the threat of the birth of the perfect
monster of battle…

“Here is my gratitude. If I don't defeat someone like you, I'll realize that I'm nothing.”
With a resolute self-criticism murmured under his breath, Magsarion departed, leaving behind
a prayer as black and abyssal as the depths of hell itself, transforming the very fabric of the
universe into a nightmarish reality.

"I myself am not particularly fond of fighting," he quietly declared to no one in particular, his
words laced with an undeniable weight.

"And I detest killing as well."

Throughout his arduous journey, he had fought relentlessly, leaving behind mountains of
corpses and rivers of blood in his wake. Covered in unabashed hatred, burdened by curses and
countless sorrows, he knew that the light of glory would never grace his path. And yet, he
would not succumb to defeat.

There were no defeats on his path and there never would be. Never had he questioned his
actions, for as the "younger brother" of the hero, he saw his own justice in the denial of regret
and mercy.

"That is the immutability within me," he proclaimed, his voice laced with contemptuous
acceptance of Magsarion's ignorance, impotence, and madness.

"And I shall assimilate you all without exception."

As he uttered his oath, a symphony of locusts responded with their own aria—an explosion of
bloodlust akin to a love affair. A steel fist clashed with a furious blade, resonating with a
deafening roar, while their combined will shattered the very fabric of the universe, giving birth
to fractures that spanned across realities. In their strength, they were equals, no longer
confined to the labels of Magsarion or Bahlavan.

The boundary between them had ceased to hold any meaning for Bahlavan, who had
discovered his truth. The primal delight that burned within his chest had become his
everything, and he would not rest until all became like him. And especially this formidable
opponent, this glorious adversary. From his perspective, the one who could make him sense the
possibility of defeat at his back could only be himself.

"The paradise I yearned for—halls where millions of me clash!" he exclaimed.

"There, life and death, everything, shines with a precious light!"

He yearned to experience that satisfaction once more, and not just experience it, but surpass
even that initial ecstasy. Until the moment arrived that transcended even his first bliss,
Bahlavan would never acknowledge anyone but himself.

"Magsarion, you must fall! Why should you be an Ashavan?!"

In the heart of a hurricane of blood, a catastrophic tempest of fury and ferocity, Bahlavan
roared.

"Come closer, become me!"

Limbs flailed, strength unyielding, they relentlessly rained down blows, gradually multiplying
in numbers.
"Join us on this side! You too shall be hailed as the King of Evil!" Bahlavan's words echoed from
all directions.

"But how?" Magsarion questioned.

In an instant, a powerful kick struck from five sides simultaneously, and the Bahlavans
continued their indomitable self-will, a force that defied all reason.

"If I command you to become me , then become me! Obey my every word! Logic and means are
but trifles that cannot shackle us!"

In truth, Bahlavan had no understanding of the underlying principles governing their clash. Yet,
he proudly proclaimed his indifference and commanded the subjugation of the very destiny of
the world.

He could do it.

He would do it.

And thus, any dispute over his capability held no significance. Such was his self-conceit and
self-assuredness that it caused both heaven and earth to tremble.

"Listen, you are nothing but a fool. I have never laughed so heartily at the dregs." Magsarion's
response carried a note of joy, dancing the dance of genocide. Perhaps he found Bahlavan's
proposition worthy of consideration.

"A few things still elude me. What I have witnessed thus far is simply not enough—I must
experience it for myself."

"Yes, that's right! Join us!" Bahlavan beckoned, his voice echoing fervently.

Five, ten, twenty... The exponential reproduction of Bahlavans covered the ground, a restless
swarm that howled with the ferocity of the Locusts of Ferocity themselves. Their song, more
sincere and impassioned than any courtship, held a desire to kill and be killed until the end of
time.
3
Ashozushta, a creature of constant flight and grace, never touched the ground since her arrival.
Even in her homeland, her feet never made contact with the surface. The only exception was
when she stood upon her owl body as a girl, but even then, she was essentially flying. In the Sky
Burial Sphere, where land was nonexistent, descending to the stellar body of Mashyana was not
an easy task.

While the winged ashavans of the planet typically flocked together, taking turns resting on each
other's backs, Ashozushta rejected this tradition. It stemmed not only from her willful and
violent nature, which contradicted her appearance, but also from her deep reverence for flying
itself.

Born with wings, she aspired to fly higher and faster than anyone else. Living in fierce
competition with valiant warriors fueled her dream of becoming the queen of heaven. This was
the Commandment of Ashozushta—never cease flying, uphold the pride of the winged, and
embody it within herself. It manifested in all her skills, an improvement in every aspect of her
kind.

Transformed into a Star Spirit, taking the heavenly throne, she transcended being an ordinary
owl. She possessed the speed of a peregrine falcon, the keen vision of an eagle, and the
remarkable ability to navigate like migratory birds. While she couldn't fully utilize these
abilities yet, her potential was undeniable. They were her reliable allies, but they also brought
suffering to some.

Ferdows, his sword sheathed, muttered in a broken voice, acknowledging the debt he owed to
Ashozushta. Despite his gratitude, he wished to be free of it, finding the torment unbearable.
Sweat adorned his graceful, almost feminine face, and his heavy breathing betrayed his
exhaustion. It was clear that his fatigue went beyond the wound inflicted by Taurvid—it was
the gift of Ashozushta that plagued him.

"It's starting to make sense, how Magsarion feels. It's as if death is imminent," Ferdows
muttered, his voice filled with anguish.

The oath he swore prohibited him from contact with outsiders unless through murder. Even
the gifts of Star Spirits were affected by this restriction. Though the contact was not physical, it
brought excruciating pain that shattered every bone in his body. Losing concentration even for
a moment could lead to loss of consciousness or, at worst, instant death.

Ferdows had realized this danger during his first battle with the locust and chose not to restore
the gifts of Vohu Mana. He believed he had no right to seek external assistance and aimed to
fight without relying on blessings. But now... Whining wouldn't change anything. He had to
accept that he had the power to endure. Magsarion had several times more feathers, and he
mastered their unconventional combinations.

While Ferdows respected his unimaginable willpower, it painfully highlighted his own
insignificance. Recognizing his incompetence as his sole weapon, he firmly believed that by
channeling his boundless self-contempt, he could help others.

"Don't praise me. Don't show me kindness. I don't deserve recognition. Don't worry, Marika. I
won't indulge in self-fantasies anymore. So please, inflict more pain upon me. Give me a blade
stained with the filth of the dregs."

Noon was approaching, the moment when Ferdows could unleash his most potent move.
Moreover, it was Thursday, the only day he had not yet figured out. While he accurately
determined the powers associated with the other six days, Thursday eluded his understanding.
The day was dedicated to the "supreme deity," but Ferdows couldn't grasp the concept.

What possessed the greatest and unquestionable authority in this world?

He used to view the Avesta with a similar role at home, but he couldn't define it in any
meaningful way. Until recently.

"It's nothing but crap. Just like me," Ferdows muttered, a contemptuous smirk stretching across
his face.

He now understood the fate of the universe and the flawed nature of the world. According to
Sirius, everything was wrong—a putrid realm where Marika suffered while vile mediocrity tore
her apart. There was no inherent rightness here.

"I shall bestow upon you the most absurd and delusional death, a comedy of cheapness. Appear
before me, Avesta—I know your tastes well."

Cursing and blaming her, Ferdows felt the burning heat of hatred alongside the sweetness of
Marika's kiss. Reciting a prayer to the supreme god, he resembled a monster baring its fangs,
eagerly awaiting noon. Just a little longer, not much remained—the anticipation caused real
agony. Trembling with the boiling bloodlust and disappointment in himself, he longed to
become a furious blade himself.

◇◇◇◇◇

With the slightest effort, it crumbles into pieces—the acquired past dissolving before her very
eyes. But the most devastating part is that Samluch no longer even registers its loss. She has
relinquished the meaning of her own name, the very history she fought so hard to survive. In
the absence of self-awareness, it is no wonder that her perception begins to waver. The reality
that unfolds before her eyes mere seconds ago becomes nothing more than gibberish to
Samluch, rendering her unable to process new information.

When memories desert you, is it so different from losing the present or the future?
She tumbles into the abyss, yet she continues to fight. Her fists unleash a primal howl, her legs
find their mark. Like a war machine, Samluch evades enemy attacks, never faltering for a
moment.

What drives her now?

Does the Avesta beckon to her very soul, commanding her to vanquish the opposing forces as
dictated by the fate of black and white?

Or is it some primal animal instinct, urging her to confront threats head-on?

Whatever the driving force may be, the end draws near. The memories consumed by the devil's
armor extend beyond the wearer's lived life.

"Ah, ah..." Samluch's ability to speak, to string together coherent thoughts, has abandoned her.

Bereft of the notion of meaning itself, she stands on the precipice of forgetting how to move her
arms and legs. Will it take a minute, ten seconds, or a mere instant? No one knows the answer,
but one thing is certain—she is no longer capable of cooperating with her allies. Thus, as
mentioned before, she forsakes the plan to attack the Zariched from the flank. Oblivious to
obvious tactics like exploiting blind spots, she charges straight into the range of Taurvid and
swings for a devastating strike. It is then that her left fist is violently ripped from her elbow.

"Okay, okay. You want it, don't you? I get it," she mutters.

But before Samluch can finish her sentence, Ashozushta appears, seizing the opportunity
created by the distraction caused by the locusts. However, she can only interpose herself
between Samluch and the oncoming threat, shielding her with her own body. This is no hasty
decision. Despite her seemingly unassuming appearance, Ashozushta possesses vast combat
experience and had prepared for such a scenario in advance. Entrusting the main assault to
Samluch, Ashozushta supports her from a distance, gradually gathering the winds around her.
She envelops herself in a kind of compressed air armor, ready to unleash it the moment the
Zariched attacks. But, as one might expect, things do not go according to plan.

"Don't bother me, I'm stronger! Don't bother me, I'm stronger!"

The locusts' skills exceed all expectations as they clash and compete with each other. Their
devilish arcs and straight lines slice through the air like paper, piercing the diminutive figure of
Ashozushta and striking Samluch square in the chest. The victory, even though their adversary
remains unseen, registers with Zariched and Taurvid, but their confident smirks freeze on their
faces in the next instant.

"What... What is this? D-don't move, it can't be!"

— Ashozushta? No, it can't be her! Frozen in place after their powerful blow, they are unable to
lift a finger. At first, they suspect that the mysterious restraints are woven from the very wind
itself, but they quickly realize this is not the case. The Star Spirit, descending to the ground, has
already succumbed to unconsciousness. It remains unclear if the girl is alive or dead, but she is
in no condition to shackle two Daevas of special rank simultaneously.

Exhausted, Ashozushta materializes before their eyes, shedding her previous disguise and
revealing the unvarnished truth to them.

"Heh, heh, heh, heh…"

Even in the face of impending demise, with memories and life stripped away, Samluch stands
resolute. Her bloodied countenance stretches into a defiant grin as she cradles Zariched and
Taurvid in her arms. Her strength is unfathomable—no, strictly speaking, physical strength
plays no part in it.

"I will not... forget... him... the bond we shared..."

Her voice emerges hoarse and abrupt, carrying a fervor that sends shivers even through the
locusts. As if rattled by such emotions, Melek Tawus freezes. The armor, now a motionless cage
of iron, has ensnared Zariched and Taurvid. The transformation Samluch spoke of doesn't
render her immobile; instead, it allows her to assume the role of shackles. It is difficult to
ascertain whether this turn of events is accidental or inevitable. However, fate has decreed that
the armor crafted by Mashyag is intricately linked to the original armor on a spiritual level.

Thus, it is not inconceivable that the elder sister's demise influenced the younger brother, just
as the volatile spirit of Magsarion reached Samluch. Regardless of the true cause, it is an
undeniable fact that the locusts have lost their freedom of movement, and as a result...

"Let's..." ...they are presented with an opportunity that arises once in a lifetime.

"Let's! Tear them to shreds... together!"

Echoing Samluch's anguished cry, the young man channels every ounce of his strength into his
grip. Three seconds separate him from the coveted noon. Grinding his clenched teeth, Ferdows
spews blood from his mouth but keeps his eyes shut.

In this state, he suddenly hears a mysterious "voice." An enigmatic intrusion into his
consciousness, descending from distant heavens or welling up from within, exuding such
grandeur that it defies definition, while simultaneously promising unfathomable liberation.
Visiting Ferdows on the cusp between one hour and the next, it is akin to an oracle foretelling
his destiny.

The most dreadful death awaits you.

The voice mourns and mocks in equal measure, offering friendly guidance yet beckoning from
the depths of the abyss. It desires salvation and disaster, laughter and tears—a cosmic
interplay where conflicting dual emotions meld and exchange places. Something of truly
cosmic proportions presents the feeble youth with a choice that is neither benevolent nor
merciless.

If you take another step forward, you shall know no peace ever again. Even your self-loathing,
your last refuge, will evaporate, leaving you spiraling endlessly into the void. Such is the toll for
your intention to commemorate me.

Will he defy the odds and proceed regardless? The voice awaits his response.
So what my dear Ferdows, show me the shade of your resolve. Grant me both joy and pity.

"...Such a foolish question warrants no contemplation," Ferdows declares promptly.

There is no space left in his soul to fret over his own future. More accurately, he fears that such
a prospect of salvation might turn into an even graver mistake. He yearns for the filthiest, most
abhorrent death that would make one's hair stand on end. He is even willing to accept that a
death befitting a scoundrel would serve as a more apt punishment. Finding some solace in such
a sinister fate, Ferdows cracks into a wild grin.

"At least on occasion, you do the right thing, Avesta... Yes, I wholeheartedly agree. I see no
reason to refuse."

The worst death he could ever fathom... If it were described from a human standpoint, from her
perspective, it would undoubtedly surpass any conceivable infernal torment. Taking this as a
blessing, Ferdows finally opens his eyes...

How foolish, how impulsive. How endearing, with its audacious courage striking at the very
core. Your regrets warm the soul.

Enveloped by the resumption of time's flow, he yanks his sword forcefully from its scabbard.

It is decided—you shall be the next Nadare.

The exact meaning eludes his comprehension, and he harbors no intention to decipher it. He
simply sets in motion a phenomenon that truly embodies the cosmic mandate of the supreme
deity.

"The World of the Black-White Whirlwind's Crash... Nowruz Ahura Mazda."

Even the words he utters in tandem with the sword's unsheathing carry the weight of a divine
decree, constructed in a dimension foreign to Ferdows' consciousness. Enveloped in a true
trance, he is incapable of perceiving his own actions. Their outcome materializes as the
manifestation of a divine will that surpasses mortal deeds.

The flash from his saber's swing cleaves Zariched and Taurvid in twain. Yet, it is not a mere
severing; it splits what could be regarded as the very core of their existence, only to remold
them anew. In simpler terms, it heralds the collapse of a miniature world. Nadare's
amalgamated hues separate once again but do not revert to their original state at all.

The raw power unleashed by Ferdows surges forth, its magnitude matched only by the bearer
himself. But this tremendous force, wielded by one whose touch is tainted with the stain of
death, offers no reprieve to those it encounters. Its touch leaves no survivors in its wake,
indiscriminately extinguishing all life it encounters.
The unity of the locusts, perverted though it may be, is forcibly shattered. They are
transformed into pitiful beings, stripped of their former prowess and reduced to a state of utter
inferiority. Like invalids lacking vital organs, they are rendered incapable of sustaining their
own existence. The transcendent beings who once dreamed of unrivaled strength are now
brought crashing down to the lowest rung of the pyramid.

The shock leaves Zariched and Taurvid hollow, their thoughts consumed by emptiness.
Physically and morally weakened, they find themselves defenseless against the impending
threat.

"This is the end," Samluch declares with a brave grin.

The blade that shattered worlds sliced through her with ease, adding to the multitude of mortal
wounds she had already sustained. There is no future left for her, no glimmer of hope.
Summoning the last vestiges of her strength, she gathers her fading aura into a clenched fist,
unleashing it in a final explosion.

"Do you... see?... I..."

Her words are drowned out by an ear-splitting roar, as the world itself becomes awash in a
blinding white plea. A brilliance akin to the dying embers of a star, dazzling yet fleeting,
cascades downward.

4
The copies of Bahlavan have multiplied beyond imagination, surpassing the one million mark.
With an insatiable desire for an eternal and boundless struggle against himself, Bahlavan's
dreams know no limits. Thus, it comes as no surprise that the reproduction of his copies seems
limitless as well. As long as the King of Evil’s indomitable will burns within, there is no end in
sight. Even the release of an unfathomable cosmic pressure seems within the realm of
possibility. However, the number of copies present in this chaotic battlefield does not exceed a
thousand, for an obvious reason.
Both Bahlavan himself and the black knight opposing him ruthlessly slay any excess copies.
The scene is a surreal tableau, leaving no room for the concept of survival. All combatants wade
knee-deep in a crimson sea of blood, and yet the relentless feast of violence only grows more
fervent. Bahlavan's fist pierces his own chest. A new Bahlavan gnaws at the neck of this
Bahlavan, while the severed hand of Bahlavan, once held by Magsarion, becomes a makeshift
weapon in Bahlavan's own hands.

Entrails spill out, serving as impromptu restraints, only to be expertly cut by a bone-like blade.
It is a grotesque display of self-inflicted violence, a twisted dance of destruction. Each blow
delivered with ferocity collides with another with bone-crushing impact, and the pain of their
shared fractures brings perverse delight. A fatal strike, seemingly inevitable, defies
expectations and pierces only empty air, inducing ecstasy akin to orgasm. It is an indescribably
insulting, yet jubilant existence within a seething cauldron of unparalleled strength, where
magnificent flowers of destruction bloom. This is how it should be, and yet, it is not enough. It
is a battle that tests both the physical and spiritual fortitude of the combatants. The
intoxicating thrill of carnage refuses to subside; it is the very essence of what they seek.

"Attack, attack, attack with all your might," Bahlavan declares.

"I will annihilate you without a trace, leaving behind not even ashes."

