“I know. You’ve made your choice, haven’t you?” Yuris watched Birand steady himself, a smile like dusk on calm water.

At this moment, the Hero set his keel, like a ship choosing its star.

“Since I can’t go back, I’ll do as you said. I’ll bury my name here, like a stone in deep moss. The world’s as wide as the sea; there must be coves with no people, or at least no one who knows me.”

Birand laughed, a brittle sound like dry leaves. “Maybe I really can.”

Yuris sighed, breath drifting like mist over fields. “Good, child. You chose right.”

“Truth is, I didn’t have a choice,” Birand grimaced, the smile crooked like a cracked mask. “I’m just sick of it, like old wine gone sour.”

Yuris blinked, lashes flicking like moth wings. “By the way, you said you’re the Hero. Can you humor an old man and tell me how the Demon Race lands look now?”

Birand watched him, gaze steady as a drawn bow. “Mm. Aside from Overlord City still being searched, the rest lies to the west. Why, you interested?”

“Uh, not for now. I’m just an ordinary fisherman,” Yuris sighed, words bobbing like corks on a gray tide.

They met eyes, a flint-spark in quiet dusk, and left the rest unspoken.

Whoever this old man was, he was already a lantern fading behind fog. Birand would no longer be Birand, and he’d never shoulder that Hero’s burden again, like a banner furled in rain.

So the man before him was only a signpost in a storm, nothing more.

Birand smiled, a ripple on still water, then it froze like ice under night.

He realized a snag still tugged at him, like a fishhook under skin.

Better ask who this old man really was, like checking the shadow behind a door.

“Sir, may I ask, your people—who were your ancestors?” Birand’s voice felt out the dark like a hand along a wall.

“Ah, just nomad commoners, nobodies without titles. Heh.” Abyss narrowed his eyes, lids sliding like shutters before a storm.

Why did this guy’s tune shift, like a flute going flat mid-song?

Birand went quiet, silence pooling like ink.

He rewound every gesture and word with the elder, like sifting sand for gold under moonlight.

…

“Yuris, tell me this. If you grow that strong, yet have no true friends, how bitter is that, like a feast eaten alone in winter?”

“Heh. You have a point, young man. But if you’ve reached that height, then tell me—what do you want, like an arrow seeking its target in fog?”

“You’re unmatched under heaven, yet you can’t bare your heart to anyone. Then what do you still have, like a mountain with no birds?”

“I still have them, like stars I refuse to let drown at dawn.”

“Then what should you do now? Receive everyone’s salutes, like a statue gathering dust?”

“…What should I do now, like a traveler waking at a crossroads?”

“Hero, your answer sits in your own chest, like a seed under soil. You won’t ask yourself, but you ask me?” Abyss smiled, a crescent like a knife.

“Sigh. I’ve heard this kind of messy platitude a thousand times in my old world, like rain drumming the same roof.”

“No matter how many times you’ve heard it, if it’s useful, it’ll work, like fire catching on dry tinder.”

“…Fine. I can’t outtalk you, like a blade dulled on a whetstone.”

“Yuris, when did you figure out I’m the Hero, like a fox sniffing a trap?”

“Even an old frog like me knows that thing called pressure. After battles stacked with deaths, you leak killing intent now and then, like blood scent in water. You can’t hide that.”

“And the only big war that ended recently was the one with the Demon Race. You’re obviously not some common soldier. Also, who but the Hero blurts he’s unmatched and then asks what to do, like a hawk complaining it can’t find the sky?”

Birand froze, like a stag hearing a twig snap.

“Sir, are you a man of the battlefield?” Birand narrowed his eyes, pupils thin as blades.

“No. I’ve kept my power clamped down for a long time. Only someone with Transcender strength can feel the terror in my aura,” Birand said, his gaze like frost on steel.

“Which means you, at minimum, stand at Transcender, like a peak hidden in cloud.”

Abyss let out a mute laugh, like gravel shifting. “This, of all things.”

“Go on then, sir. Someone your level on a battlefield is never good news. Still want to ask about the Demon Race territory?” Birand’s words fell like stones in a well.

“It’s strange you don’t know where their lands lie. That says you’re not with either camp. So what are you, like a shadow walking between fires?” Birand asked, curiosity bright as a needle.

Abyss shook his head with a smile, like a wolf amused at a trap. “As expected, you’re the kind I can’t stand. Back then, I hated your type—always scheming to snare others, like ivy creeping up a wall.”

“So, sir, are you willing to tell me who you are?” Birand chuckled, the sound hollow as a gourd.

“Ah. Right. Telling the you of now won’t cause much trouble. But—” Abyss paused, a blade held just above the sheath.

“What is it?” Birand asked, curiosity fluttering like a sparrow.

“Before I tell you, I want one last confirmation,” Abyss said, voice smooth as oil over water.

“You chose your path already, didn’t you? Why get so prickly about my identity just because I asked about the Demon Race lands?” Abyss spoke lightly, like snow falling.

“Heh. Then I’ll tell you something.” Birand shook his head, hair stirring like reeds. “On the eve of victory, an agent I planted inside the Demon Race sent me one last message. It was—”

Birand lowered his voice, words like coals under ash. “The Demon Race has a Holy Sword too. And it’s about to be born.”

“Since you’re not with either camp, it doesn’t hurt to tell you. Our allied army—at least by my reports—never found that blade,” Birand said, the truth straight as a spear.

