That memory snagged at him, a burr under silk. Abyss narrowed his eyes and drifted toward a nameless corner like a shadow sliding along a wall.

What a pity, a piece missing like a chipped jade. I still need the Hero’s view, a shard from the other side. Looks like...

The battle was breathing its last, like a dying fire under ash.

The Demon King’s army had broken like a wave on black rock, and the Hero’s Alliance surged forward like a spring flood reclaiming fields.

Abyss blinked, a cat under lamplight. With a few era-markers, he could rethread the scene with eighty percent clarity, like beads sliding back onto a string.

But scraps wouldn’t serve. He wanted the whole tapestry, proof woven edge to edge, a pattern that matched his thought.

Seems time’s reins won’t sit firm in my hand. So this will do. Abyss smiled with his eyes closed, like a monk tasting bitter tea.

How to fetch the truth from the far shore? Simple. Go back to the past. Well, duh.

...........................................................

The Alliance logistics were combing the field, like ants across a red-soaked earth. The smell of blood speared the sky like hot iron.

Corpses lay scattered, a menagerie of races and oddities, like broken masks after a festival.

The commander wore a strange mask, white as bone. His masked crew moved through the dead like reapers, erasing traces like wind wiping tracks in sand.

No one saw the lake’s calm face quiver, a single ring like breath on glass.

After a long breath, a handsome man—eight parts Pandora in the bone—rose from the water, mage robes streaming like midnight silk. He stepped out as if crossing a mirror.

He felt the constraints clamped inside his flesh, a cold hoop around warm wood. He frowned slightly. As expected, the limits bite hard even now.

Abyss glanced toward the place where, in this era, his seal lay buried, like a chained star beneath the earth. He chuckled. Heh. I still want to tear that lock off today.

He tipped his chin to the sky. Since he arrived, it had gone cloudy and grainy, a bowl of chaos. He sighed. If I don’t want erasure, I still have to obey the laws, like a hawk folding its wings in rain.

He ignored the aberration thinning above him, like steam fading from soup.

He set his feet and walked, a quiet reed bending with the current.

Strange clothes on a stranger, appearing on a live battlefield—that spiked nerves like thorns. The logistics crew stiffened as if frost bit their backs.

Their best were Sacred Rank, and only the lower tier, a candle under the sun.

If a remnant of the Demon Race lurked, the squad could be erased like chalk in rain.

So when the commander got word—an alive, non-allied lifeform—his heart thumped like a drum in a night watch.

He strode out, voice sharp as a blade. Who are you? What race? Why wander here? Don’t you know this is a battlefield?

Abyss frowned, weary of spending seconds like coins on small talk. He closed his right hand, a quiet clasp, and time froze like a pond under winter.

He strolled away, leisurely as a man crossing a garden at dusk.

About half an hour later, that frozen surface cracked and flowed again like thawed ice.

They saw the man was gone, a candle snuffed, and fear sank deep like a stone in a well.

Abyss, heart light as a leaf, didn’t care what tremors his wandering might stir in the clay.

He couldn’t be bothered; he let it pass like stray smoke.

Minor dents in history would heal. Time would knit the fabric and reweave the seam like a good tailor.

Birand sat in his bedchamber, killing intent cold as iron, a blade laid flat on the table.

He knew the last bout was close, like thunder stalking the ridge.

The Alliance wore a strange stance, a heron lifting one leg, calm yet ready.

To everyone’s eye, the Demon Race had already tipped toward ruin, like a tree hollowed by worms.

Where the Hero’s Holy Sword fell, Demon troops took the cruelest cut, like bamboo split with a single stroke.

The Hero’s name gleamed too bright in every tribe’s heart, a lantern hung high.

For the leaders, that light was a glare, not a blessing, like sun on bare ice.

Tools get tossed after the hunt; the hare gone, the hound cooked. Birand, from another world, knew that taste too well, a bitter rind on the tongue.

They held back only because their strength was thin, like wine cut with water.

Birand frowned and studied the strategic map, lines and flags like rivers and brushstrokes.

It showed more of Alliance camps than Demon sites, like a mirror turned inward.

His fame would stay their hands for a while, like snow delaying fire.

But at the end, he knew he’d meet a miserable fight, a rainstorm in the night with no shelter.

Should I slip out early, or keep wrestling for ground? The question hung like a bell tone. Birand sank into silence.

He didn’t notice a man walking in midair behind him, steps light as a cloud stepping over a mountain.

..........................................................

Edlyn let out a soft whimper, a reed piping in wind.

Eli grabbed her, worry flaring like sparks. You okay? How do you feel? Anything off?

She blinked, eased out of his arms, and shook out her legs like loosening knots in silk. Her soul pressure rolled out, a quiet tide.

She glanced back to him. Nothing abnormal. I even feel my power inside turned purer, like water filtered through stone.