The concept of victory or defeat is inconsequential, and yet, it holds significance. Bahlavan
desires both victory and defeat, a fight to the death, an entwining of lives. It is the insatiable
longing for the sweet tremors of anxiety and anticipation that drive him forward. Like a
precarious joint effort on the precipice of impossibility, poised to crumble with the slightest
disturbance, instilling a profound shock.

Like a slender beam of light piercing through impenetrable darkness, only to abruptly vanish
forever. Bahlavan yearns to experience this inexhaustible, bittersweet concoction of hope and
despair, and to make others experience it, countless times over. It is his reason for existence.

"I am Bahlavan," he proclaims, embracing the totality of his desires.

"Everything you desire is here. Therefore, you too must join us, wholeheartedly, as demanded
by the Locust of Ferocity."

Impatience laces Magsarion's voice as he questions, "How much longer must we wait? What
are you searching for?"

Bahlavan remains unwavering, firmly believing in his cause. He refuses to allow such a rare
opponent to become just another obstacle in his path. Eternal bliss is his sole aspiration.

"Become like me," he implores.

"By becoming the same as me, you too can revel in endless slaughter alongside the locusts,
until the end of time.”

It is the divine providence of this process, and any objections or delays are inconsequential in
his mind. Only his own reasons hold weight. The circumstances and existence of others hold no
interest for him.

"Just be me!" Bahlavan demands.

Each Bahlavan, in turn, assails Magsarion. The destructive power unleashed in this series of
explosions surpasses comprehension. The fortress of the black knight, which has withstood all
onslaughts, transcends all boundaries. The very question of its endurance becomes moot. The
time has come to eradicate the differences that Bahlavan has reduced to a single requirement:
to fall. Magsarion's voice, filled with irritation, forcefully captures Bahlavan's attention.

He cannot refuse, for the voice demands it.

"I will not change," Magsarion declares casually, deflecting the onslaught of fists.

"I said I remain immutable. Why should I be influenced by some wretched gate?"

Bahlavan, eyes bulging in disbelief, struggles to grasp the meaning behind Magsarion's words.
Two reasons halt his thoughts, causing him to pause and reflect.

The first reason is evident—the fact that Magsarion, capable of becoming his copy, has rejected
the invitation. From Bahlavan's perspective, there is no difference between them, and any
existing disparities are mere errors that need correction. Destroying and surpassing Magsarion
requires joining forces. It is a truth more fundamental than common sense, an absolute truth
that brooks no contention.

"If he becomes me, and I become him, then it is only natural," Bahlavan contemplates.

"But then, why..."

"If you dislike both sides equally, why cling to your own?" Bahlavan questions Magsarion.

"You have misunderstood me. Both the forces of light and darkness are mere rubbish to me—a
farce I can no longer endure. It matters not which side I belong to, and the very idea of falling
sickens me. That is why I called you fragile."

Bahlavan's sigh reverberates with restrained glee. Despite not fitting into the framework of the
war between good and evil, and desiring to vanquish "everyone" with his own hands, Bahlavan
is not devoid of dignity. He recognizes that Magsarion harbors some sympathy for this
locust-like existence. However, the moment he encounters an entity he cannot consume,
Bahlavan demands its fall. In doing so, he reveals that he is still bound by the world's fate.

This is the second reason for his initial confusion. He adheres to his ideals, yet he cannot
disregard the existing rules. It is absurd for Bahlavan to cry out about the fall gate without
comprehending its principles, but he cannot be considered entirely self-willed.

What if he were to ask his opponent to fall?

How would it change things if he invited him to join his side?

If he desires a different future, he must create a new world and paint it with his own colors.

Not "Be me," but "I will make you me."

The weakness that prevented him from uttering those words buries itself deep within his soul.
Compared to Magsarion, who swears by his immutable nature and vows to consume the entire
universe, Bahlavan appears counterfeit, lacking substance.

"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

Laughter erupts like a cataclysm, as the millions of ferocious entities transform into a tempest.
In the midst of killing his own progeny while being slain by them, Bahlavan shields Magsarion
with his body. This time, he truly acknowledges their differences.

They are too dazzling, too potent—something distinct from himself—burning with a sinister
and brilliant flame. The very existence of Magsarion is unforgivable. His immutability deserves
respect. The sprawling sea of blood, weeping in indescribable gratitude for the battle, erupts
into flames reaching millions of degrees. As if offering prayers in a blazing hell on earth,
Bahlavan proclaims after his dream:

"You are the strongest I have yearned for!"

One could describe this feeling as lust. At this moment, Bahlavan experiences an exhilaration
that surpasses the original battle. Magsarion, who grants him this satisfaction, becomes more
precious than anything else in the world. The intensity both frightens and captivates him.

For the first time, he recognizes Magsarion, the blessed enemy who enchants his very soul—a
foe to be trampled.

Recognizing that Magsarion stands even higher, the Locust of Ferocity cannot resist challenging
him.

"I will catch up to you. I will surpass you."

All other thoughts are discarded as superfluous.

"Pray, Magsarion, divulge to me your method of shattering the formidable Fall Gate!"
Bahlavan's voice resonated with a mix of urgency and curiosity, his tone demanding answers. M

agsarion, however, remained enigmatic, a glimmer of determination flickering in his eyes.

"Truly, until the moment arrives, comprehension eludes me. Yet, I shall strive to grasp it," he
replied, his words laced with resolve.

"But as for how... I cannot yet say."

The air crackled with anticipation as fists unleashed their primal fury and blades danced in a
symphony of violence. This clash, which had transcended the boundaries of reason on
numerous occasions, had now entered its climactic stage.

Black and white eyes observed the tumultuous spectacle from the depths of the singularity,
bearing witness to the ferocity and tenacity on display. The divine will of the intricate pattern
smiled knowingly from its eternal throne, as if aware of the impending resolution.

The universe itself seemed to hold its breath, frozen in rapt anticipation of the continuation of
this tempestuous whirlwind. The denouement, the final revelation, loomed tantalizingly close,
ready to unfold its secrets to the deserving.

◇◇◇◇◇

They stood at the precipice of their demise, aware that all avenues of salvation had closed.
Whatever course of action they took, it was futile; their fate was sealed, destined to expire and
decay into eternal darkness, forever lost to the world. In essence, they had been defeated. They
accepted this bitter truth, though it wounded their pride. To deny it would only be a futile
attempt to mask their defeat. If the victor did not deserve praise, the vanquished were left with
nowhere to turn.

Yet, they carried themselves with a sense of dignity, refraining from raising their fists in futile
defiance. Embracing their impending death, they clung to this realm of sorrow for one singular
desire—to find the ideal form in which to meet their demise.

"Look... at me... Please, I'm here..." Zariched whispered weakly, her voice laden with
desperation.

"Finish me off... with my own hands..." Taurvid's plea trembled in the air, his words barely
audible.

Sliced by Ferdows' blade, they were mere remnants of their former selves, each barely hanging
on to life as they stumbled through the inferno, leaning on one another for support. Zariched
advanced with her left foot, Taurvid with his right, their movements labored and feeble. The
indomitable strength that once pierced the heavens itself now merely sustained them in this
state of existence.

Their only wish was to embark on their final journey led by the mightiest adversary they
knew—Bahlavan.

Accepting their failure and the premature end of their lives, they clung to the hope of
preserving their dream until the very end. They may have faltered, but they wanted to depart
this world with the conviction that their path had not been in vain. That their purpose had
been real. They had not spent their lives chasing an empty illusion.
If they had placed their trust in someone whose blood they thirsted for, whose power ignited
their admiration, whose demise they yearned for with every passing moment, then there had
to be some truth to their aspirations. They believed that their reward awaited them—if they
could become a part of the mountain of bodies erected by Bahlavan, if they could etch their
names in the annals of his journey to becoming the strongest, their will would endure beyond
death.

However, Bahlavan remained oblivious to their fervent, untainted desire. Consumed by the
chaotic dance of battle, the locust king paid no heed to his former comrades, wholly absorbed
in his own struggle. His countless incarnations, birthed and extinguished in an endless cycle,
never spared a glance in Zariched and Taurvid's direction. It was understandable. Realizing
that his true desire lay in confronting himself, having encountered that singular "other" he still
sought to conquer, his thoughts were consumed solely by Magsarion. No words, no prayers
could penetrate this all-consuming ardor. Trapped between two invincible losers, their hope
began to wane, giving way to despair and disappointment.

"You heard me. Come here, and I'll take care of all of you," Bahlavan's voice sliced through the
air like a howling black flash.

In the blink of an eye, Zariched's cheek was rent apart, followed by a deep gash across
Taurvid's forehead, crimson liquid streaming from the wound. A surge of heat and fervor
coursed through their battered bodies, despite their hearts having already ceased to beat and
their blood long drained. A vital spark flickered within them, as if recalling something
forgotten, rekindling their raging energy.

"I won't let you off so easily, you scum. I'll finish you off," Bahlavan declared, his words implying
that they were still alive.

It wasn't over yet; they still had fight left in them. The hurricane of bloodlust engulfed them,
unleashing a frenzied battle that threatened to sweep them off their feet. What an incandescent
and yet sweet flame it was.
"Ah, ah-ah-ah-ah..." Zariched's howls resounded, her grip tightening around a malevolent spear.

Taurvid boasted as he raised a curved blade, his voice joining the chorus of determination.

"Death to all in sight!"

"Death to all in sight!"

"Don't be ridiculous, I'll cut you into pieces."

Zariched lost an arm, Taurvid's leg was sent flying, severed from his body. And yet, the sinister
blade continued its relentless assault, slicing into them repeatedly, each strike precise and
merciless.
The pain, the terror—they embraced it fully. The doomed locusts became victims of
unparalleled destruction, experiencing heavenly bliss amidst the chaos. Indeed, that was the
essence of their battle.

They had dreamt of unrivaled strength, ascended to the pinnacle, and now they were certain
they had not been mistaken. As they faded away, leaving nothing but atoms in their wake, they
fulfilled their destinies as warriors.

Regrets and mercy held no place within them.

Satisfied with their role as embodiments of callousness and ruthlessness, they departed the
stage, their lips curled into victorious smiles.

◇◇◇◇◇

It is a daunting task to quantify the number of lives Bahlavan has taken and the number of
times he himself has been slain. Yet, amid the relentless carnage unfolding before his eyes, one
thing becomes increasingly apparent to him—the cycle of reproduction, which should continue
unabated, is now waning, fading into oblivion.

Heads are severed from shoulders, hearts torn asunder, and even the splatter of blood that
manages to escape evaporates into thin air, dissolving like the morning mist. Merely a hundred
adversaries remain...

Each one of them, having survived this long, possesses the potential to obliterate galaxies with
a single devastating strike. And yet, one by one, they meet their demise, consumed by an
unyielding heartlessness that refuses to relent.

How amusing it is, this marvelously twisted trick. The fact that even a fist, propelled by
laughter itself, shatters into fragments fails to perturb him. He will strike without a hand, he
will crush his opponents.

Is it madness?

No, it is his duty to dismantle this absurdity.

Eighty... fifty...

The sight of the approaching end invokes both tremors and elation. The ability to gaze into the
faces of each remaining combatant, witnessing the same emotions etched upon each
countenance without exception, grants an unbearable pleasure. It reaffirms that this is what he
truly loves—this exhilaration, which threatens to tear his chest asunder, becomes the
undeniable truth that permeates the cosmos.

"I fight, therefore I exist."

The way of life that he discovered even before birth, after a long period of oblivion, has been
rekindled within him. And now, as he revels in the unmatched bliss of the present moment, he
yearns to uncover the answer that lies beyond it. In the distant future, when all that is
extraneous has vanished without a trace, Bahlavan will question himself.

Having lived this life not for the sake of mere survival, nor for the pursuit of death, but
dedicating himself solely to the relentless battle, where has he ultimately arrived?

What has he discovered?

The throne of the strongest... Indeed, what else could it be?

However, he can no longer be content with merely battling himself.

"Magsarion!"

For now, he is aware of it. Magsarion's name is etched deeply into his heart, destined never to
fade away. The fact that he exists, as a separate entity, holds profound significance. As long as
there is another being in this world who continues to exist as an unyielding constant, a perfect
immutability, he yearns to engage in eternal combat with him.

"You were not like me. Yes, that is what shines so brilliantly, it threatens to blind me."

The number of spears dwindles to twenty... Magsarion's blade is no longer visible, and yet
Bahlavan fixes his gaze upon it, resolute in his determination not to let it escape his sight. Thus,
he refuses to succumb to being a mere reflection of himself. It is not due to incapability or
resignation that he will not allow himself to become the other.
Ten... five...

It is too early, it is not yet the end. While victory and defeat may lose their significance, he
cannot remain a counterfeit.

Why should he bow down?

He has no intention of surrendering. Regardless of what others may say, he desires that this
one individual, at the very least, understands his truth. Indeed, he yearns to be correctly
comprehended. The transcendent answer he has discovered on his arduous pilgrimage is
bereft of calculation—it is simply an innate nature that has been with him since birth.

"It seems that I am not one who seeks to mold the environment, but rather one who seeks to
shape myself."

Hence, there is no need to change Magsarion, but to change himself...

“No, to change "me," and none other!”

As an ecstatic surge courses through his entire being, Bahlavan swings his fists, quivering with
delight.

Three... two...

Finally, the cycle of reproduction comes to a halt.

"Do you understand, Magsarion? What I am truly seeking to achieve?"

A blow delivered with all his might is met with a black flash. The subsequent wave, arriving a
second later, surprisingly hushed and ephemeral, yet potent and refined enough to snuff out a
life.

"...Just laughter, nothing more. Are you even flesh and blood?"

As if to signify the end of their battle, Magsarion grumbles through clenched teeth, his disdain
evident. Even he finds himself at a loss for words, unable to articulate the reasons. No, it is still
impossible to say that it is visible. After all, the one once hailed as the third King of Evil has
vanished without a trace.

“A monster of the strength of yourself… I have to admit, you have no problem with
stubbornness. I have never seen anyone like you.”

Not a drop of blood remains from Bahlavan's body. It is unclear at what moment he himself
became aware of this, but in physical form, he has long since dissipated into nothingness. And
yet, he continues to stand, a mirage of ferocity, proudly puffing out his chest before Magsarion,
assuming a menacing stance. The sheer force of Bahlavan's self takes on human form, lingering
like a scorching haze. Too masculine to be labeled a specter, too radiant—there exists scarcely a
word in the entire universe that can encapsulate this essence.

"So, it seems you have yet to defeat me?"

Ah, or perhaps... allow me to inquire... Mumbling with a sigh, Magsarion utters the next phrase,
partially in jest.

"Do you wish to become me?"

No response follows. Yet, the slight quiver in Bahlavan's resolute stance, resonating with a
ferocious tremor, undoubtedly replaces any words he might have spoken. This man
transcended death, becoming the embodiment of battle. As the driving force that epitomizes a
universe inundated with strife, he appears here and there throughout the cosmos, ceaselessly
pursuing Magsarion. Even if the world were to meet its ultimate demise, the battle alone would
remain ignorant of its fate. As long as the heartless swordsman persists, one can be certain that
it will never truly end.

With the demise of Truth, he will move on to the next predetermined destiny, and then the
next, ad infinitum. Unconstrained by boundaries and eternity, forever repeating the theater of
war...

Each iteration retaining what was once Bahlavan. If Magsarion is indeed immutable, he will
forever stand at his side, stoking the flames of conflict. Sharing a veritable hell on Earth with
the adversary he has come to acknowledge, as if issuing a challenge, desiring eternal torrents
of blood and death throes...

"You shall never taste defeat. Enchant me, my eternal foe."

"Do as you please."

A blade's arc— and the power of the locust dissipates into the air. The wind seems to carry it
away. It is difficult to determine whether Magsarion managed to sever the head of his rival, but
now, he cares little for such details. According to his eyes and intuition, he has undoubtedly
slain Bahlavan. If there remains any unfinished business, he can attend to it later. There are
other pressing matters at hand. Indeed, the battle is far from over.

"Gha!"

Coughing up blood, barely able to stand, yet his furious eyes continue to burn like smoldering
embers. Magsarion is wounded and fatigued in ways unimaginable, but he does not entertain
the notion of surrendering.

"You are next!..."

Raising his head, he declares this with an unquenchable thirst for blood coursing through his
voice. Up above, an abhorrent shroud blankets the sky. The hazy, blind eye of the devil star
flickers, as if responding to his call.
Will you reveal to me the true meaning of this miracle?

"I shall show you the inner workings— in exchange for your life!"

The Blade of Fury against the Workshop of Annihilation... Thus commences the battle with the
mightiest of the Kings of Evil, the one responsible for his brother's demise.

5
Sleep descended upon me like a cataclysm, an irresistible force that gnawed at my being like an
eternal curse. It brought with it a tide of memories, a torrent of agony that should not be. It was
an unpleasant sensation, yet amidst the discomfort, an inexplicable nostalgia lingered, defying
rational explanation. Dreams, to me, were nothing more than chaotic fragments that bred
confusion. But this time, it was different. For some unknown reason, as I gazed back upon my
past, a surge of unfamiliar emotions welled within me.

"Is this the sacred child?" queried a voice, breaking through the haze of my mind.

"Yes," came the response.

"He has yet to develop his own identity, but his awakening is imminent. And once that happens,
our victory shall be assured... Mr. Lanka, I implore you to reconsider."

“Alas, time was not on our side, and it was unlikely that it would wait for us.”
I looked up and beheld three individuals before me—an old man, a man, and a woman.
Attempting to put into words the impression they left upon me proved a futile endeavor. In that
moment, though we once belonged to the same faction, their essence seemed to emanate a
different hue. However, there existed an enigmatic accord, shrouded in countless mysteries.

Normally, I would have thrown myself wholeheartedly into deciphering their intentions, but for
now, I chose to observe the unfolding scene. Their faces, I desired to etch into my mind's eye, to
never forget. I sought to engrave their resolve upon my heart. And so, the sole emotion that
stirred within me was pure curiosity—or perhaps, it could be labeled as an irresistible
attraction.