“Or rather, the half-finished sword.” Birand drew a deep breath, air cold as river water. “So the only place it could be is Overlord City, where the search isn’t complete. You asking like that out of the blue—I had to check if you’re Demon Race.”

“Or one of their offshoot tribes,” Birand added, words falling like pebbles.

“Heh, you’re overthinking it.” Abyss smiled faintly, like the edge of a crescent moon.

“I’m their ancestor, like the root under the forest.”

“Uh, kid, save the speeches. Don’t you want to rescue them first?” Anna sat on a branch, rubbing her temple like pressing a bruise.

All she did was hop to the future, grab the lunch her dad packed, then nudge the timeline a tiny bit on the way back, like flicking a bead on an abacus.

Why did the blame drop on her head the moment she returned, like a pot falling from a shelf?

Honestly, the pot does belong to you, like a shadow glued to a heel.

Eli smiled, light catching like dawn on steel. “Of course.”

In the next heartbeat, the branches binding Edlyn and Yiyi snapped like dry bones, while Eli kept his eyes on Anna above, gaze steady as a held blade.

An unseen force caught them mid-fall like a soft net, then set them behind him on the cloth-covered ground, a quiet harbor behind his back.

“So. What’s your goal? You can say it now,” Eli said, voice cool as a mountain stream.

Their escape made the Tree of Life at the center stir with panic, like a hive kicked open.

More branches split and whipped toward the two, like snakes striking from brush.

Both women were under a neurotoxin, limbs dead as winter branches.

They could only watch the branches arc toward them, like shadows lengthening at dusk.

Eli didn’t even look. He simply set his hand on the hilt again, like a storm hand on a drum.

A heartbeat later, countless branches fell, sliced clean, like reeds under a scythe. Easy voice, Eli spoke. “Hey. If you don’t want to die, rein it in. Or I’ll fell your whole trunk.”

The Tree of Life froze as if it understood, still as a stag in a hunter’s stare.

“Relax. I’ll bring your guardians back soon, like shepherds returning to a restless flock.”

The great tree calmed, drawing the wild branches back into the earth like rivers folding into sea.

Only then did Eli lift his hand from the hilt, like a thunderhead easing off a ridge.

“I told you it’s nothing,” Anna called the moment he finished, voice bright as a sparrow. “Really, I came here to help you.”

“Look, without me, how would you waltz into the World Tree’s main hall this smoothly? The guardians here are no slouches, like tigers under silk.”

Anna pouted, like a girl wheedling her father under a peach tree.

“What else could I even do?” she muttered, voice small as a grain in a jar.

“Fine, let’s shelve that.” Eli shrugged, shoulders rolling like waves. “Not to mention how someone at Sacred Rank, without awakened Divinity, could fully control the guardians here.”

“It’s true. You gotta trust me!” Anna huffed, cheeks puffed like bellows.

Ugh, does Dad have a loose screw at this point in time? Curse it, like thunder grumbling in a kettle.

“Fine, I believe you. But why did you call me dad?” Eli smiled, the curve sharp as a sickle moon.

“Ah. That…” Anna’s mouth twitched, a corner tugged like a snagged thread. Could she say it just slipped out?

Seeing her dad in this era still a fresh-faced beauty made pride swell, like sap rising in spring, and then…

“Uh, I can’t say too much. You know, heaven’s secrets can’t be leaked. Yeah. That’s the phrase.” Anna’s eyes rolled like marbles.

“…Heh. Looks like unless I smack you around, you won’t talk straight.” Eli set his hand on his hilt again, like night drawing a veil.

Only, that strange surge in his left eye had vanished, like a comet slipping behind clouds.

Anna dismissed it with a snort, like brushing dust from a sleeve.

She knew that trick too well. Without the eye’s telltale gleam, the skill wasn’t active, like a lamp without oil.

Want to scare her? Maybe try again in a few decades, like frost waiting for autumn.

“So your aim is the same—the sword?” Birand walked beside Abyss, footsteps twin lines in dust.

“Yes. Only that sword lets me keep my design moving. I must have it,” Abyss said with a smile, teeth like a row of cold pebbles.

Birand shrugged, shoulders loose as willow branches. “Not my problem. Besides, with your current strength, you’re not fit to be the next Demon King.”

“Heh. It’s a Holy Sword of a different mold. You don’t want it?” Abyss coaxed, voice coiling like smoke.

“Heh. I’ve got Thias. What would I need that thing for?” Birand scoffed, the sound sharp as flint.

“In my agents’ reports, the Demon Race’s Holy Sword is called Ashir. The meaning’s plain—cuts down everything, like a guillotine in wind. It doesn’t match my Thias at all. Thias stands for fairness, justice, the sacred, like a balance under sunlight. They don’t complement, they don’t multiply. Why would I want it?” He gave a little shrug, light as a leaf.

“Fair. That does make some sense,” Abyss said with eyes smiling, like crescent moons. “In that case, you won’t interfere, will you?”

…Birand fell silent for a beat, quiet as snow on a roof.

Abyss blinked at that pause, like a candle guttering. Was the man going to back out at the cliff’s edge?

Birand paused only a moment, then let his face loosen like thawing ice. “From now on, the Hero Birand is dead.”

“Good,” Abyss said with a mild smile, like a ripple moving across a black lake.