“Hey. The decor’s pretty slick,” Birand said, lifting a watermelon like a red moon and drumming the rind with his palm.

“Mm. Looks high-grade too,” he laughed, voice light as wind over lacquered wood.

Ascaraun stepped over chefs and guards strewn like fallen leaves, boots tracking through pools of ink-dark blood. He came to Birand’s side. “Hero. We shouldn’t go too far. If we rattle those fossils in the Holy Court Church, our move won’t go smooth.”

Birand patted his shoulder, fingers warm as sunlight on stone. “Relax, kid. Royal blood isn’t that thin. The royals will line this up for us.”

“You’re not afraid?!”

“Please. When have I ever been afraid?” His grin flashed like a knife’s reflection.

“But the royals might not truly want to help us! You can’t trust them like that!” Ascaraun’s worry swelled like storm tide; his voice came tight.

Their private talks with the royals had felt rickety, like scaffolding in a gale. He still feared that the so-called shadows couldn’t hide from those old monsters’ eyes, sharp as hawks’.

“Heh. Relax. I’ve got it,” Birand said, casual as a cat on a warm wall.

He set the watermelon on the table and tapped the rind. The slice—and the table beneath—suddenly split into eight perfect pieces, cut by an invisible blade as clean as moonlight.

Birand paused. A faint crease tugged his brow, like a ripple in still water. Was his power slipping?

Why?

Ascaraun figured Birand was in another swing of erratic mood. He stood aside with a sigh, breath heavy as rain.

Birand ignored him. He took a slice and sauntered off toward the emperor’s quarters, steps slow as a pendulum in a quiet hall.

Meanwhile, in the endless sea of stars, Eli slowly opened his eyes. Unease bloomed cold as frost on glass.

He didn’t feel like he’d fallen into the Netherworld. He’d waited so long, yet he still floated in a boundless cosmos, no shore in sight.

He rubbed his chin, puzzled, thoughts circling like cranes. “Could this be the Netherworld? It’s not as scary as I imagined.”

Then he noticed it. His soul was slowly tending toward perfection, knitting like silk under warm hands.

The old ache of missing pieces faded, a thorn drawn from flesh. He sank inward and listened.

He clenched his fist. He raised a hand and pinched his own face. Though he was a soul, a body’s touch rippled back, warm as breath.

“What’s going on?” His doubt flickered like a lantern.

This form didn’t look thin as mist, ready to vanish. It felt real, solid as clay.

Life force welled from his soul’s depths like a spring from rock. It told him plainly: this isn’t the Netherworld.

Then why am I here? The question hung like a lone star.

Landry Cathedral. The true seat of the Holy Court Church, cold as a sanctum carved from bone.

Its chamber held a horseshoe wooden table and twelve chairs. Nothing else. Empty as a swept courtyard.

A sickly young man sat at the head, eyes heavy with sorrow like dusk clouds. He scanned the eleven present.

“Elders, it’s unfortunate,” he said, voice soft as ash. “The New Era Sect lied to us, and they spat on our friendship.”

“I said it from the start! Never trust them!” Yorick—bald scalp, full beard—slammed the table. He stood, anger flaring like dry tinder.

“Calm down, Yorick.” A twin-tailed girl folded her arms, gaze sharp as needles. “Their betrayal didn’t cause clear losses. We just tweak the plan.”

“Still sticks in my throat,” Yorick growled, teeth grinding like millstones.

An old man by the young one chuckled, the sound dry as paper. “Yorick, your old trouble’s back? Keep yourself in check. It cost us no small effort to pull you from the Empire’s prison last time.”

The young man drummed the table with long fingers, each tap like rain on a drum. “Two choices. One, we mobilize the Church, send heavy troops to the palace, and ‘invite’ our Hero back. Two, we sit here and watch them take the fruits of years of work.”

“Third,” someone said, voice cool as iron. “Break the pact with the other races. Let top-tier combat power join the fight.”

“Heavy troops are already marching toward the Elf Race front,” the elder on his other side said, brows knit like storm lines. “The rest are holding down domestic unrest. Pulling them now isn’t wise.”