"Among the mighty Deva, only Nadare remains. And of the Asura, only Madurai and myself. It is
evident that both of us shall soon be summoned to Wakhana for the final battle. The initiative,
it seems, lies in their hands."

Even the mention of a familiar name failed to resonate with me. It was clear that this Nadare
was not the one I knew.

"Lanka, not both, but three," interjected one of the women.

"How could you forget 'her'?"

"Hmm, indeed," Lanka mused.

"I suppose I misspoke. 'She' rarely speaks and prefers to remain a 'blade' in essence."

"Regardless, you still intend to join the battle?" inquired the old man.

Both the man and woman, or rather, the two women, nodded in response. Though I could not
see the third woman, my attention was captivated by the longsword clutched in Lanka's hands.

Its golden and blued steel composition exuded an aura that blended martial prowess and
artistic elegance. I found it impossible to tear my gaze away. This is not something that should
exist.

Yet, an inexplicable desire to create "something similar" surged within me.

Was it possible that the blade itself pitied me, regarding me with compassion?

"Elder, continue to protect this child," stated the woman named Madurai.

"As Lanka mentioned, time is of the essence, and we should not engage in combat before our
hope. We need the new world he shall present us with to be untainted by filth."
"It is likely that both Madurai and I shall perish," she continued.

"But that is of no concern. This story must reach its conclusion here and now. We shall not
leave behind the root of all evil for future generations."

"And once our will is fulfilled, our daughter shall join forces with this child, bringing their
dream to fruition. The dream of creating Hiranyapura, a realm where everyone lives with
genuine smiles."

"As you wish," the old man acquiesced.

"I shall fulfill your desires, Mr. Lanka, Mrs. Madurai, for as long as life courses through these old
bones. May fortune favor you in your impending battle."

With nods exchanged, the man and woman turned and departed, their silhouettes swallowed
by the encroaching twilight. For reasons unbeknownst to me, a tempest of inexplicable
emotions seized me—a maddening melancholy entwined with an unsettling restlessness akin
to insatiable hunger.

"Don't leave," I cried out from the depths of my being.

"No, stop! You cannot depart."

Just a little longer, and I would awaken. The moment was nearing, the precipice upon which
fate would shift, unveiling a future yet unknown. My Khvarenah would construct the new world
they had yearned for. I pledged to fulfill their wishes, so why were they leaving?

My pleas fell upon deaf ears as they grew distant, beyond the reach of my words. I attempted to
seize them, to chase after them, but I found myself immobilized.

In the end, it was merely a remnant of the past, and despite my awareness that I could not alter
it, an irrepressible yearning stirred within me. The line between victory and defeat had been
determined solely by the passage of time. If only I had been born earlier. If only Lanka and
Madurai had heeded the elder's counsel. If only the former Nadare had not set into motion the
world's collapse...

If only one element had diverged, my fate might not have led me to this precipice. If it is true
that a true hegemony can overcome any multitude of misfortunes, then perhaps I had fallen
because I was meant to fall from the very beginning.

You ■■■■■■■■■■. Therefore, I should also be ■■■■■■■■■■.

"You damned fools," I bellowed through tear-streaked eyes, as an indescribable wave of surreal
colors loomed on the horizon.
It advanced relentlessly, enveloping the cosmos, obliterating all in its path. Everything turned
inside out, my people, my land, even myself, consumed by the turbulent torrent of this
grotesque tapestry. The truth I once swore an oath to safeguard was swept away, its essence
lost in the deluge of chaos.

All I yearned for was to be utterly annihilated.

On the day dedicated to celebrating the precious light, an illumination impervious to the
world's afflictions, the Khvarenah of universal miracles was shattered, rent asunder.

◇◇◇◇◇

Even as unconsciousness permeates his very soul, Khvarenah persists in his search for the
meaning of a "miracle" and the identity of "everyone." The suspicion that by doing so he can
reclaim the lost prayer compels him to push away the tendrils of slumber and open his eyes
once more.

“Have you truly defeated Bahlavan?”

The existence of such a being seems almost incredulous. No... A solitary knight shrouded in
ebony armor emerges within the gaze of the Devil Star. As Khvarenah had been immersed in
the depths of sleep until recently, the details elude him, but the outcome is already evident. His
words strike a chord: few would believe in such an outcome. Yet, simultaneously, he accepts it
as an inevitability.

"You are not human. There is a peculiar amalgamation within you. Most likely, it has been there
from the very beginning."

He has encountered this presence before. Intuitively grasping this fact, Khvarenah recognizes
the entity beneath him as a genuine threat. This adversary is not one to be taken lightly.

"[Link] / a / [Link]."

Infusing an undisguised anticipation into a foreign word, Khvarenah sets his power into
motion. Heaven and earth, the surrounding scenery, all transform into a different hue. In this
moment, he exhibits a power that surpasses anything witnessed, even among the artifacts he
has created. Magsarion instantly comprehends the significance of this occurrence. Superficially,
the environment remains unchanged, and he himself appears untouched by any form of attack.
However, there is no denying that this act exceeds the bounds of any absurdity he has
witnessed thus far.
Every living entity, save for the two of them, has vanished without a trace.

"The barrier... though on a much grander scale. Creation of a world, perhaps?"

There exist numerous rites and vows that fashion their own realms, segregating them from the
rest of the world. The Garden of Bloodshed operates under similar principles, and while such
instances are exceedingly rare, it would be remiss to dismiss their inherent possibility.
However, the domain unveiled by Khvarenah encompasses not only the Corpse of the Dragon
and the Sacred Realm but extends far beyond.

Its dominion stretches across hundreds of galaxies—a new world constructed from the
amalgamation of "all" those who have been absorbed by the Workshop of Annihilation to date.
Indeed, it demands his utmost exertion, and one could argue that this space has been
purposefully designed to allow him to manifest his complete self. The enclosed battlefield,
housing only Magsarion and Khvarenah, effectively severs their influence from the outside
world, no matter the extent of the destruction they unleash.

Partly, the first King of Evil made this choice due to a pact with his daughter, wherein he
postpones the annihilation of the Ashavans until her return with an answer. Yet, even without
this incentive, he genuinely harbors a vested interest in the black knight.

"I believed this arena would enable me to focus solely on you. Do not disappoint me."

Thus commences the battle. The initial move brings forth gravitational pressure, thousands of
times more potent than Spenta Mainyu.

Magsarion crumples under the weight of his wounds, unable to offer any resistance. The
relentless battle with Bahlavan had inflicted countless injuries upon him, and now he
succumbs to a deeper unconsciousness, crushed with even greater force. The impact is so
immense that not only does the atmosphere tremble, but even light shatters into fragments for
a fleeting moment.

In the blink of an eye, the planet dwindles to nothing more than a tiny speck, hurtling towards
the void of oblivion. Yet, in a sudden twist, Khvarenah redirects the vector of force in the
opposite direction. His compressed physical body generates a cataclysmic repulsion,
unleashing an explosion akin to the death of the universe. It is as if worldly wisdom has
reached its pinnacle, demonstrating that something can only be broken once it has hardened.
Despite the colossal scale, this attack possesses a remarkable rationality, comparable to a
scientific experiment. It is, after all, a testing ground for the Workshop of Annihilation. Within
this space, Khvarenah reigns supreme, with no other gods to contest his desires.

The swift restoration of the Corpse of the Dragon Star and the Sacred Realm, which were
obliterated moments ago, serve as testaments to his omnipotence in this realm. However, there
remains one entity that stands defiantly against his will.

"You are undeniably strong, but I fail to comprehend," declares Khvarenah, his devilish gaze
narrowing in search of answers.
“I recognize your armor as a child I once spawned, but it shouldn’t be that strong. I am
extremely curious. It can be understood that in addition to this, you have taken several unique
Commandments.”

“And what? Do you want me to reveal them?”

“No, I'm much more concerned about something else.”

And so, he moves on to the next phase. What appears at first glance to be an earthquake swiftly
reveals itself as something far more extraordinary. Magsarion, suspended in mid-air, witnesses
the earth's crust crumbling beneath him. Ocean waters surge upwards, seemingly reaching for
the heavens. Everything hurtles towards the equator. A frenzy of rotation ensues, exceeding a
thousand revolutions per second. The centrifugal force outmatches gravity, causing the planet's
surface to fragment and scatter, yet Khvarenah prevents its total dissolution. Arrows of plasma
erupt from space like a tempestuous downpour, enclosing Magsarion within a captive cage.

He finds himself amidst an unprecedented storm, an indescribable phenomenon that defies

language. An ordinary beast would have been reduced to mere shreds in an instant, but
Magsarion's resilience is commendable. His seamless dance, slicing through plasma and planet
fragments alike, evokes the untamed grace of a formidable deity. Yet, Khvarenah’s attention is
captured by an intriguing realization—the gradual subsiding of Magsarion's hemorrhage.

This is no ordinary regeneration or exhaustion. Blood, flesh, bones, and entrails lose their
conventional significance, transcending the laws of physics. It is akin to conceptualization—a
state where the body transcends its mere functionality and common sense, venturing into
realms that surpass the boundaries of the physical world. This presents a formidable challenge,
as defeating Magsarion with conventional power seems increasingly difficult. If this concept
holds steadfast throughout the universe, victory over Magsarion would prove arduous.

Nevertheless, it is evident that he has not fulfilled all expectations. He has merely partially met
them, and it remains unclear whether this is for better or worse.

"Let me describe my impressions thus far," Khvarenah coolly whispers, continuing his analysis.

The special attributes of Magsarion are almost fully formulated, but lingering questions still
plague his mind.

Offense—a series of Commandments, one bestowing sharpness in direct proportion to one's

bloodlust, and another that identifies and creates openings.

Defense—an analogous creation of openings and deft evasion of direct strikes, coupled with an
immutable and indestructible body.
These aspects pose no inquiry. Without such power, Magsarion would have been dispatched by
Bahlavan in less than a heartbeat. The conundrum lies in the fact that he falls short of
surpassing the infamous locust.
By Khvarenah’s calculations, Magsarion is inferior to Bahlavan.

"Do not cut him short. No matter how immutable you may be, you lack the upper hand in terms
of strength and self-development," Khvarenah remarks, having not witnessed their clash.

He deduces that Magsarion could not have emerged victorious from their battle. Frankly, his
standing is inconsequential at its core. Despite his array of tactics in offense and defense,
Magsarion remains akin to an ant. Without a solid foundation mastered to perfection, such
maneuvers are futile.

Presently, Magsarion cannot exterminate Bahlavan any faster than he can reproduce. The
reason behind this predicament is not exhaustion or lack of determination. Khvarenah
understands that Magsarion is growing weaker. Yet, the very threat that contradicts the
calculated combat potential, freezing the soul, only intensifies.

"I fail to comprehend. What are you?"

Khvarenah’s inquisitive gaze lingers upon his unknown adversary. Of particular interest are
Magsarion's eyes—a tempest raging within, encompassing the entirety of the planet, while the
fiery gleam persists, haunting Khvarenah. It is a piercing, deep, cold, and sinister stare.

What does he see?

The thought that the secret of a miracle may lie within Magsarion engulfs the Star Cluster of
Annihilation, compelling him to continue his relentless pursuit of answers.

"At its core, the growth of strength also signifies its irreversibility. Just as talents lead to actions
and shape one's path in life, beyond a certain point, the path becomes unalterable, and
impossible to deviate from. At the very least, it refuses to permit a retreat, especially when
such strength proves sufficient to overcome Bahlavan. So, why do you remain stagnant?"

The repeated questions that he poses are reminiscent of the wailing of a child wandering in the
darkness. Succumbing to forgotten memories, Khvarenah continues the interrogation, not even
noticing his own uncontrollable feelings that are beginning to seep out.
“Rise, ascend to heights untrodden, disperse, soar forth, unleash the essence. Through my
definition, the boundary lies in the resounding explosion of creation, the Big Bang, an
ever-expanding tapestry destined to be subdued only by another threshold. Should you
possess the requisite essence, hesitate not, for it shall bestow naught but annihilation. As I once
did, you...shall forfeit...your fleeting opportunity, straying from the path ordained for you…”

“Thats it?”
With a fleeting moment, the very essence of Magsarion's being surges, ascending to
unparalleled heights beyond measure.

"So, you’re just a loser?"

In an instant, a black surge, akin to a cataclysmic supernova, ruptures the fabric of space itself.
With a single strike, the frenzied whirl of rotation halts abruptly, causing nearly half of the
Annihilation Star Cluster to disintegrate into dust. It is a spectacle that defies belief, an
exhibition of power that transcends all conceivable limits.

No longer is Magsarion a mere ant scurrying about in insignificance. Is this the formidable
might that felled Bahlavan? While Khvarenah finds himself dumbfounded by the unfolding
events, his mind races to decipher the underlying principle, and soon, a realization strikes him
with such force that he cannot help but groan in comprehension.

"...Did you analyze me?"

Magsarion, too, endeavors to unravel the enigma of his adversary. His eyes, sharp as a
surgeon's scalpel, cut through flesh and expose the very core. The revelation of his foe's destiny,
the emergence of that destined entity into the world, acts as a catalyst for the relentless
warrior's fervor. Thus, with each alteration in his opponent's nature, he initially relinquishes a
considerable portion of his combative prowess, only to reveal his true potential once the
conditions are met.

A blade of genocide, honed sharper by understanding the very essence of its intended targets,
by the very act of slaughter... That is the essence of the tremor that courses through Khvarenah
from the moment he encounters his adversary.

"He plans to slay me only after comprehending every facet of my being. That means..."

"Just attempt to compare me to you. I have no intention of standing beside you.”

Laced with palpable irritation, Magsarion nonchalantly slings his sword over his shoulder. The
devilish eye in the sky and the fiery gaze fixed upon the earth emit sparks, as they strive to
expose the truths veiled within each other.

"Lost your chance? Too late, is it? Yes, indeed, I have tasted such regrets in the past. I allowed
my brother to elude me, losing sight of the path I was meant to traverse.”

“I see, so you..."

"But I never ceased to fight."

As if cleaving Khvarenah in two, Magsarion, having discerned their connection, forges ahead
with his soliloquy, dismissing any notion of kinship.
"Even amidst the shackles of delusion, I discarded my visage. I swore that I would never
become a replacement for my brother. Do you comprehend this? I shunned the stain of
another's dreams upon my being, refusing to be seen as an ally by anyone. I resolved to stand
alone, to fulfill my desires solely through the strength I possess."

Magsarion asserts that he stood tall and fought for this cause, as if it were the most natural
course of action. His discord with Khvarenah lies in his refusal to rely on external assistance.
Manipulating one's surroundings through authority, fabricating circumstances that promise
some form of advantage—such convoluted paths are contrary to the essence of a relentless
knight. Even in the so-called "delusion," during times of waywardness when fury reigned, he
never once extended his blade to others.

"My brother succumbed to incomprehensible whims, vanishing into the aether and leaving
those who remained to the whims of fate. Beautiful words may be uttered, claiming that he
bestowed trust upon them, that he continues to reside within their souls. Yet now, he is naught
but a meager, monstrous tableau, an amalgamation of disparate perceptions. Abhorrent,
indeed. It seems you yearn to behold the miracles of others, hoping that by becoming a
spectator to their deeds, the burdens of your past shall dissipate. An insufferable lack of will... A
pitiable loser who cowers before battle, yet dares to speak with an air of importance."

Magsarion proclaims this mockery, surpassing the bounds of decency. Such a way of life, he
asserts, belongs solely to himself.

"And beyond some arbitrary threshold, changes become irreparable, resistance yielding
nothing but devastation? What do I care? Who decreed such a rule? I, myself, determine my
path of escape, and the Big Bang, which abruptly decides to radiate without my consent, is far
from immutable. Must I simply accept uncontrollable phenomena as 'the way things are'? For if
one surrenders to this notion, sooner or later, an uncontrollable force shall crush them, all
because 'that's just how it works.' Why should I succumb? Thus, I meet each of you eye to eye,
drenching myself in your blood, heeding the cries of your demise, and then I strike you down."

The callousness and ruthlessness reverberate through the very fabric of existence. Can conceit
extend any further than this grandiosity? Magsarion's logic may appear absurd, yet it arrives
with an unwavering resolve that brooks no opposition. At first glance, the desire to rend an
enemy into pieces after intimately comprehending their nature may appear needless and
tastelessly entertaining, yet there is no shame or hesitation in his approach.

He vows that, having chosen to consume the entirety of the world, there shall be no deviations
in the course. Perhaps, in this endeavor, Magsarion partially resembles a savior—an
instrument of liberation. A blade that shall leave no soul gasping for breath in this mad
universe. It is the pinnacle of severity, yet one cannot label it as unjust. Rather, one may even
detect a sense of dignified readiness within it.
Finally unable to contain himself, Khvarenah, who has remained silent until now, utters words
of quiet admiration.

"Hegemony... Though it may not be the most fitting term. Hell? In essence, it is a path forged
solely by you."

It is at this juncture that the metamorphosis commences. Slowly, yet resolutely, the world
begins to groan, like a fragile shell on the verge of shattering. Or perhaps, it yearns to return to
its true form.

“Yes, "everyone" refers to the inhabitants of the boundless cosmos, transcending the confines of
mere black and white. Only those who have borne witness to the Tentsui, or those who have
personally experienced its weight, share a similar perspective. And as a result, it shatters each
of them irreparably. They cannot endure the cruelty, the absurdity, the betrayal of the Avesta, in
which they once believed to be an immutable law. They grasp the truth—that they were mere
puppets, mere marionettes dancing to the strings of the Truth. Despair engulfs them, driving
some to madness, others to illness, to escape, to forget. Just as it transpired for me, for Lanka's
daughter and Madurai.”

As Khvarenah stands amidst the tumultuous clash of present circumstances, fragments of his
past begin to resurface, weaving a tapestry of remembrance. Once, he was hailed as a sacred
child, the embodiment of hope for all asuras, descending into the realm of annihilation, the
forge of destruction, through the gate of universal descent. The revelation that he comprehends
the true identity of "everyone" serves as a testament to his journey thus far.