Is that so. Eli’s brows tightened, a crease like a brush stroke. If you woke, he must have finished. But where is he?

Edlyn looked around, eyes narrowing like slits under rain. Right. Has he really not shown again?

Yeah. Eli scowled, a storm brewing. Damn it, he still hasn’t told me how to—Ugh, did he trick me?

... Edlyn frowned, voice tight as wire. Zero. Ah, Eli, I feel he’s... gone.

Gone? Impossible. His massive power is still sealed down there, like a dragon coiled under rock.

Mm. I know. But he’s... not here now, like a lamp with no flame. I can’t name the feeling.

We’ll discuss it later. Eli closed his eyes, calm like ink settling. Let’s leave the altar first. I expect Abyss will come explain when time allows.

Right. Eli held Edlyn and leaped from the high altar, a swift drop like a swallow’s dive.

If my timing’s right, we’re in the Elf Race’s territory now. He frowned, a line cut deep. Looks like time’s tight. Hope your father hurries. Otherwise, we might have no room to prep.

Mm. Things don’t always roll downhill. Edlyn’s comfort was soft, a hand on hot clay.

Let’s hope.

..........................................................

Speak. You broke through layer after layer and came to me for what? Birand arched a brow at the bound man, a wolf watching a snared deer.

Abyss looked calm on the surface, face still as water, but inside it hurt, a thorn under nail.

If not for time-space limits and his true body sealed, he wouldn’t be stuck, a hawk with clipped wings.

Would I really lose to a human? The thought gnawed like a rat on rope.

Human, I came to ask you something. Abyss’s voice was level, a line in frost.

Birand sat at the bed’s edge, amused, eyes bright like flint. You carry a scent I know, like incense clinging to cloth.

Oh? Abyss lifted a brow, a bamboo leaf catching light.

Tied to the Celestial God. Like her, yet different at the root, like twin springs with different stones. Birand smiled, not kindly, a crescent blade.

Human, your senses exceed what I expected, a crane among crows. Too bad your future won’t reach this state. Abyss watched Birand with a painter’s appreciation.

Fine. Then say what you want. I’ve asked a few times already, you monster born from the same source as the Celestial God. Birand shrugged, a loose cloak. I know your original strength wasn’t this thin. But for now, be honest.

Abyss rolled his eyes, a pebble skipped across water.

He didn’t know why his time-stop failed on Birand, a lock that wouldn’t catch. Fact was fact: he’d been seized by this human, rope tight as vine.

Even in the past, I still dislike you. Abyss’s tone was dry, a leaf under heel.

Oh? Looks like I even have a future. Birand shrugged again, light as smoke.

... Mm. Abyss sighed, a flute note fading. Human, could you show me your sword?

Huh? My sword? Birand laughed, a chime in iron. Go to any archive. Icons of my Holy Sword are everywhere. You really had to come to me?

I need the real thing to confirm a few threads, like tasting the brew, not the recipe. Abyss’s words were steady.

Oh? Pity. I won’t hand you the blade. Birand’s smile was a shut door.

Why? Abyss’s puzzlement was a knot in cord.

Who hands their weapon to a dangerous man who threatens them? Birand shrugged, night breeze in a shutter. You think I’m stupid?

Abyss sighed, a soft exhale, and vanished in place like a candle snuffed by two fingers.

Birand stood stunned, a statue under moonlight.

..........................................................

Prepare for the final battle. Pandora’s sigh was heavy, like rain on old tiles. Only then can our Demon Race claw back a breath.

Your Majesty, Demon King. You...

The Demon Sword can’t be forged in time. Our Demon Race has lost. Pandora looked at the empty hall, pillars echoing like a shell.

Call our people back. I’ll arrange a way to live, then hide us like seeds in soil. When the last fight comes, I’ll search for a path through, a narrow bridge over churning water. Pandora’s pain showed like cracks in glaze.

Your Majesty, rest a while. The elder at his side tugged Pandora’s sleeve, tears running like thaw.

We shouldn’t have gambled back then. Pandora’s sigh felt old, a mountain breathing.

A hand slapped his shoulder, sudden as thunder.

Pandora flinched, turned, and saw a face both strange and familiar, like a mirror in ripples.

His face stayed cool, a mask of clay. You. Walk with me.

The elder froze at the man who looked almost exactly like the Demon King, resemblance sharp as twin blades. This...

Abyss? Pandora’s voice shook, a drum under rain.

My creator, your seal—is it broken? Pandora’s surprise lit like dawn.

Abyss frowned, a crease under snow. Shouldn’t you call me father?

Father? A human word? Impossible. Pandora’s scorn was thin and cutting, a reed whistle.

Abyss narrowed his eyes at Pandora, a hawk measuring distance. He realized something was off, a thread crossed in the loom.

Maybe the divine turning point isn’t here, not at this hour of the moon.