“We can’t just sit and watch!” Yorick shouted, temper a bonfire in the hall.

“So, you’re planning to break that pact?” The young man’s smile curved, playful as a cat with a string.

“Pope,” another voice pressed, steady as a bell, “when the Hero suddenly struck at the Holy Sanctuary, it showed the former pope’s leash was too loose. And now that monster isn’t the Hero anymore. We can’t just watch.”

Manstein smiled, looking about to collapse, pale as candle wax. He leaned on the table and spoke, gentle as falling snow. “Right now, I want your opinions. Don’t get heated. How I act still needs thinking.”

He looked weak, yet no one dared challenge him. Thirty years old, a young blade among elders, he beat the entire Church high command alone, clean as thunder.

Manstein stretched lazily, bones cracking like dry twigs. “Ignore me. Keep talking. I want your conclusion.”

“I propose we quicken the Elf Race front,” the girl said, hand raised like a banner. “Meanwhile, send people to lobby other races and national leaders—stall their eyes and hands. Then a group goes to the palace and brings the Hero back.”

Eyes met eyes, silence tight as a bowstring. It was smoke, not fire. Someone like Manstein wouldn’t be diverted by trifles. And catching the Hero without high-levels? Sending an army would tear our mask off before the royals.

Manstein tapped the table again. “Good. Melissa, after so many years, you finally spoke to me. Consider it your reward.”

“Pope! That won’t do!” an elder blurted, panic fluttering like sparrows.

“What? You don’t agree with me moving personally?” His gaze glittered, cool as starlight.

“This…”

“Relax.” He patted the elder’s shoulder, touch warm as a hearth. “I’ll just have a heart-to-heart with those old monsters. I won’t go too far. Understand?”

“Y-yes.”

“Feel better?”

“Y-yes…” The elder gave a bitter smile, mouth tight as a knot.

With him saying that, who could refute?

“Good. Everyone, we advance the plan,” Manstein said, coughing twice, breath thin as smoke. He rose slowly and smiled at them, calm as a lake. “Whether we reopen the gate to the Celestial Realm depends on us.”

Back then, the Hero’s deeds were handed down like carved seals.

“Hero… are you insane?!” The Pope’s rage cracked like thunder as he pointed at Birand, standing not far away.

Birand stood at the entrance to the Sky-Ascending Stair, a lone figure like a blade against the sky. He didn’t spare the believers a glance.

“Me? Insane?” His chuckle was a winter breeze. “Since you dare do this, I won’t let you go.”

He turned. His face chilled the room like a blizzard. The left cheek was glazed with lava, and the eye was a red bead, burning like a coal.

“You… you—you fell… you fell into the Abyss!” The Pope’s hands shook, fingers crooked like branches.

“Heh-heh-heh… ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.” Birand pressed his left cheek with a gloved hand, laughter rolling like drums of war.

“You’ll never escape my palm,” he snarled, voice a knife through silk. “I’ll drown you in absolute fear!”

He threw his arms wide. A vast force surged from him, a tide that covered the hall like nightfall.

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” His laughter boomed like caverns, while the Holy Sword Tias keened, blade-thin wails like a choir of steel.

It felt as if Birand himself faced some immense threat, a cliff’s wind pressing at his back. Tias fought to dam his power, humming with strain.

Birand looked down at the sword, sighed like wind through pines. “I know. Let me be willful this once…”

Tias answered only with trembling grief, a bright, relentless cry.

Birand lifted his head. Cruelty slid back over his face like a mask. He looked at the terrified crowd and laughed, wild as stormfire. “Mortals! Fear my power. You’re in a living Inferno now—savor the highest torment! When I return, it will be extinction.”

Back then, the Hero never came back. So that group lived. They lost to the Hero—utterly. If not for the Hero losing to the Celestial Realm, they’d have no graves, only dust on the wind.

Manstein looked around, gaze steady as a spear. “In my hands, I won’t allow that.”

“The Sky-Ascending Bridge the Hero broke—I’ll mend it in my era.” He smiled, and in those deep eyes, ambition bloomed like wildfire.

Heaven knows what he’s fixing it for.