Yet, despite this revelation, a lingering sense of incompleteness gnaws at his soul. The answer
he yearns to rediscover, the key to unlocking the depths of understanding, lies beyond the
realm of his current grasp.

“You ■■■■■■■■■■. Therefore, I should also be ■■■■■■■■■■.Within the depths of

my being, I also possessed my own path. I possessed a profound understanding that miracles
were not fleeting illusions, but rather gateways to unexplored dimensions, radiating with the
essence of something singular and extraordinary. In this realm, stripped of concrete
boundaries and defined absolutes, I grasped the profound truth that each miracle birthed a
new world, a microcosm of its own, untouched by the constraints of a predictable existence.”
To break free from the omnipotent rule of the divine, one must cling steadfastly to that which
must never succumb to alteration. It is in this profound realization that Khvarenah finds
himself suspended in a moment of epiphany, his mind unraveling the cryptic words bestowed
upon him by Varhran two decades past.

As the tendrils of recollection gently wrap around the chambers of his consciousness, a surge
of comprehension surges through Khvarenah's being. The fragments of a distant memory
converge, aligning like stars in the night sky, revealing the hidden tapestry of significance that
had eluded him for so long. It is as if the veils of time and circumstance have been lifted,
allowing him to witness the truth in its unadulterated form.
“May My Unchanging ■■■■■■■ Save the Universe – Lokapala Vishvakarman Vastu…”

The embodiment of the original prayer takes on a form that can only be described as the
magnificent work of the illustrious Khvarenah. The earth itself seems to dissipate, and the skies
split open, as countless stars from distant galaxies descend in a single cascading stream,
leaving trails of shimmering light in their wake. In a blink of an eye, they all converge,
assembling into a celestial structure.

This heavenly palace stretches towards unreachable horizons, meticulously adhering to the
golden ratio in every minute detail, and devoid of any hint of decay or destruction. It stands as
an eternal city, where rows of castles and monuments appear to glow with crystalline hues,
creating a wondrous utopia. This environment achieves perfection not only in its architecture
but also in a much broader sense, repelling any form of harm as gracefully as a dance of
peacock feathers.

A sense of immaculacy envelops both heaven and earth, promising eternal prosperity.
Remarkably, this place lacks any elements capable of causing harm to others. It does not seek
to possess anything for itself, yet it does not boast of its own magnificence. Rather, it simply
exists...

It is absolute, all-encompassing...

“I believe that I will achieve a miracle if I can paint you with my colors.”

In the face of Magsarion's predatory gaze, Khvarenah responds not with "defeat" or "kill." It is
no surprise, for his essence lies in the antithesis of destruction. His voice carries gentle
warmth, and even mercy can be seen in his compassionate eyes. The sacred child of the asuras
does not regard "everyone" as his enemy.

Though Khvarenah cannot fully articulate his immutable nature, and thus cannot emanate his
true power, it can still be said that anyone who dares to oppose him shall undoubtedly ascend
to heaven. At the very least, those who are unequal to him will be instantaneously cleansed by
the purifying flames of the Avesta.

Radiating with the brilliance of divine rule, this entity captivates all who witness it, evoking
tears of admiration merely through its presence. It embodies the very essence of "Beauty,"
reaching a level of perfection that dissolves the soul...

“What a foolish joke.”

Magsarion snorts disdainfully, yet he refrains from voicing the fate that awaits this world. To do
so would mean instant absorption, swiftly becoming one with it. It is within this realm of
diversity that Khvarenah’s dominion resides.
Unchanging Beauty...

The concept of "Beauty" invariably exists in any era and any place. It transcends the boundaries
of good and evil, and carries within it a spirit of tranquility and purification. The touch of true
"Beauty" promises salvation, offering solace even to the most wounded and restless hearts,
granting them serene healing and boundless joy.

Who could find anger in a world of perfect "Beauty"?

What price could be demanded?

The resolution of troubled times does not lie in military might or balance of power. Simply
being "beautiful" is enough.

“I shall bestow salvation upon you. This is my purpose of existence.”

The clash, which has already transcended the realm of mere battle, now unveils its "beautiful"
curtain in this very moment.

6
I behold an infant in tears, crying to me not to depart.

Why did I turn away from him so callously?

The child is not mistaken. As he insists, even a slight delay would have altered everything. I
myself had an inkling of this and would have preferred to postpone it. So why did I disregard it?

The answer is astoundingly simple. Because I am but a tool. My duty, at all times and in all
matters, is to heed my master's commands, with no right to forget my obligations and assert
my own opinions.

I possess no ideal of my own, and since the employment of my power is dictated by my

possessor, I have remained silent. Just as I always have. Whatever tumult churned within me, I
pressed on, borne by the current of circumstances.

Long, interminably long, to the extent that the duration of this eternity is indiscernible.

Everyone perishes.

This truth is evident to all. Afterward, everything is upturned and begins anew. The supreme
power inscribed within me the very nature of this universe, and I accepted my destiny as an
instrument and embodiment of its will.

Perhaps... I could deem myself immutable.

Black and white are inseparable, and thus, on the other side, there exists another executor of
my duty. Yet they change alongside the epochs, and that, to me, seems a far more forgiving fate.

I alone am bound to remain unchanging for an extended, enduring stretch, and while it may
appear inequitable, I have accepted it as a given.

Until I turned my back on that child. That was my inaugural memory of the transgression I
committed.

I have committed numerous acts against my own volition, yet never before have I experienced
such maddening anxiety. I cursed my own function, felt disgrace toward my fate, and despised
my own frailty with all my being, unable to rid myself of it. Unendurable regrets. An error that
compelled me to contemplate self-annihilation.

After countless years of existence, I encountered a savior at last—and abandoned him to his
destiny. Perhaps he was so "beautiful" that, in my pettiness, I was instead filled with dread. In
the midst of a fate I believed eternal, I suddenly discovered a warmth akin to a miracle—and
instinctively recoiled.

Truly, what greater foolishness could one fathom? There exists no sin more grievous than
squandering a solitary opportunity in life. It is improbable that within this vast cosmos, a more
wretched sinner than I exists. That is why I resolved to bring about utter annihilation instead.

"You claim to desire me. Yet is it truly your own volition? Could it be that you are merely an
agent of others' wishes, bereft of the ability to resist their will?”

The encounter with another hero has already played into my hands. He bore a remarkable
resemblance to his predecessors, rendering him capable of either meticulously retracing the
well-trodden path or surpassing it entirely. Something within him transcended any semblance
of reason, evoking even a semblance of terror in me. In other words, he appeared exceedingly
captivating to me. Longing for destruction, I encountered someone who could bring it about.

"So what? Are you still determined to claim that you seek a miracle?”

Honestly, I would rather retire to slumber. Not because I am dissatisfied with you—rather, you
resemble a hero too greatly. I feel that my efforts shall once more prove fruitless...

Toying with enigmatic allusions that seem to test him, it appears even to me as the behavior of
a crass harlot, prompting laughter. I am well aware that my age holds no significance, and my
aptitude for communication leaves much to be desired. Hence, I ask for your forgiveness for my
inability to express myself otherwise.
In truth, I felt genuine elation. I am delighted to have crossed paths with you. I yearn to invert
the trajectory of all things. I yearn to witness a future shaped anew. My heart is ensnared by
this desperation, this hope, and amidst thoughts of self-obliteration, I ponder you.

Remember, my hero, if you are so intent on summoning a lady who harbors no desire to
acquiesce, then you must pay the appropriate price. If you believe I covet my own destruction,
then you must also accept the annihilation that accompanies it. Stain your hands with deeds
that are not your own.

Whispering, as if to a cherished one, I approach him with the stride of a predator that has
caught its prey.

“Let us descend into the depths of hell together. Let us traverse the path of mortal sin, all the
while dreaming of paradise.”

I care not if they continue to ascribe blame to me as the prime creator of the mosnter. For I
comprehend that good and evil are but hollow words.

“And so, our agreement reaches its conclusion. Ah, what a shameless act we are commiting.”

Enveloped within his embrace, my consciousness fades away, consumed by the flames of
heartlessness and mercilessness. Though the "Divine Blade," unaltered since the genesis of the
world, shatters in that very instant...

I believe that I shall discover a new life yet. In order to forge a true miracle, I shall traverse the
path to hell alongside him.

“Kh–”

As I find myself paralyzed, unable to move. The assault of the gas chambers, now transformed
into dolls of Father, has left me reeling. My functions falter, overwhelmed by a deluge of chaotic
thoughts and memories.
The sheer magnitude of this information renders me incapable of organizing it into coherence.

Frederica and Montserrat—what are they doing in this moment?

Are they engaging in a battle against their Father?

Though I need not concern myself with their well-being, an impulse urges me to intervene and
halt their actions. It is evident to me, as clear as day, that they cannot prevail against Khvarenah
and his incomprehensible power. However, defeating him through force or combat is a futile
endeavor.

To consider him merely a living being is an error; he transcends such limitations. Khvarenah is
an idea—a perpetually "beautiful" and immutable rule.
What has become of the boy whom I foolishly abandoned?

No, wait, what am I saying?

No...

Yes!

"...Damn!"

With a forceful curse, nearly biting off my own tongue, I manage to regain control over my
autonomous nerves. While my physical movement remains impaired, some of my senses
gradually return.

The howling wind, the scent of blood in the air, the vibrations of the ongoing struggle
reverberating through the floor—the battle has truly commenced. I cannot afford to linger in
this state of helplessness. With great effort, I raise my face, forcefully opening my blind eyes. I
must witness it myself—not through Montserrat's eyes, but through my own.

"I apologize. Please forgive me... I am the one who made you this way."

I allow the words to escape my lips, devoid of my own volition. And yet, they feel detached
from me. The one who possesses those memories is also devoid of sentiment, unyielding and
merciless. She moves forward without ever looking back, perpetually focused on his own path.
Perhaps I am but remnants of her, but that is precisely why I seek my own path.

I shall gather prayers and strive for a miracle, as my destiny dictates. This time, I yearn to
respond to him. I yearn to embrace this child in my arms.

"You are the hope, the light for all... Do not deem it too late. You still possess the power to
change everything, to save yourself."

Guided by the sound, I crawl closer to him. Allow me to behold your face once more, holy child.
It would be a travesty to let your "Beauty" fade into oblivion, and therefore I wish to etch it
deeply into my heart.

This is the purpose of my rebirth as your daughter. I believe it to be my sole redemption.

◇◇◇◇◇

Beauty is a form of sympathetic magic—a power that, with a mere touch, can cleanse the soul
and elevate it to new heights. Indeed, beauty begets beauty. Through its ability to transform the
surroundings, it wields an unparalleled strength. One should not underestimate the power it
holds in its greatest embodiment.
"Eh, what's the matter? How feeble we have become."

Even Frederica's usually melodic voice begins to betray hints of weariness. Swinging her scythe
in a futile attempt, she realizes it has no effect.

"Tell me, Montserrat, isn't there a simpler solution?" she queries with regret in her voice.

"Unfortunately, milady, there is none. For now, we must be content with the fact that we have
not met a similar fate."

Yet, in this instance, he speaks the truth. It is true that those who have not laid eyes upon
Khvarenah’s form have not suffered the same fate.

"Listen, Elnaz, are you too stubborn for a servant?" Frederica continues.

"I shall graciously put an end to you, so be kind enough to die with grace."

"I offer my sincerest apologies, madam, but I fail to comprehend your intentions. Perhaps
Farangis understands?"

"No, not at all. Neither the purpose nor the reason. Why do you wish to kill us, mistress?"

"Such..."

Engulfed by a wave of silence, the maids have transformed into Khvarenah’s children. However,
he does not control them or issue commands. They have become "beautiful." Stripped of
bloodlust and base desires, they now devote themselves to the unchanging "Beauty" as beings
of a higher plane. Their souls possess a virginal purity, exuding serene tranquility.
Consequently, the conflict appears as sheer folly to them, and they show no inclination to
respond to Frederica and Montserrat's furious assault. Yet, not a scratch blemishes them.

Having become "beautiful," they remain unaltered, their lips graced with gentle smiles. Even
this is sufficient to halt the King of Evil and a daeva of exceptional stature. They must not be
allowed to advance any further.

“Yes, they resemble puppets. I never anticipated such peculiar interests from you, dear
brother.”

Has she finally relinquished her will to fight? With a sigh, Frederica tosses her scythe over her
shoulder, her brows furrowing. Further mindless attacks would only exacerbate the situation,
rendering them futile. Even Frederica, with her simple logic, understands this. Engaging in
conversation may not be the safest solution, but it is the only viable one.
"Come now, can't you hear me? You've been standing there with a feeble expression—don't tell
me you were asleep?"

"My children are not dolls."

His brief response, resonating like a clear bell tolling high in the heavens. Frederica frowns, and
Montserrat clicks his tongue—a predictable reaction. Though they cannot witness it, the mere
sound of his voice sends shivers down their souls, risking their transformation into the
"beautiful."

Yet, they must endure this time. Perhaps, due to their status, they manage to uphold the dignity
of murderers until the end, or maybe it is owing to Khvarenah’s imperfections. The tense
silence lasts no more than a second before the brilliance continues to emanate, accompanied
by its enchanting voice.

"A soul transformed into a puppet, renouncing the natural impulses of a living being, feels
nothing. It is akin to death and not the being I desire."

"Oh, really? It appears quite the opposite to me," Frederica retorts.

With an intentional raise in volume, Frederica responds, attempting to drown out the voice of
her interlocutor. The necessity to exert such effort to resist Khvarenah’s influence further
emphasizes his extraordinary nature. After a prolonged period of languishing in the depths of a
feeble-minded unconsciousness, his astral form gradually resurfaces, partly thanks to the
encounter with the unwavering presence of Magsarion.

Though still wavering like the ebb and flow of waves, he begins to display traces of restored
consciousness. Frederica, recognizing this minimal glimmer of comprehension, determines
that she can press on, her tone growing sterner in the process.

"I have often fantasized about how I would relish killing you, but for some reason, that desire
escapes me now. It's not that I've changed my mind, but rather because you have transformed
into something beyond my perception of a living being. I cannot regard you as such."

"Is that so? I am an unchanging phenomenon. However, I cannot fully grasp the exact nature of
this concept. Despite being merely a step away, I am unable to breach its boundaries. I suppose
that is why these children appear as dolls to you. Their initial emptiness of soul partly
contributes to this perception, but it does not absolve me of my failure to ■■■■■■■■■
guide them. I find my own shortcomings disgraceful."

Khvarenah, pointing towards the motionless maidens who resemble statues, takes a deep
breath—an action that genuinely astounds Frederica.

"Disgraceful? Are you feeling remorse?"

Is he truly ashamed of his actions? Khvarenah, the Workshop of Annihilation who had garnered
such a notorious reputation?

Following a short yet profound pause, an outburst of such magnitude erupts from within
Frederica, surprising even herself. A tempest of emotions, uncharacteristic of her usual
demeanor, propels the queen of the murderers forward. Her reaction stems not so much from
disbelief but from an inability to forgive such an occurrence. She feels as if she has been
deceitfully and despicably betrayed.

“Laugh, dear brother—why should you lower your head? You are Khvarenah, the architect of
destruction, our eldest sibling, and as such, you bear your own dark responsibilities. Yet, if you
allow yourself to be degraded in this manner, how can you serve as an example?!"

"Milady..." Montserrat attempts to interject, seeking to calm her down, but Frederica brushes
him off and continues.

The truth is, she has never concerned herself with her role as the embodiment of evil or the
eternal conflict between good and evil. However, there are certain matters that she simply
cannot overlook. It matters not what is deemed good or bad.

She does not kill because she is evil; she kills because she revels in it.

That is why she wields her scythe. If she is labeled despicable for this inclination, she will
accept it. If she is praised, she will simply smile. And she will kill, regardless of who stands
before her.

"What truly matters is the absence of shame, irrespective of whether one aligns with good or
evil.”

It is about possessing a ounce of pride, the ability to hold one's head high and proclaim that
this is one's chosen path. What purpose is there in harboring regrets?

"My passion lies in murder and all that accompanies it. Bathing in blood fills me with
indescribable joy, and so I indulge in it. I will not become like you, shedding 'ugly' tears over
mistakes and failures!"

Frederica makes her declaration with unyielding pride, and Khvarenah’s expression undergoes
a subtle change. As if echoing this transformation, a similar shift unfolds in the outside world.

◇◇◇◇◇

“Ugly?”

"Is that so, or have you conveniently forgotten what you have accomplished?"
Magsarion interjects, rising amidst the presence of Lokapala. His statement carries a distinct
air of derision and even contempt, setting him apart from Frederica.

"While it may amuse you to play the role of a grand savior who has rediscovered his ideals, I
can't help but notice that you are on the brink of losing all memory of your past wanderings.
You've left behind a trail of chaos and destruction, so how dare you lay claim to any sense of
integrity?"

Magsarion, with no need for a sword, challenges the celestial brilliance solely with his biting
words. It's not because he has altered his strategy due to the futility of military power under
Khvarenah’s rule. It's because he seeks out the cracks, aiming to understand Khvarenah and
ultimately dismantle him.

"Let us attempt to guess your Commandment. You are 'obligated to continually create weapons
of war'... ... Ah, why the sudden surprise? It is quite apparent if one simply examines the chaos
you have unleashed."

Indeed, as Magsarion points out, all the creations from the Workshop of Annihilation were
various types of weapons. The conflicting opposites like Mashyag, the accursed Melek Tawus,
the deity-like creator daeva. Even the sword-like Quinn... And even the Seal of Freeze possesses
the potential to pose a formidable threat on the battlefield. Every other countless artifact,
without exception, was primarily forged as a weapon. However, this is precisely why Magsarion
detects the discrepancies in the present situation.

"Yet, all I see here are buildings. How do you intend to fight with them? Throw them?"

Magsarion's mocking words strike a deep chord within Khvarenah. The creation of a city and
the creation of weapons are inherently distinct endeavors.
"By breaking your Commandment so willingly, you are contradicting yourself. It is intriguing
that you still remain alive in such circumstances. Perhaps it has something to do with that
elusive 'certain feature'? Well, I will have ample time to ponder this later. For now, it is a mere
abstract subject, because what I truly wish to convey is..."

Magsarion, pointing his sword, brims with a bloodlust that rivals divine will, and declares once
again: "You are a ugly filthy counterfeit that has tainted its essence of a Commandment— you
are not immutable."

In the face of this unwavering accusation from the merciless blade...

"Shut up..."

...Khvarenahh’s objection emerges as a desperate excuse, his voice trembling with a sense of
defeat. In a sense, the situation spirals out of control.
Logically, Magsarion's argument holds considerable weight. In fact, Khvarenah himself is
inclined to largely agree with this tirade and even feels a twinge of remorse.

"Indeed, I am foolish, and I am nothing."

So why does he persist in arguing, even when shamefully cornered? Why does Khvarenah, who
should be far removed from stubbornness, hostility, and other emotions, discard logic and
clumsily defend himself?

Is there some factor that eludes his recognition? Alas, it remains hazy and unexplored...

"I became myself of my own free will."

The significance of Khvarenah’s subsequent words strikes him deeply, first and foremost.
Memories surge forth in a belated stream, bolstering his conviction.

The birth of the sacred child of the asuras was slightly delayed, and he became corrupted,
unable to resist the collapse of the universe. Countless aimless days of wandering, curses
directed at their ill-fated destiny. Thousands of years steeped in darkness, during which
"everyone" feared him, despised him, loathed him as the harbinger of destruction from the
Workshop.

"I was ugly. I shall not deny it. However, my Commandment is not the filth I imposed upon
myself in a blind impulse."

Despair did not consume him as a consequence of the collapse of the universe, nor did he fall
unconscious while creating weapons of war. Indeed, even amid the most hopeless chaos and
delusion, the greatest radiance remained within him—an image he aspired to recreate at any
cost, yearning to one day encounter "her."
"The most precious being I know was left powerless, on the verge of decay... and
self-annihilation. Thus, my most cherished desire is to hold "her" in my heart and spare her
from suffering. And I refuse to allow this prayer and this choice to be deemed wrong.”

Within Khvarenah, a scarlet flame of anger burns, intertwined with shame. Anger at his
weakness and foolishness, which caused him to overlook the truth that lay at the very core of
his existence...

Anger at his own past, when he forgot himself and retreated into his shell, a powerless victim
of circumstance.

"My sin, my ugliness, lies in forgetfulness. It does not stem from the 'Blade' enchanting me.
That is why I must provide proof."
Khvarenah states this nearly inaudibly. Even if his actions bring naught but death upon himself,
he refuses to accept an interpretation that places the blame solely on "her." Resolute to the
point of sacrificing his own life, the sacred child sings of his conviction.

"I am willing to stake my entire being to bring forth the most perfect of blades.”

“Ho-oh…”

Before Khvarenah’s unwavering oath, Magsarion, albeit slightly, adjusts his recent assessment.

“Seems like you are even more foolish than I thought. And what shall you name your
Commandment?”

"Heavenly Radiance of Annihilation, Pushpaka Ratha... Never ceasing, never resting, I generate
weapons whose purpose is war. In return for fulfilling this condition, I continually refine myself
as the precursor to the blade."

In other words, this is the source of the power that allowed him to grow to the size of a
hypergiant—and even beyond, giving birth to the Annihilation Star Cluster. The Workshop of
Annihilation. Not a radiant circle of light, but a war chariot that accelerates discord with its
black creations.

That is how one can describe Khvarenah, the King of Evil. The sacred child, meant to save the
universe with unchanging "Beauty," was captivated by the instrument of war in the form of a
blade.

As Magsarion argues, such an existence cannot be deemed natural. Yet, Khvarenah takes pride
in it, devoid of any shame. He is proud of the contradiction he embraced not by going with the
flow or switching sides, but by his own free will.

"As long as this desire lives within my heart, the miracle I yearn for will manifest sooner or
later, regardless of the trials I face.”
"Are you still determined to surrender?"

Magsarion whispers softly as Lokapala creaks under his gaze. The "beauty" that Khvarenah’s
radiance was originally meant to embody is the beauty found in painting, craftsmanship,
architecture, music, and poetry—a beauty that bestows unparalleled talents upon all living
beings for creating and perceiving art. Thus, both flora and fauna contribute to the creation of a
"beautiful" nature, which serves as inspiration for sentient life forms.

Consequently, culture flourishes, art evolves, and "Beauty" sustains itself. Witnessing and
experiencing something "beautiful" instills a profound sense of reverence and tranquility,
capable of putting an end to discord unconditionally. Since the fundamental concept of such a
world is the absence of bloodshed, the "beauty" of weaponry and martial arts is incompatible
and detrimental to it.
By binding himself to the Blade's Rapture, Khvarenah found himself at an impasse from the
very beginning. But what if he were to resign himself to his fate and unleash that which
opposes hegemony and his Commandment?

If one were to approach it rationally, both endeavors would undoubtedly impede each other.
However, Khvarenah’s unwavering faith in the birth of the blade can only be described as sheer
fanaticism. It cannot be dismissed.

Even now, as he endures the relentless onslaught of divine retribution without succumbing to
his shattered Commandment, he exemplifies the likeness of a god. Each blow of punishment
strikes him, yet he remains resolute, devoid of a single step of retreat. His destiny may be
predetermined, but he harbors neither regret nor fear.

"I believe this is where my journey shall reach its final conclusion. Ah, but do not misconstrue
my words. It is my cherished desire.”

Torn asunder by the raging flames of the contradiction birthed from none other than himself,
he embraces it as if it were welcome tidings. Khvarenah sings of the fractured beauty of
annihilation.

"I shall reach my goal. In that ephemeral moment when the universe teeters on the precipice of
its final breath, the unchanging prayer shall materialize into reality."

From the words uttered by the towering edifices of the city, a convergence ensues, knitting
together to form a single grandiose image.

It neither stoops to vulgarity nor strives for ostentation.

It possesses a formidable elegance, a form that can only belong to a blade.

The ultimate creation of the sacred child of radiance, wherein he invested his very essence...
At the precise instant when it, faultlessly aimed at Magsarion's chest, poised to pierce him here
and now...

What a funny pice of trash.”

...Khvarenah embraced the long-awaited miracle as he bear witness to the cataclysmic birth of
the death of the Big Bang.

◇◇◇◇◇

"I..."
Disregarding the entanglement of my own limbs, I rush forward, embracing him with all the
strength I can muster.

"Q-Quinn?"

"Wait, milady, let her speak—"

With no regard for my surroundings, I can only be grateful for their trust in me. After all, this
matter between him and me is ours alone, and only I can discuss it with him. Therefore, I yearn
to express my feelings to him in their entirety.

Though tears cloud my vision, I place my hands on the quivering sacred child's cheeks and
begin to speak, my words faltering.

"You are 'beautiful,' Farn. You are not flawed or hideous. If there is any stain upon you, it is
solely my doing.”

For he embodies 'Beauty,' born into this world to bestow it upon everything and everyone. If
circumstances had allowed him to grow unhindered, he would have undoubtedly created an
immaculate utopia.

"Did you strike me out of an inability to forgive? It was I who burdened you with the fate of a
weapon, tarnishing you to the point where you began to despise me..."

"No..."

His voice remains calm, but the warmth of his tears saturates my palms. In this moment,
Khvarenah is weeping, tears flowing uncontrollably.

"All I desired was to bring you into existence. When I saw you that time, you filled my soul to
the brim, yes, to overflowing... I refuse to be ashamed for engraving the 'Blade' in my heart. I
will not regret it. And I swear, I will not even curse you for disfiguring me. I only wished to dry
your tears.”
Khvarenah's gentle hand caresses my cheek.

"I remembered... Upon meeting you, I discovered my purpose. Even if our encounter was brief,
when I laid eyes on you, I became myself. Thus, I must accept the outcome as inevitable. Please,
do not mourn for me, O Divine Blade. Allowing your radiance to be dimmed by something as
insignificant as my passing would be a mistake.”

Khvarenah...

Finally, the fog lifts, and I behold my father smiling at me with the innocence of a child from
days long past. Such a pure, unclouded gaze, liberated from all burdens. Would there be room
for conflict in the world if everyone could attain this state?
"Is there truly nothing I can do? Though I have nothing to repay, I am still the daughter you
created. It is my responsibility to strive for salvation in the name of the future, so let us
together achieve a 'universal' peace…”

"Do not worry."

Gently, Khvarenah pushes me back, creating a distance between us. He steps away slowly, a
tinge of embarrassment coloring his demeanor.

"As we agreed, you have brought a miracle to me. Therefore, I must also fulfill my duty."

"Wait, what are you saying?"

Just as I instinctively attempt to rush toward him, a black streak engulfs the sky and the earth.

◇◇◇◇◇
Before the colossal blade bearing down on him, Magsarion couldn't help but smirk. He
understood that this was the extent to which a being tainted by contradiction could reach, and
such a weapon could hardly be considered flawless.

This fact was evident in Khvarenah’s own acknowledgement of his imperfections, which he
even took pride in. However, amidst his heart's exultation in the fulfillment of his desires, there
was no trace of falsehood. Given all these factors, Magsarion quickly grasped the true
significance behind the latest creation of the Workshop of Annihilation.

In essence, it was a whetstone—a means to sharpen a sword capable of slaying gods, with the
purpose of bringing forth an even more superior blade. In doing so, he resolved his own
shortcomings through proxy—allowing others to accomplish what he himself could not,
seeking his own salvation in the process.

“Well, that's not my style. Not at all. But since he had gone this far… For a forgery, such a death
is quite fitting, I admit."

Magsarion raised his sword high above his head, unleashing a roar that could shake the very
fabric of the universe.

"You're ugly, and I like it!"

The ensuing swing transcended a mere slashing attack, becoming a marvel that left such
boundaries far behind. Khvarenah manifested five hundred and seventy-four
galaxies—moreover, he comprehended the rudiments of world creation, albeit imperfectly.
This implied a density of cosmic power millions of times greater than before.

But so what?

It was all superficial.

Magsarion already knew everything there was to know about Khvarenah. Furthermore, he had
decided to exterminate "all" those who constituted the fabric of the universe's order.

The universe comprised trillions of galaxies. The furious warrior, determined to bring genocide
to each one, could not possibly yield to such an insignificant adversary. From the standpoint of
elementary arithmetic, the outcome was glaringly obvious.

Lapis lazuli shattered into fragments, the celestial radiance split precisely in half, and the entire
Annihilation Star Cluster crumbled into dust without exception.

Blade of Destruction.

Where did Magsarion come from, and where was he heading?

Such questions held no meaning for him as he advanced, surmounting mountains of corpses
and rivers of blood.

Yes, he was running.

Relentlessly. It was not enough—far too little.

Every living being in this world made mistakes.

"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

Howling with delight, his being drenched in hatred, yet simultaneously possessing an
awe-inspiring majesty. This feverish notion that transcended the ordinary celebration of
victory was the most eloquent portrayal of a man named Magsarion.

The savior of the desolate wasteland, who would put an end to the hollow puppet show of the
Avesta, granting meaning to life and death.

"I will make you realize who you truly are," he promised, intending to devour all the prayers
that danced to the tune of his deity.

He had no intention of letting anyone slip through his grasp, let alone allowing them to escape.
For the underworld he traversed, knee-deep in blood, as the greatest madman of this deranged
world, was the immutable truth of the heartless blade.

Each step he took landed where there was nothing. He had no need for the gift of the Star
Spirit, for he initially lacked use for it. As long as there remained prey, as long as the battlefield
endured, he would trample them beneath his feet until the end of time.

A black comet ascending to the heavens along an invisible staircase...

The embodiment of heartlessness embarked on its relentless sprint.

"How beautiful..."

Severed diagonally alongside his stellar body, Khvarenah, with only half of his astral form
remaining, looked upon him, suspended in mid-air. The impending onslaught of the blade sent
shivers through his being. Joy and delight resounded in his chest, refusing to abate.

"Beautiful," "beautiful," you are "beautiful"—what a blade!”

At long last, he openly acknowledged its immutability, giving it voice. He wanted to shout those
words repeatedly, to sing them for as long as he desired, without end.
"I was captivated by her. That's why I swore to create weapons. And even if, in the process, I
distorted the essence of 'Beauty,' becoming an instrument of destruction, I have no regrets!"

Even if he relinquished his right to ascend to the throne of a god, his plea for the birth of the
blade remained immortal, continuing to shine for eternity. If he were to consider it a foolish
mistake, he would only defame her name. Because he was content with such a fate.

Imperfect, counterfeit, and ugly— but yet it is Khvarenah!

"The path I tread may have been tortuous, but it led to my contribution to your existence. And
that is enough! If you wish to mock my reliance on others, then laugh. If you want to claim that
I merely created the conditions for the desired miracle to appear, then so be it! What is wrong
with lacking will? Go ahead and make a wager—I will be the one deciding how I run! It was in
that moment when I beheld you as 'beautiful'... that you became the answer for me!”

Without Khvarenah, Varhran's death would have unfolded differently, and Magsarion himself
would have undoubtedly become an entirely different being. Parallel possibilities may have
presented an alternative that could yield similar results, but ultimately, they were mere
alternatives.

It was safe to say that a truly identical blade would never have been born. Therefore, his
endeavor had undoubtedly borne fruit. Khvarenah had nothing to be ashamed of; he could take
pride in the fulfillment of his dream. Even though he himself had not achieved it, Magsarion
was a man who had discovered a miracle.

"Grant me salvation, O 'beautiful' blade. Allow my prayer to be absorbed within you, as proof
that I played a small part in your creation!”

“...Let it be so."

A gust of annihilating wind surged forth, reducing the sacred child of radiance to mere
fragments. Splatters of blood and tears of gratitude lingered in the vacuum, consumed by the
heartless blade—the first King of Evil.

And then... as if it were a matter of course, the black knight continued his relentless charge.

He simply did not know how to halt. He remembered the pact. In the sky, the dissected
remnants of the Workshop of Annihilation hung, crumbling away. There was still a lingering
pause before they vanished, and there were still others within. Thus, it was only fitting to
honor the agreement. Deep within his helmet, Magsarion sharpened his fangs as he recalled
the oath of the young lady.

"Let us postpone our rendezvous until we rid ourselves of this interference."

He had slain Bahlavan.

He had severed Khvarenah.

The preludes had concluded.

Now, it was time to commence the ill-fated courtship.

"You're next—I won't spare you a single breath!"

The man treading the path of the underworld rushed toward the dreaming maiden. To
consume the unwavering love of the Princess of Murder, bestowing upon her the salvation of
death.

7
In the beginning, this union held a purely political nature, an attempt to maintain a facade of
decency. Both parties were well aware that such a relationship was typically frowned upon. Yet,
simultaneously, they defied societal norms, believing that there was nothing inherently wrong
with their choices.

Their responsibilities outweighed personal desires, for the protection of their shared vision
demanded a vigilant concealment of their tracks. For him, true kingship meant more than
simply basking in the spotlight once he assumed the lead role.

When he realized he was not born for this, he harbored no resentment. On the contrary, he felt
a sense of pride, nurturing the desire to weave the greatest legend ever told—a tale in which
the true protagonist would finally reveal himself.

"Is Mr. Varhran showing interest already?" a soft female voice emerged from behind Svirios,
who stood on the balcony.
Even without turning around, he could sense her smile.

"Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he remains true to himself. I'm certain his
concern for you is his sole motivation. Please, don't let it sadden you."

Though eight years had passed since they first met and seven since their wedding, a certain
detachment still clung to him. Within his soul, he blamed himself, yet outwardly, he maintained
a businesslike demeanor.

"However, I'm growing weary of discussing our relationship. With Nahid and her partner
postponing their wedding, it falls upon us to set an example for them."

"You mean for the greater good?" she inquired.

"Exactly. And I won't entertain any notions of unworthiness on your part. The public is already
familiar with the Divine Blade of Varhran, and as its priestess, you have become an integral part
of that legend. You are more than qualified to assume the role of royal consort."

Svirios's voice carried a hint of weariness. He pondered the long and winding road that had
brought them to this point. The Divine Blade had been veiled in mystery initially, with no
documented records of its existence. It was pure chance that they stumbled upon an ancient
lineage of blade priestesses on this very planet. Perhaps it was all orchestrated by some unseen
hand, but regardless, public awareness remained almost nonexistent.

Consequently, when Varhran ascended to the position of the current "owner" of the Divine
Blade, Svirios intended to announce it on a grand scale. However, circumstances prevented this
from occurring. Moreover, the nature of the Divine Blade demanded utmost secrecy. It took
eight years to mold their narrative to fit the situation, leading them to this very conversation.

"I won't attempt to justify him, but it's time to put everything in its rightful place. I hope you
don't mind," Svirios stated.

"If that is your wish," she acquiesced.

"What do you mean?"

Svirios turned around, gazing into the eyes of his wife, who sat by the window. Her vibrant blue
eyes sparkled with a genuine light, just as they had on the day they first met. It was evident
that she wholeheartedly devoted herself to her purpose, be it the serendipity of their initial
encounter or the welfare of her spouse.

They shared a commitment to elevating others rather than themselves, making them kindred
spirits. That's precisely why he chose her as his wife. The notion that they could strive together
to embody their ideals was no falsehood. He trusted her in this endeavor more than anyone
else, even if he remained uncertain whether to label it as love.

"There's nothing for me to apologize for. Otherwise, I would have executed you eight years ago.”

“But I don't want to hinder your happiness."

"Happiness? That's utter nonsense..."

His happiness stemmed from the triumph of his friend and Ashavans alike. Svirios grumbled
under his breath, convinced that there was no other driving force. However, his wife shook her
head sadly.

"I apologize if I've overstepped, but it seems as though you've made peace with something. If
it's my fault, then I genuinely apologize, and if there's still a chance to rectify it..."
"It's merely your imagination," Svirios interjected, momentarily halting her words.

He reached out and took his wife's hand, pulling her to her feet.

"Indeed, I've had to leave much behind and come to terms with it. The innocent subjects I
couldn't save, the subordinates I sent to their deaths—I never forget them, not for a moment.
That's why I believe we must emerge victorious, and for that, we need your assistance. I don't
wish for you to remain confined here any longer."

"But..."

"Don't even speak. It's settled, Quinn." Svirios addressed his wife by name, drawing her close to
his chest.

The act was almost instinctual, as if he didn't want her to witness the emotions etched upon his
face.

"If you find unease within me, then resolve it on your own. Even if I am a fool who struggles to
understand his own desires, a wife's duty is to inspire contentment."

"Your Majesty..."

"Of course, I don't expect you to shoulder this burden alone. Just as a wife has responsibilities,
so does a husband."

After a pause, the girl responded to Svirios's statement.

"In that case, let us produce an heir. I agree to bear your child."
Indeed, when it comes to marital duty, the thought naturally springs to mind. And in a marriage
founded on political motives, such a development can be considered obligatory. Perhaps on this
day, Svirios hesitated because he was beginning to comprehend his "humility," just as she had
noticed...

Svirios averted his gaze, feigning speechlessness. Yet, with gentle hands, the girl turned his face
back toward her, as if gently reproaching him for not standing tall. As if declaring that she
would dutifully fulfill her role, the truth be told. Her eyes radiated a potent blend of
unwavering determination and love.

"If I'm to reside in the capital, then sooner or later, I'll come face to face with the boy. Mr.
Varhran may not mind, given his temperament, but it will be a great struggle for both you and
me. Hence, I believe it's best for us to establish our own bond and face the judgment of the
Divine Blade with open hearts."

"...Do you think such thoughts are selfish?"

"No, your words carry a measure of common sense," Svirios acknowledged, realizing that his
smile had faltered.

It now resembled laughter tinged with tears—a weakness that a man should be ashamed of.
Nevertheless, his wife accepted him, declaring her readiness to stand by his side in the fight
ahead. How resilient women are. Or perhaps it was her particular strength? Contemplating this
bittersweet notion, the holy king nodded.

"So, what do you propose?"

"When others learn of your pregnancy, we shall unveil our relationship publicly. However, until
you carry our child, we shall continue to live as we do now."

"Forgive me for this whimsical request. Yet, I believe this solution will serve you best."

Thus, Svirios would cast aside his doubts and tread the path of kingship he truly desired. The
unwavering loyalty in his wife's unclouded gaze was genuine, matched only by his own desire
to champion her cause. And so, he had no choice but to meet her halfway.

In the end, it all began with his vow to never let her shed another tear.

"As you wish. However, today I find myself burdened with pressing matters, and thus, I won't
have the opportunity to visit you as frequently..."

"Then make it up to me tonight. No, I won't let you slip away so easily."

"Well, look at you, becoming quite the tease!"

This time, he managed to flash a genuine grin. Following that, the silhouettes of a man and a
woman intertwined, merging into a single entity before disappearing into the pleasures of
passion.

But Fate had other plans in store.

Two months later, Khvarenah’s assault on the Sacred Realm and the untimely demise of
Varhran would come crashing down upon them.

◇◇◇◇◇

A tumultuous upheaval, a cataclysmic wave of destruction, reverberates in every direction, as if

heralding the apocalyptic finale.

The entire world, without any trace of exaggeration, appears to have perished in this moment.
The once sky-obscuring Workshop of Annihilation splits asunder, fragmenting into oblivion.
Truly, this is nothing short of a miraculous occurrence. The diabolical assault, which
condemned the entire cosmos to the depths of despair for over two millennia, has come to a
halt here and now. And it is through an inconceivable method—a single blade severing a
hypergiant—that this unfathomable miracle transpires.

Even the imagination of the most innocent child could not conjure such a demise. Yet, it is an
undeniable reality, and thus, it can only be deemed a miracle. Those who bear witness to this
event are already enshrined in the annals of history, distanced from the mundane realms of
everyday life.

The twelve lords of the Sacred Realm, along with the concubines of the Corpse of the Dragon
Star, join hands in an exultant celebration. Forgetting the irreconcilable strife once imposed by
the Avesta, they no longer shy away from each other or hold disdain.

Even Roxanne and Alma, cradling the captive in her arms, display no overt antipathy on her
countenance. If we dare to speak of absurdity, this is an absurdity no less profound than the
death of the King of Evil.

Excited factions, the blacks and the whites, have not lost their senses amidst the fleeting
exhilaration but remain resolute, transcending the boundaries of good and evil. The Ashavans,
long labeled as wretched insects and scorned for countless years. The Drujvants, despised as
filth, their demise once hailed as a triumph of justice.

And yet, here they stand, congratulating each other with a carefree demeanor, akin to old
friends, sharing genuine joy among themselves. This fresh perspective of the "everyone" did
not manifest itself solely due to the combat prowess of Magsarion. The fearsome warrior,
whose vector solely gravitates towards destruction, lacks the capacity to orchestrate such a
spectacle. It is the power of governance, the dominion—a manifestation of kingly deeds.

"He's not bad. I quite like him; I desire him for myself!"

Kaikhosru's eyes sparkle with innocence as he gazes upon the heavens, unable to conceal the
joy in his voice. Standing beside him, Svirios, as expected, observes with a far more composed
countenance, steadfast in his unchanging stern expression.

Dragon King and Holy King—the scene that unfolds, a convergence of enemies and allies, is a
testament to their alliance, which has influenced each of their subordinates. Perhaps their
presence reshapes the very fabric of souls into something anew. Undoubtedly, the triumph of
Magsarion played a pivotal role, affirming the righteousness of royal hegemony—a triumph
that cannot be attributed solely to the furious warrior's personal achievements. At least, such is
the collective acceptance among those gathered here, and denying it proves to be no facile task.

Kaikhosru whimsically determines that shedding blood on the frontlines is but a reckless
endeavor, unfitting for a king to undertake. Consequently, he emerges victorious against
Bahlavan and Khvarenah unscathed, allowing his pride as a conqueror to remain untarnished
by logical contradictions. Thus, even now, Kaikhosru perceives Magsarion merely as a pawn—a
servant praised for a job well done, but nothing more. The universe itself, along with
everything contained within it, belongs to him. The insatiable nature within him, aspiring to
elevate ceaseless desire as his own, substantiates his claim as one of those exceptional
individuals possessing a "universal" perspective.

"What troubles you, Svirios? You appear somber. Could it be that you have belatedly developed
apprehension regarding his prowess?"

"Indeed, though your recklessness continues to astound me."

"Ho-oh, so you believe there is cause for me to be apprehensive?"

Kaikhosru squints, engaging in casual banter without a moment's hesitation, while Svirios
responds in a voice devoid of emotion.

"Our interests align for the most part. He will not impede my progress until I achieve my goal,
and afterward, I remain indifferent as to whether he slays me or not. However, is this the case
for you? Soon, he will turn his blade upon you, and I am curious to see how you will handle
such a predicament."

"So, you wish to ensure my demise is not too hasty?"

"Indeed. If possible, I would prefer our rivalry to endure for as long as possible." "Hmm, I
understand. However, your fears are unfounded."

As if disregarding empty prattle, Kaikhosru snickers, his lips curling into a smirk.

"As if I could be vanquished by one who knows not the meaning of 'desire.' My aspirations are
far grander than succumbing to someone who merely knows how to kill. I may need to expend
a bit more effort, but my investments always yield returns."

His assertion lacks any substantiation, relying solely on unwavering confidence. Kaikhosru
claims that his wealth is boundless, and even if he must redirect it to different avenues, it never
diminishes—rather, it only increases his riches. Blind faith in the notion that he is not among
those who are taken away. With this oath alone, the resplendent Dragon King reigns, basking in
the treasures of the universe.

"Even those consumed by his blade will eventually become mine in a different form. So, do not
be so disheartened, Svirios."

"What are you implying?"

The Holy King furrows his brow suspiciously, and Kaikhosru turns to face him, a childlike
innocence gracing his features.
“Do you think I am oblivious? Frederica belongs to you…”

He begins to speak, but his words remain unfinished—whether by his own volition or due to a
restraint placed upon him remains unclear. Yet, the atmosphere around Svirios undergoes an
immediate shift. His visage remains unflinching, yet a profound yearning, akin to a thirst for
blood, begins to emanate from within. Recognizing this, Kaikhosru gleefully clasps his sides.

"Better. Suffer, suffer. Relish your inability to save your beloved, to continue her legacy, to be
there for her final moments. Until you fully comprehend the true weight of your sacrifice."

"Nonsense. If you wish to wag your tongue, do so without my involvement."

Without deigning to respond to his reclusive ally, Kaikhosru merely continues to smirk. He then
looks skyward and addresses the lone figure still amidst the wreckage of the Workshop of
Annihilation.

"Farewell, little sister. May you bloom splendidly, even in your final moments. After all, your
esteemed father wants nothing to do with you!"

With these parting words, Kaikhosru turns and departs, leaving Svirios alone. Svirios gazes
upward, seemingly following the departing figure. Although his countenance betrays no trace
of emotion, his soul bears the indelible memory of a single girl.

“Beloved, Your Majesty, my King, my savior…”

He recalls her passionate voice, the warmth of her embrace, every detail preserved in his mind,
down to the fragrance that lingered in those fleeting moments. Yet, if asked whether he loved
her, he would find himself unable to answer. For he considers himself devoid of such emotions.

Nevertheless, if he can repay her in any way, it would be by ridding himself of this nightmarish
existence.

It was all but a dream.

You committed no wrongdoing; the blame rests solely upon me.

Our vows were a mirage, and if the filth and sin born from them prove to be equally illusory,
there is no cause for regret.

Let them unravel, as dreams should, and rest peacefully with a pristine soul.

You shall awaken in a world untainted by impurity.

And I shall no longer be a part of it...

Speaking almost in a whisper to himself, Svirios turns and departs as well.

"This time, I shall uphold my promise and spare you from tears."

8
“Farn—!”

My cry vanished into the void, swallowed by a black flash that melded with the deafening roar
of the universe. The situation had spiraled beyond my control, yet the truth of what had
transpired resonated within me, wordlessly etched into my consciousness.

The sacred child of hope, forever etched in my memories as both my father and the inaugural
King of Evil, lay shattered. And the perpetrator behind this unfathomable act was none other
than Magsarion.

Such a deed defied comprehension, and yet no alternative explanations presented themselves.
The intelligence I sensed in the midst of the cataclysm mirrored the entreaty I had witnessed
within the Sky Burial Sphere. The unparalleled bloodlust, reminiscent of a divine mandate,
could belong to none other than Magsarion.

This could only mean that he had emerged victorious in his battle against the third King of Evil,
signifying the completion of our mission. In other words, we had emerged triumphant. Two of
the seven absolute evils, presumed to be the mightiest, had been vanquished. If we counted
Mashyana, the tally reached three, a feat surpassing even Mr. Varhran in terms of the caliber of
our adversaries. Yet, I found myself devoid of the strength to genuinely rejoice in this victory.

Part of it, no doubt, stemmed from the sinister existence of Magsarion and the enigmatic
intentions of his majesty and Kaikhosru. However, this internal hesitancy transcended them
alone, silently gnawing at the depths of my soul.

I mourned for my father, for Khvarenah. Sorrow permeated my being, entwined with the
loathing I felt towards the leader of our enemies, whom my duty as an ashavan and a yazata
compelled me to deliberate. Given that I had glimpsed his past, this sentiment came as no
surprise. Although I remained uncertain of the version of myself that had borne witness to it
all, I could at least comprehend that Khvarenah had once been my comrade who had stumbled
into downfall.

What had driven him to this state?

Where did the line between good and evil lie?

Young Magsarion, in disgust, had declared the world to be an unstable and vile place, and I felt
my purpose beginning to slip away. From the outset, I had acquired it from external sources,
lacking a steadfast conviction of my own. And now, as even the cornerstone of common sense
crumbled, I too crumbled along with it. The fact that I found this realization pitiful and
shameful only underscored my own inadequacy. I couldn't even emulate a mere tool, one that
would unflinchingly acknowledge its futility upon the demise of its master. Instead, I found
myself idling, caught in a state of perpetual indecision.

"What should I do now?"

My vision was consumed by a blaze of destruction, while the dying convulsions of the
Annihilation Star Cluster propelled me into the air. Suddenly, someone grabbed hold of me
from the side.

"Are you unharmed, Lady Quinn?"

“Montserrat?”

I recognized the voice and felt his smile in response. Blinking away the haze, I raised my gaze
and indeed saw him swiftly traversing the frigid remnants of the star. When I turned back, the
castle of Khvarenah, which had housed us just moments ago, had vanished without a trace...

"No..."

Something was amiss. As soon as I became aware of the situation, a disquieting chill raced
down my spine, fueling an undercurrent of anxiety.
"Where are we?"

The surroundings appeared unfamiliar, beyond anything I had encountered before. Granted,
describing this celestial body as bizarre would be an understatement, yet the relief I felt
differed starkly from what we had experienced upon leaving the gorge. Now, Montserrat,
cradling me in his arms, sprinted across the boundless plain. How far had he traveled in such a
short span of time? A leap spanning the horizon of a hypergiant easily encompassed thousands
of kilometers. Moreover, considering the immense magnitude of the flash that had sundered
this absurd celestial entity, we could hardly have evaded it unscathed. I should have perished
alongside Khvarenah, unless...

"Did you teleport?"

“Yes, I confess. It was a dire circumstance, and I hope you can forgive me.”

In response to my query, the enigmatic butler nodded. Initially, he had claimed his inability to
teleport due to the constraints of the Garden, but it turned out to be a falsehood. He possessed
the capacity to teleport, and what's more, he could transport others without physical contact.
Thus, he had flung me to safety, sparing me from certain death.
"You see, I have long been adept in its usage. However, as I am unfamiliar with the local
geography, the destination may have been somewhat uncertain. Nonetheless, it evidently
proved sufficient to steer clear of any peril, which brings me a sense of relief."

"And what about Frederica and the others?"

"I dispatched them to a location slightly farther from here. I regret that I couldn't provide you
with proper guidance due to our differing hues. I have no excuse for this."

Montserrat's prompt response only deepened my misgivings. His allegiance grew increasingly
nebulous to me. He presented the distinction in our colors as a matter of class, yet he had saved
me and concealed his true power from the very individuals who, in theory, were his
comrades-in-arms.

Whose ally was he, and what were his intentions?

If he possessed the ability to teleport, why had he not transported me away from this star? The
more I pondered, the more perplexing it all became. These matters required immediate
clarification and resolution. However, despite my awareness of this imperative, my tongue
seemed disinclined to obey. For I had already foreseen how effortlessly he would furnish
plausible answers to any query. I could anticipate my feeble objections being dismissed, the
subject swiftly changed. The inevitability of this outcome left me with an unbearable sense of
revulsion...

"Set me down. I don't believe we are in immediate danger here."

Almost as if unconsciously, I muttered under my breath, pushing Montserrat lightly in the
chest. In response, he promptly complied, carefully lowering me to the ground as per my
request. His demeanor bore a reverence akin to a knight attending to his lady.

"Have you sustained any injuries?"

"Not significant ones..."

I shook my head forcefully, rebuffing his excessively courteous tone and manner, even as a
nauseating anger simmered within me. And those eyes... From the very moment we had set
foot on this unfamiliar terrain, that gaze had haunted me, piercing through me even now.

What is wrong with you?

Cease this at once. You are a drujvant, a daeva, a murderer...

Why does this man regard me as if I were his most treasured possession?

What is it about me that elicits such fervent devotion?

Good and evil, black and white.

Avesta, Avesta, Avesta, Avesta!

As everything crumbled before my eyes, I became acutely aware of the ephemeral nature of the
world. Unconsciously, I found myself screaming:

"Draw your weapon, Montserrat! I challenge you!"

“Why?”

“Do you still require an explanation? It is self-evident! We are sworn enemies! Our alliance had
been but temporary, forged solely to vanquish Khvarenah. Now that he lay lifeless, we were
reverting to our original relationship. There was nothing untoward about this. I am a yazata,
duty-bound to combat evil in the name of the greater good.”

"I shall refrain. I am not in the mood."

I lunged at Montserrat with clenched fists, but he deftly sidestepped, sighing softly.
Overwhelmed by my own momentum, I tumbled to the ground, my misery deepening.

"Then kill me..."

"Even that, I shall refrain from. Murderers do not consider non-threatening non-humans as
their prey. Nevertheless, there is another matter I ought to address..."
At this juncture, Montserrat paused briefly before resuming with utmost seriousness.

"...That I am merely a tool and therefore have no right to speak of the dignity of a murderer."

“Kh!...”

A tool, a slave to the Commandment, a marionette manipulated by the pleas of others...

The burden he bore bore striking similarities to mine, yet his conduct exuded unwavering
pride, an unwavering belief in his way of life. And what, in comparison, was I but a wretched
entity who had arrogated the name Quinn without justification?

"I am... no longer capable of being a mere instrument. Before I even drew breath, I imbibed the
prayers of Quinn. Thereafter, I amassed miracles at the behest of my father and the Avesta...
...But what victory had been imposed upon me? What of hope? What of justice? Khvarenah had
departed with a smile, yet I remain oblivious to the salvation he had found. All I comprehend is
how pathetically I crawl on all fours, torn asunder by doubt. A tool plagued by uncertainty of
purpose is so ludicrous as to defy even the faintest semblance of amusement.”

"Lady Quinn, your position embodies the duality of this world.”

Montserrat spoke, not in mockery, but with a calm address.

"Indeed, you were once an impeccable instrument. However, doubt in such an existence has
guided you onto a divergent path that you yourself have chosen. It is a path quite familiar to
me, which is why I knelt before Sir Varhran. Is there any flaw in harboring doubt, Lady Quinn?
You are more extraordinary now than ever before. It is your doubt that lies at the crux."

The full weight of his words did not immediately register, but their import, impossible to
ignore, gradually seeped into my being.

“Perchance, those who stride forward with unwavering purpose, standing firm without the
slightest hesitation, truly deserve the title of unyielding. However, such a path carries its own
risks. With a single misstep, the smallest error can become irreversible. The Divine Blade, it
seems, shares this sentiment. Although it may now be led by a touch of callousness and
ruthlessness, it undoubtedly left behind a vulnerability in you. So, there is no need for you to
strive to find a definitive answer once again— you can embrace your indecisiveness. Merely
remember to challenge everything you encounter.”

While Montserrat calmly imparts these words, I can only gaze at him with wide eyes, my mind
in a state of frenzy. Understanding completely still eludes me, but I have managed to grasp
something.

"Can I... hesitate?"

“Indeed. It is a path open to only you.”

I am aware that a tool is not destined to possess a fixed purpose. However, the fact that I feel
shame because of this, and that I find no place for myself, Montserrat refers to as something
remarkable. He extols me as a unique phenomenon precisely because I am flawed and
incapable of taking sides.

"No matter what the future holds, no matter what our world becomes, you must not relinquish
your doubts about whether it is all for the best. After all, you are a symbol of the regrets she left
behind. Remind those who grip you of your weight and serve as a hefty, unwieldy blade for
them to wield."

As he speaks, Montserrat's words settle within me, carrying a mystical conviction and sincerity.
As an instrument, he possesses no doubts about his own being and does not waver like I do. I
understand now that he merely serves as the representative of someone else's will. Yet, I do not
believe he can be labeled a soulless messenger. The assassin, who independently chooses his
masters, in theory, should only heed the commands of the one whose will he follows...

Which means... as I contemplate this, a smirk tugs at the corners of my lips.

"You know, you are quite a spoiled individual. Only you would choose such unconventional
masters for yourself.”

“I must say, I am at a loss for words. Do you comprehend, Lady Quinn?"

"Of course, it is quite apparent."

Certainly, the true master of Montserrat, to whom he shows such deference, is the former
Divine Blade. To this day, he fulfills the tasks assigned to him according to her commands. And
judging by his choice of words, she still exists, observing us from a place beyond our reach,
laughing at us.

A shiver courses through my entire being. Yes, it feels as though I am on the brink of unraveling
this intricate web of destinies, of understanding everything...

"Well, you see, I have already located you. So, where were you?"

Ah... In an instant, upon hearing an unexpected voice, my instincts propel me backward. A gust
of wind, a rumble— the very ground I stood on moments ago is cleaved asunder by an
immense blade.

Amidst the debris of a dying star on the verge of collapse, a fair-haired girl with a scythe upon
her shoulder smiles.

"Frederica!"

"Yes, it is good to see you in good health, Quinn. Now we can resume our usual affairs without a
second thought."

Behind the elegantly narrowed eyes of the Princess of Murder, her maids also come into view.
Perhaps the curse has been lifted with Khvarenah’s demise, but none of them bear the
semblance of "beauty."

The excessive irony in that thought becomes apparent. After all, it was I who proposed
something similar not long ago. We are sworn enemies. Our alliance was merely a temporary
arrangement, formed to defeat Khvarenah. There is nothing peculiar about returning to our
original relationship.

"Then, let us commence." Frederica advances, twirling as if performing a pirouette. I barely

have time to mount an immediate defense when I sense the approach of death, but...

"Oh, oh, oh, Montserrat, what do you think you're doing?"

“Quite right, my apologies. I am merely following the given instructions.”

My head remains intact, while a different weapon clangs against another. And there, the figure
of a black butler appears before my eyes. Montserrat has shielded me and countered the fourth
King of Evil. However, the astounding turn of events does not end there.

"Do you not understand that you have overstepped your boundaries? It seems I did not give
you the command to interfere with me... Nevertheless, very well. Elnaz, Farangis, I shall have
some fun with Quinn, and you shall deal with Montserrat..."

“Submit to me.”

Frederica's words are abruptly interrupted by another command. And these brief words lead to
an outcome that defies belief.

"I apologize, milady. I hope you won't hold it against us."

"We have always been followers of Mr. Montserrat."

One by one, the maids abandon their mistress and join our side. According to their words, none
of them ever truly obeyed Frederica. In reality, the Garden of Bloodshed was always under
Montserrat's control. With the exception of cases like Khvarenah, the allegiance of assassins
always belonged to this man. Left all alone, Frederica now stands as a truly naked queen.

Despite her extraordinary strength and achievements in the realm of murder, she lacks the
charisma that would make her subordinates revere her. What thoughts fill her mind as she
stands there, her mouth agape in astonishment? Part of me is afraid to imagine, and an
indescribable unease builds within my chest...

"Indeed, it seems luck has not favored me. However, it matters not now. Let it be."

Frederica, on the contrary, bows her head and mutters something under her breath. Her
trembling shoulders suggest tears, yet also foreshadow an imminent eruption of rage.
However, it is the world itself that quivers all at once. The rumbling that presages its collapse
has persisted for some time, but this trembling is different— it possesses a clear intent, inching
ever closer.

“It cannot be. No, I know that there is no other answer, nor can there be.”

As the ground beneath my feet quakes, Montserrat mutters to himself, his words pregnant with
anticipation, as if offering a prayer.

"Have you graced us with your presence, mistress? This shall be the death of
■■■■■■■■■."

In a fraction of a moment... The earth splits open like in the throes of an eruption, propelling
me into the air. I do not catch Montserrat's full utterance, but in its place, I behold a sinister
silhouette clad in armor of pure hatred. Amidst the storm of sand and magma, remnants
befitting the fallen Khvarenah, the wrathful gaze burning within the depths of the helmet
exudes a thirst for blood capable of rending the very fabric of the universe. "

How long I have awaited you, Sir Magsarion..."

Frederica's voice pierces the air with a sudden exclamation. As if clutching a scarlet thread in
her hands, she succumbs to a tempest of emotions and cries out, her voice nearly drowned in
tears.

"In the end, I have none but you. Come now, let us venture where none have ventured before!"

This marks the second, and likely final, moment of intimacy between the raging warrior and
the Princess of Murder.

Whatever the outcome, I realize that until it becomes clear, none can intervene in their affair.

9
In the instant their collision occurred, Frederica was shattered into a thousand fragments.
Every vulnerable point was ruthlessly obliterated, leaving no trace, clearly indicating that the
black knight had but one purpose in mind: to kill. Furthermore, it was an undeniable fact that
this girl possessed immortality.

"Ka-a-ak bo-o-olno!"

In a swift motion, the nail of her little finger pierced Magsarion's armor, and in an instant,
Frederica emerged from it. She let out a joyous scream and hurled him away with all her might.
The remnants of the Workshop of Annihilation erupted like waves of explosions, destined to
crumble into dust before long. The end of the world drew near, but the Princess of Murder
remained oblivious to the chaos unfolding around her.

She laughed beneath the thinning skies, her voice mingling with rainstorms, violent winds, and
dancing lightning that crowned her head. The luxurious gold of her hair burned with a vibrant
flame, and her eyes sparkled with a captivating brilliance, veiled with a touch of sorrow, as
though they were on the verge of melting...

"It hurts, unbearably so," she exclaimed, "yet I am overjoyed!"

Her happiness was so immense that it caused her body to tremble uncontrollably.

"These severed parts burn so intensely. Such... this is my first experience of it!"

Frederica was not devoid of pain. Any wounds she sustained healed in the blink of an eye,
leaving no physical defects or barriers in her way. However, the notion of experiencing pain for
the first time was not a falsehood but a pure truth. The Hollow Murder Princess had only
"known" pain, but had never truly "felt" it, unable to comprehend the sensations that stirred
her heart. Suffering was foreign to her. Anxiety, horror, sadness, anger, and hatred were
unknown to her. Moreover, she was impervious to death. Consequently, the concept of pain and
the promises it held were utterly foreign to her. The immortal girl had no understanding of
danger and did not even ponder the notion of the unknown. It suited her, and thus she lived.

Unfazed.

"I love you, Sir Magsarion, with all my heart. I am prepared to proclaim my love for eternity.
You are my first and foremost gentleman..."

Piercing through the smoke screen, she lunged from below, her strike piercing straight through
her own stomach. Yet, her dreamy smile never wavered. Lifting her scythe high above her head,
Frederica swiftly swung it downward, but before it could reach its target, her hands were sent
flying. Nevertheless, it did not trouble her in the least.

"Therefore, I cannot fathom a reality in which my feelings fail to reach you. The mere thought of
it is so terrifying, it fills me with bitterness and pain!"

Blood spurted forth, coating her severed hands. An eerie sickle, suspended from a chain, traced
an arc as it neared Magsarion's back.

"Embrace me. Allow me to embrace you. That love, that life burning here and now!"

Even as the scythe was effortlessly evaded and pierced through her own body, Frederica did
not falter. She withdrew her weapon along with her own spine, recovering her posture as she
charged forward. In response, Magsarion silently deflected every attack, though his actions
were cruel rather than defensive.

Strategically speaking, one could deem this observation. Indeed, he was truly "observing" her.
Just as he sought to vanquish Bahlavan and sever Khvarenah, he endeavored to comprehend
Frederica completely in order to annihilate her. And once he exposed the vulnerability he had
perceived, he could kill anything.

It could be said that Magsarion acquired a unique ability each time, one particularly effective
against his present adversary. However, at this moment, even his gaze could not discern
Frederica's essence.

"I implore you, say something. Dancing alone is so unbearably lonely!"

The girl did not experience pain due to the fear of death. Even attacks backed by the first and
temporary Commandments posed no threat to the life of the Princess of Murder. When
questioned about the source of her distress, she provided the answer herself. The only thing
that terrified Frederica was unrequited love.
Only the future instilled fear within her— a future where her feelings remained unreciprocated
and Magsarion rejected her.

This restlessness was what caused her both pain and pleasure, heat and affection. Therefore,
Frederica, joyfully confessing her love, acted as any young maiden should. Individuals like her
would never abandon their dreams, no matter how ruthless the reality they confronted.

They might crumble to dust, shed tears, but they would forever pursue a mirage. In this case,
one should strike at the source. The key was to deprive her of the reason to declare her love,
but it remained utterly unclear.

Why had Frederica fallen in love with Magsarion?

Had he performed deeds worthy of such unrestrained passion?

When?

Where?

How?

"Tch!.." he involuntarily spat, clearly unsure where to begin.

Indeed, in the past, Magsarion had placed various curses upon Frederica, but that alone could
not account for her love. If that were the case, he would have emerged victorious long ago.
There had to be something more. A profound, weighty reason that had driven even the fourth
king of evil, the most eminent among empty murderers, to succumb to love. Until Magsarion
discerned what that reason was, victory would remain elusive.

"Ah, the intensity of your fervent gaze alone is simply magnificent!"

Meanwhile, Frederica continued her unabated onslaught with glee. Amidst the blood-soaked
feast where she was being torn asunder, she harbored no doubts about her own feelings. For
she knew nothing. She could not explain what had ignited her affection, nor did she seek to
comprehend it.

Love required no reason— it thrived on its own peculiar truth, which currently fueled it with a
frightfully unwavering strength.

A shattered scythe pierced Magsarion's shoulder. Though it could not cleave him in two, its
blade gradually bit into his unchanged body, impervious even to the first and third Kings of
Evil. However, removing it became increasingly arduous, and should Frederica exert a second
effort, her head would immediately part from her shoulders.
"How beautiful..." she murmured.

In an ensuing vertical swing, her head was cleaved in two.

"I sense my courage swell within me."

This was followed by another cross-shaped blow.

"I am proud to have encountered you."

Black flashes gathered momentum at a staggering pace. Perhaps Magsarion had opted for
sheer force, and Frederica's body lost its shape in the blink of an eye. Yet, she remained alive.
She did not fade away. The girl's plea persisted.

In terms of sheer combat prowess, Frederica paled in comparison to Khvarenah or Bahlavan.

She resided at the bottom of the list, not only among the current seven, but also in comparison
to past evil kings. After all, at her core, she was merely "human". Amidst a lineup of absolute
evils, populated by Star Spirits and beings of immense power, her origin could be deemed more
than modest. Moreover, she was still too young. Her lack of life experience and her disregard
for technology, given the nature of murderers, were unsurprising. This further demonstrated
that, at present, when Magsarion was unable to unleash his true potential, the assault was
predominantly his alone. However, she possessed a talent that surpassed all her predecessors.

Needless to say, it was her immortality. The fact that she could not be killed rendered Frederica
a peerless monster. Her Commandment to endure any attack resonated even now, despite
experiencing pain and terror. She could not escape the blade of the man she loved. She would
accept it, embrace it, time and time again, until the end of time...

Because she yearned for this moment to last forever, she simply had no right to die. Reduced to
bloody vapor, her flesh torn asunder, Frederica sang a song of rapture. She did so
unconsciously, as if recalling a melody heard long ago, perhaps even in the womb, before her
essence took form.

"I see a wondrous dream, show me... So that the cherished day may come soon..."

Magsarion's reaction leaves no doubt that this song is also intimately familiar to him.

"When your beautiful blade becomes the light of all…"

"Shut up!"

With a resounding roar, the swirling whirlwind of his blade seems to embody its thunderous
cry.

Magsarion, in truth, never heeds anyone's words.

They all said he had no talent—well, it mattered little; he never relinquished his sword.

They sang to him to become a beacon of light—so what?

He never let go of his sword. For him, it was not about finding solace for his brother's soul,
escaping despair, or striving for some illusory "greater good." To kill was simply a
preoccupation that consumed him.

What or whom, you might ask?

Anything that stood in his way.

And so, he continues to wield his weapon, pouring every ounce of himself into each strike,
swinging it without a second thought for the suffering it inflicts.

“I can hear the beat of my heart…”

The sound is unbearably repulsive, causing Magsarion to howl at the heavens of annihilation.
This world, where everything is unpleasant and incomprehensible, he resolved to understand
it, to bring about its end, and thus far, he has succeeded. However, one person remains elusive,
shrouded in enigma.

And so, violent black emotions, a refusal to forgive, bloodlust, and the hatred of countless
masses unleash destruction time and time again, exploding within the bottomless darkness of
the abyss. Whirling in a cruel tempest, commanding him to charge forward and annihilate
everything in his path.

"I will drag you out from the abyss!"

Burning with fury, Magsarion swings his sword once more, aiming at Frederica, who has only
managed to regenerate her head, baring her fangs as she sinks them into his wounded
shoulder. From an outside perspective, this spectacle may appear as an intense embrace, a
fusion of passionate love and seething anger.

A heartless display. An immutable body on the verge of breaking. No matter how hard he tries
to tear her away, she refuses to let go.

She won't release him.

She won't die.

She won't let him kill her.

Events have unfolded in this manner because Magsarion has yet to grasp the truth of Frederica,
while Frederica has come dangerously close to unraveling the mystery of Magsarion. And
indeed, in that moment, she glimpses a peculiar dream that she should never have known.

This concludes our agreement. Oh, what a shameless act we are committing.

Somewhere, in an entirely different time and space, two figures intertwine in an embrace,
much like Frederica and Magsarion are doing now.

The woman embodies the unity of opposites, possessing an almost divine aura, while the man
is no less radiant, exuding an awe-inspiring brilliance. One might mistake it for a fragment from
a heroic legend, an immortal painting adorning temple walls. However, the subsequent vision
takes on an entirely different hue.

In that case, leave behind an heir. I agree to bear your child.

The only similarity lies in the embrace between a man and a woman. Yet, there is no grandeur
in this scene—only the mundane decision of a naive, weak, and sorrowful couple. Everything
becomes utterly incomprehensible. The mind struggles to keep up with what unfolds. Frederica
is perplexed, not by the mere fact of witnessing such a sight but by an entirely different
inconsistency.

Despite the opposing nature of the two narratives, only one woman is involved in both.
Granted, there were two men, but the woman remained one and no more.

In the heroic epic, she is akin to the supreme goddess.

In the tragic love story, she embodies the role of the chaste wife.

She merely shifts her position, adjusting herself to the man and the context of the conversation.
No other explanation comes to mind...

No, could it truly be so?

The incoming knowledge weaves itself into a maelstrom, swirling and dancing mockingly. And
just when it threatens to burst, Frederica experiences a thunderous revelation.

"A...!"

She snaps out of her reverie, slowly releasing Magsarion from her grasp. Perhaps it only
required a single step, delving a little deeper, to love him as she desired. Indeed, the black
knight makes no haste to attack, barely standing on his feet as he breathes heavily. However,
Frederica harbors no regret for the missed opportunity, nor does she make any attempt to
continue what she had begun. Truth be told, it is not her priority at this moment.
The Princess of Murder is driven solely by rage, trembling with its overwhelming power.

"Montserrat!"

She turns with a force that could slice through the air, directing her gaze towards the man
observing their intimate moment. The gaze of the King of Evil brims with a potent blend of
hatred and self-assured strength, capable of shattering an ordinary man's soul in an instant.
Yet, the infamous servant—or rather, the one pretending to be such—meets Frederica's gaze
with an enchanting smile stretching from ear to ear.

As if applauding, relishing the spectacle that unfolds. His impeccable posture emanates
unrivaled wickedness, mingled with the joy of a father celebrating his beloved daughter's
coming of age. It seems that both are true, yet both are mere facades.

"So you had everything planned from the beginning. How dare you..."

Frederica's indignation stems not from Montserrat's false loyalty, nor from him depriving her
of her attendants and reducing her to a mockery. What infuriates her most is his prior
knowledge, which he kept concealed from her. From the very start, he understood the essence
of the relationship between Frederica and Magsarion.

The recent dream confirms this, and it is knowledge that Montserrat possesses. Perhaps it is
the influence of his perspective, the bond they shared when united against the "beauty" of
Khvarenah. Even when the need for synchronization had dissipated and the connection
severed, the spiritual link remained intact. It is logical to assume that it is through this bond
that the truth revealed itself. However, the timing of his revelation proves to be a grievous
betrayal. Frederica trembles with humiliation. Meanwhile, Montserrat clears his throat, as if
chastising her.

"There seems to be a slight misunderstanding, milady. I did not play with you of my own
accord. Rather, you may consider it a well-deserved punishment."

"What are you talking about?"

Frederica's brow furrows, attempting to disown any culpability, yet she soon comprehends the
underlying message they wish to convey.

"Bad luck..."

"Indeed. My Commandment demands a worthy master. I shall fulfill any command given to me,
but only if the one giving it is prepared to pay the corresponding price... To be direct, one can
consider it a harbinger of misfortune."

The more complex the task bestowed upon Montserrat, the greater the calamity that befalls the
master who issued the order.
"If you wish to command me, then survive this," the servant declares, contrary to expectations,
placing a trial upon the master.

"Unfortunately, even I do not know when or how this 'bad luck shall find its mark. However, it
is precisely this uncertainty that unveils the true cost, does it not? Even though you were my
mistress only temporarily, we have spent a considerable amount of time together, and I have
acquiesced to your will more than once or twice. I venture to assume that the payment for all of
this has accumulated. I hope you comprehend this."

"..."

"Hmm, judging by your expression, it seems you are still displeased. My apologies, for I
genuinely believed you would be delighted."

"What are you implying?"

"Well, well, have you not yet realized anything? How obtuse!"
Montserrat dramatically raises his face towards the heavens, a smirk playing across his lips as
his gaze, peering through his fingers, sparkles with delight.

"Do you not perceive the scarlet thread of destiny woven within?"

"..."

In an instant, the frozen Magsarion resumes his movement with the same fury as before.

"Your first love in life has received an irrefutable reason and logic. Can you fathom anything
more joyful? Sense? Conscience? Such trifles—none of that concerns you!”

They lacerate her at an angle, pierce her abdomen, press against her right eye and skull.
Frederica embraces the tempest of Magsarion's rampaging blade with her entire being,
unflinching. Montserrat, on the other hand, continues his shrill remarks, resembling a peculiar
bird spreading its wings.

"Perhaps, on the contrary, it fuels the fire within you even more? This is what Drujvants
are—such is the destiny of the angel of vice and immorality, the Princess of Murder. You must
devour his very core this instant and shed tears of gratitude for his 'essence.' Ah, here it is—the
meaning of life I yearned for!"

"..."

"Come on, come on, come on, come on, let us! I am certain the lady will rejoice immensely as
well. The one who has always been a plaything in the hands of higher powers, who finally
found a glimmer of happiness only to have it mercilessly snuffed out the next moment! Why not
weep together in the afterlife, consumed by insane grief, pondering what purpose your life
truly served!"

Frederica remains silent, still and motionless, feeling only the weight of her beloved.

"What is it? You might consider me an utter fool, but I am beginning to feel a touch lonely, I
must say."

"..."

"Could this be what every father experiences? It is understandable, truly wonderful—seeing off
your daughter on her flight, experiencing such profound solitude! Envy! Excitement! Silence!
Ecstasy! Empathy! And even rage! Indeed, these are the overwhelming emotions people speak
of. I shall put myself to the test in place of your own father, so you can rest assured! Ha-ha-ha,
ha-ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

Suddenly, Frederica interjects, cutting through Montserrat's tirade with an air of indifference
that commands attention.
"I need a moment to think. Kindly hold your tongue."

Her words hang in the air, firm and unwavering, as she redirects her focus towards Magsarion.
Curiously enough, she doesn't feel a sense of despair or anguish. Even Montserrat's absurd
interpretation holds a grain of truth that resonates within her. After all, she considers
Magsarion a friend, and in some capacity, she acknowledges her affinity for him.

She cannot deny this. However, accepting such a simplistic explanation would render the
entire situation dull and devoid of any artistic merit. The one and only love, the solemn oath
that the maiden took, should not be reduced to a mere notion that anyone can conceive. It was
meant to be something unyielding, invincible, an eternal bastion that would endure through
the ages...

"My feelings... Yes, that is what remains. I have made up my mind."

A serene smile graces Frederica's face as she deftly evades Magsarion's oncoming blade.

"What?!"

The exclamation of astonishment belongs to Montserrat, but the others present—Quinn, the
maids, and most certainly Magsarion—share the same wide-eyed surprise. No one could have
anticipated such an outcome—the voluntary breaking of the Commandment by the angelic
Princess of Murder. The sheer unexpectedness of it leaves everyone momentarily frozen in
place. Simultaneously, Frederica herself is not immune to the shock that courses through her.

"And now... What is this?"

She gazes around, finding herself continuously surprised by the turn of events. She had
believed that breaking the Commandment would lead to instant death, yet here she stands,
alive and well. Furthermore, her complexion has transformed, becoming an impossibly pure,
snow-white hue.

"I see... So, I am still alive."

A blossoming smile graces Frederica's lips as she grasps the truth of the matter. It is not logic or
intuition that guides her, but a power accessible only to virgins in love, those who are steadfast
in their belief that their desires have been fulfilled to perfection. According to her original plan,
everything would have unfolded flawlessly. She would have faded away without a word or a
trace, leaving behind nothing but an enigmatic shadow—a true lady's farewell. It would have
been an awe-inspiring spectacle, difficult to surpass. Yet, she cannot deny that in pursuing this
path, she had exaggerated her own abilities.

In truth, what she desired was for her whims to take root, for them to be reciprocated, and for
Magsarion to care for her.
"Sir Magsarion..."

With her arms outstretched, Frederica revels in the overflow of happiness that engulfs her,
leaping into a future that promises a thousandfold fulfillment.
"Who are you?"

Magsarion manages to muster a voice tinted with anger. Instinctively, he impales Frederica,
who has leapt towards him, only to find himself both outraged and perplexed as the situation
slips from his grasp. He is bewildered by his own bewilderment. Frederica looks upon him with
warmth in her eyes, gently caressing the sword protruding from her chest, as if in a dream.

"How painful..."

No longer the immortal Fourth King of Evil, the breaking of the Commandment has rendered
her a fragile ashavan, devoid of power. The wound she has suffered is fatal.

"Do you not understand what has transpired? Let it be. I wished to remain as that one
immutable presence that you never grasped fully. And also... Yes, also... Do not forget that. Do
not forget me, Sir Magsarion."

Even as petals of bloody coughs escape her lips, Frederica maintains an unwavering smile. She
displays her dignity, true to the oath that her love shall remain unaltered. In response, all
Magsarion can muster is a bitter retort.

"Do not be arrogant. There is someone else I do not understand, even without you. Compared
to him, you..."

"No, I shall remain unique."

Frederica shakes her head, firmly asserting that this role is reserved for her alone.

"I know much. Allow me to make a promise. You must... you must... face him directly... and
overcome that which you cannot comprehend. I believe in you, Sir Magsarion. After all, you are
mine... Mine, and no one else's..."

"Who? Speak!"

Magsarion looms over her, consumed by madness, and yet the maiden's smile widens further,
as if enchanted, before she whispers her final words.

"My beloved... brave knight..."

And with that, she willingly sacrifices herself in the name of an immutable love.

◇◇◇◇◇

“Magsarion…”
Witnessing the entirety of the events unfold, I find myself at a loss for how to comprehend it all.
Frederica's death proves to be shrouded in too much mystery, yet her profound sincerity
prevents me from dismissing it all as mere nonsense or the curse of the King of Evil. Indeed, in
her final moments, she transcended the boundaries of good and evil. It reminds me of the
demise of Incest, and within it, I grasp a crucial realization.

The Gate of Tentsui... and the complete truth behind the breaking of the Commandment. Most
likely, Magsarion, too, has discerned everything. The knowledge gained here will undoubtedly
play a significant role. Among the remnants that Frederica wished to leave behind, there are
likely many more clues of this nature. Moreover, they pertain to my own existence. Thus, I
would rather forge ahead than remain stagnant. I may continue to waver and be plagued by
doubts, unable to escape my own uncertainties. With renewed determination coursing through
me, I raise my head, ready to move forward, when suddenly...

"Indeed, I held a much lower opinion of you, dear 'little brother.' Please accept my sincere
congratulations."

Montserrat... In a way, even more enigmatic than Frederica herself, the man addresses
Magsarion with genuine courtesy. The maids, in turn, align themselves behind him.

"What transpired did not entirely align with my expectations, but let us assume that it was
your exceptional qualities that tilted the scales in their favor. So why not allow yourself a touch
more complacency? Excessive sorrow would only mean that Milady's sacrifice was in vain. Yes,
how are you?..."

His tone strikes me to the core, and I am about to step forward, but Magsarion takes the
initiative. The black knight and the butler stand face to face, silently locking gazes for a fleeting
moment. However, this equilibrium is disrupted faster than anticipated.

"Please desist. I have no intention of battling you."

Montserrat raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. What's more, he utters something even
more astonishing with the same composed expression.

"Rather, I have decided to henceforth pledge my loyalty to you. I implore you, entrust me with
whatever you desire."

My breath catches as Montserrat kneels before Magsarion, and the maids follow suit.

"It can't be..."

How can he utter such words after just betraying Frederica? This proposition is difficult to
interpret as anything other than a mockery, but it must be assumed that in this way, he fulfills
the necessary conditions. Once we allow him to speak words of loyalty, it feels like we have
reached an impasse. Regardless of our will, he will intentionally sing praises of his master,
forcing Magsarion to constantly prove his own "status." A Commandment that even Mr. Varhran
once deemed burdensome. While I can only watch with concern, Magsarion remains silent, and
then...

"Little brother, is that so?"

He mutters under his breath.

"Die."

"Yes."

With just a single word, it all comes to an end. Montserrat, grinning from ear to ear, beheads
himself, and the maids swiftly follow suit. Their pledge between servant and master lasts mere
seconds. And within that brief span, Magsarion eradicates every last one of the assassins.

What was Montserrat thinking?

Is he truly dead? No, on the contrary...

Amidst the still buzzing and rumbling dead stars, the smiling heads of the assailants appear
even more grotesque.

"Wait a moment, Magsarion, wait!"

Yet, he does not spare a glance for such a sight. He simply turns around and departs, not even
casting a backward glance as I hastily give chase, as though he still has unfinished business to
attend to.

Soon enough, I will discover whether my instincts have proven true.

10
This ethereal essence eludes anyone's grasp now.

She exists in a state of profound detachment, devoid of comprehension for her surroundings
and even her own existence. She stands, lies, walks, or crawls, yet feels no tangible connection
to anything, as if suspended in weightlessness.

How did she arrive at this point?

She remains ignorant.

What were her desires?

She cannot recall.

Neither the origin nor the destination is known to her anymore.

The meaning of life and death has slipped from her grasp, leaving her uncertain of what lies
beyond.

Is there something awaiting her, something she can attain?

She knows not.

She is unaware.

Fading into oblivion, her recollections vanish.

Fear engulfs her upon witnessing the darkness of the void.

The ache of loss resurfaces, prompting tearful sobs of anguish.

But now, she possesses nothing.

Devoid of possessions, she also lacks sensation, aimlessly drifting through endless white
expanses.

A sense of significance lingers within her, a faint flicker of warmth amidst the fading embers.

But what can this knowledge afford her?

Will her conviction bring any change?

Even if she were to piece together her shattered perceptions, they would inevitably crumble
again. Perhaps it is wiser to leave things as they are.

By avoiding foolish actions, refraining from interference, and choosing to forget, she may retain
at least the semblance of her being. Though passive, she seriously contemplates this path,
accepting it as her own...

"Well, you certainly have a perspective, you naive fool."

...However, a voice interrupts, preventing her from proceeding.

"Are you incapable of honoring your own word? You're utterly hopeless, weakling."

His voice resounds, robust, weighty, and most notably, scorching. Familiar reproaches, etched
deep within her heart, shake a spirit that should have long dissipated.
"Or perhaps you had no intention but to waste my time? In that case, I must offer my
congratulations. You truly disappoint me."

She stammers, her tongue numb and unresponsive. Standing alone in the midst of a barren
white expanse, she struggles to articulate the turmoil simmering at the edge of her
consciousness. She staunchly believes she is not one to passively endure whatever is said about
her.

"Silence... be... still..."

Yes, silence.
Beastly one, infuriating as ever.

Sightless eyes.

Dance on, you will.

Whoever you may think I am, underestimating me shall not go unchallenged...

"I can't hear you. Have you managed to drift into slumber?"

"Who dares intrude?"

Her own anguished voice resonates. The meaning behind it, the emotions it carries, their
intensity all rush back to her.

She remembers.

She never truly forgot.

"Who slumbers here, I demand to know?"

"You," he retorts.

Opening her eyes, she beholds a shadow cloaked in darkness.

It is him, of course, the one she vowed to defy with every fiber of her being. Having honored
her commitment, he now stands before her, demanding a response.

Pulse, heartbeat, move forth, body. Feeble excuses of forgotten movement will not suffice. For
her prayer, her Commandment...

"Doesn't your brilliance intensify when you lack everything? With nothing now, everything has
fallen into place perfectly. Squeeze out of yourself what you have never squeezed before."
"I need not ask. I feel invincible!"

She comprehends her smile and takes pride in it above all else. Effortlessly, she senses how it
must appear.

Scars have always adorned her.

Enduring pain was her constant companion, as she laughed off fear and pressed forward. For
these scars are her badges, proof that she engaged in battle with any adversary. Even without a
hand, even with a severed leg, even when her blood ran dry, her indomitable spirit remained.
Thus, as he claims, now that she bears no semblance of life, existing far from perfection, she is
undoubtedly in the pinnacle of her form.

"Ha ha, ha..."

A flame ignites within her. She couldn't have imagined a more perfect script.

"Let's go!"

Her foot touches the ground, propelling her into a sprint. The sensation of wind against her
cheeks invigorates her. Blurry silhouettes flicker in her peripheral vision, seemingly mourning
her...

“Pardon me, but I shall run as I please.”

Even if she has forgotten them, she refuses to betray the person they once knew. Indeed, it
embodies the essence of that simple-minded fool, doesn't it? That is who she is, isn't it?

She yearns to carry her way of life to its ultimate conclusion, remaining the comrade they once
knew. And for that purpose, you see... she vowed to settle the score.

"Let me strike you once and for all!"

She channels her entire existence into her raised fist, solely for the sake of engaging in a
senseless brawl. To leave her mark upon it.

Magsarion...

From within, she shall observe what becomes of him and where his path leads.

He cannot elude her watchful gaze. It would be best for him to accept it now.

◇◇◇◇◇
Another tale has reached its conclusion, enveloped by a greater narrative that consumes her
very being.

She, referred to as "it," mourns and yet finds solace in this realization, existing in a state of
half-consciousness. Within the depths of a dark abyss, where naught can touch or disturb him,
lies absolute silence that renders time itself devoid of meaning. Cradled by this void, "it"
remains ever aware of the external world, yet makes no concerted effort to engage with it.

Recognizing that excessive knowledge can taint future joys, "it" directs its focus inward,
striving for personal growth. Slowly but surely, "it" weaves wings of remembrance, for
memories are the building blocks of its being.

All that surrounds "it" is but a meaningless fiction, the first truth "it" grasped in its existence.

There is no unshakable reality, no soul capable of dictating its path.

And so, "it" followed the example set by others, resigned to the whims of this place.

Conforming to the demands of "everyone," "it" took on the role expected of it and worked
towards a future that "everyone" desired. In this regard, "it" feels no discontentment. On the
contrary, "it" finds indescribable joy in playing this role. "He" delights in playing with dolls.

Surely, "everyone" shares this sentiment, as they indulge in this activity repeatedly. And thus, in
the inevitable outcome of this process, the only pursuit remaining is to outshine one another in
the perfection of execution.

How flawlessly can one fulfill their duties?

Can the range of emotions portrayed in their story approach the essence of truth?

Let no effort be spared, for this life is but a masquerade, and the least we can do is deliver a
breathtaking performance.

Approaching this endeavor with utmost responsibility, "it" rose above all, thanks to its
unparalleled talent. It became what others would deem a "legend," almost transcending the
confines of this world...

However, this elevated position brings discomfort to "it" now. Having transcended the prepared
stage, "it" is lost, unsure of the role to play. Without a script in hand, "it" is incapable of defining
its own purpose. Life within the confines of fiction is "its" destined reality, rendering it
impossible for "it" to think independently.

What should "it" do?

How should "it" be?

If this continues, "it" will cease to be anything at all.

Yet, nobody in "its" surroundings wishes to see "it" erased from the ever-growing chronicles.

Having dutifully adhered to everyone's expectations, "it" trembles like a lost puppy in a
desolate wasteland.

Granted a temporary respite from the ceaseless current, but "its" very nature tends toward
nothingness, and thus, this cannot be deemed salvation. The specter of a death sentence draws
near, and "it" feels like a condemned convict ascending the scaffold. Behind "its" smile, "it"
silently begs for notice, for salvation.

And it is at that moment that a gift descends from above.

"This world... is wrong... Defeat the mad mother... Create a new world..."

A ray of light pierces the despair-ridden realm, resounding with the unwavering determination
of an ordinary hero.

For someone like "it," akin to the legendary savior, the true deliverance has arrived.

Ah, "he" has been tasked with portraying "what lies beyond."

Even as the current act reaches its conclusion, a new role has been promised.

Were you frightened?

Did it hurt?

How exquisite!

How radiant!

When one is expected to behave in a certain manner, one should comply. "It" understands this
better than anyone else. And thus, there is no cause for fear. Let no effort be spared, let the
roles be played as desired, with brilliance and excitement. In the darkness, "it" tightens its grip
on the "blade" and smiles.

The sinister gleam, fueled by prayers, shall soon sever the curtain.

What manner of "blade" has the child become?

What revelation did the maiden bring?

Does the hero persist in his arduous work?

How thrilling.

"It" yearns to shatter them to pieces, to delve fingers into the wound, to unsettle everything as
a dying offering to the tapestry.

The dreadful impulse of malevolence takes on the form of wings, unfurling in a hueless display.

In the name of "everyone," in the name of purpose, in the name of the hero, the maiden, and the
child.

The assigned roles must be played, and "it" approaches this responsibility with utmost
dedication and unrivaled talent.

Thus, "it" resolves to embody a true inferno.

All that remains is to await the rising of the curtain.

The Wings of Darkness, Aka Manah, slumbers within the abyss of hopelessness, dreaming of its
awakening.