Phew... that was a trek. That old geezer keeps tossing me his messes like storm-wrecked nets. Light kept blooming inside Birand, like dawn rippling through fog.

At his brow, two shards of Memory Crystal fused into him at a blistering pace, like ice melting into a mountain stream.

Ascaraun had made an excuse earlier and slipped away from me, like a shadow peeling off at dusk.

He looped around and ran to the elven front, like a fox changing trails.

He babbled that Manstein wouldn’t spare his faction. Blah blah, emergency relief, blah blah—just a heap of nuisance like dead leaves in a gutter.

Thinking he’d be of little use for a while, I figured it was wiser to let him go, let him fetch his forces, then come back to me like a tide turning.

With that thought, Birand waved him off, like shooing a noisy crow from the eaves.

Haa... almost there. I’m at the pinnacle of a Transcender, one breath from a lower divine seat. For this body, that’s the ceiling—pity, like a blade a hair short of perfect.

We’re here. Birand glanced around, nodding, like a hunter surveying a silent ridge.

From directly below, something tugged at his soul like a moon-drawn tide. He licked his lips, a wolf tasting snow.

Moments later, cool settled over him like ash on coals.

Yuris—was he truly with the Abyss?

If he was, I might be crushed by his trap before I even touched that thing, like a moth snuffed under a cup.

The thought made Birand hesitate, like a foot hovering over thin ice.

I didn’t put in all this work just to sightsee, like a kite circling without a string.

Birand narrowed his eyes, like shutters closing against glare.

I have to sort this out, like combing snarled threads by lamplight.

...

I figure you’ve made your choice by now, haven’t you? Yuris smiled at the steadied Birand, like a calm pier watching the tide.

It was obvious: the Hero had chosen, like a banner lifted into wind.

Since I can’t go back, I’ll do as you said—hide my name here. The world’s vast; there must be places where no one knows me, like valleys beyond the map.

Birand smiled. Maybe I really can.

Yuris sighed. Good, child. You chose right, like a boat catching the right current.

In truth, I had no choice. I’m just sick of it, like tea steeped to bitterness.

Yuris blinked and said, By the way, you call yourself the Hero. Can you tell an old man how the Demon Race’s territory looks now?

(Why’s he so into the Demon lands? His later reasons were fluff as thin as smoke—who’d buy that?)

Birand shut his eyes; his face went pale, like frost on porcelain. Aside from Overlord City still being searched, the rest lies to the west. What, interests you?

Uh... not really. I’m just a simple fisherman, Yuris sighed, like a net-caster under low clouds.

They shared a look and kept their silence, like two cards laid face down.

A fine, tidy excuse: a fisherman on a battlefield of races, like a minnow among sharks.

...

Yuris, say a man grows strong enough to touch the sky, yet has no true friends—how sad is that? Birand let it slip like a leaf in stream.

Since coming to this world, I’ve never done my own thing, like a traveler pushed off his road.

I arrived, and I was handed an army, like reins thrust into cold fingers.

The generals either feared me or envied me, like wolves stepping back or baring teeth.

Friends? With who?

The Celestial God summoned me here; I can’t even see my parents, like stars hidden behind storm.

Friends—what friends?

Birand laughed coldly; frost traced his expression like rime on a blade.

Heh. You’ve got a point, young man. But if you’re that strong, what is it you want? Yuris’s words rippled like oars in still water.

You’re unmatched, yet no one to bare your heart to. What do you have left? His question struck like a bell in a temple.

I still have them. Icarina. Aelavis. Evelyn. Peggy. And others—mmm, all very cute girls, like spring blossoms in a courtyard.

Except Icarina, I treat them like sisters, girls I truly cherish, like treasures wrapped in silk.

A pity. Birand sighed, a wind through chimes.

So what should you do now? Receive salutes and praise? Yuris’s voice landed like a pebble in a pond.

What should I do? Birand knew he looked lost, like a boat in fog without a lantern.

Hero, your answer sits in your own heart. Why ask me instead of yourself? The Abyss smiled, like a shadow behind a candle.

Ugh, those hand-me-down platitudes—I’ve heard a lifetime’s worth back on Earth, like rain on old tiles.

No matter how often you’ve heard them, if they’re useful, they’re useful, like flint making fire each time.

...All right, I can’t out-talk you. Birand gave in like a bow unstrung.

Yuris, when did you know I was the Hero?

Even a country old-timer knows pressure when he feels it. After heavy, bloody campaigns, you leak killing intent, faint but sharp, like iron under silk. You can’t hide it.

And the only big campaign that ended recently was the Demon Race war, and you’re no common soldier. Besides, who but the Hero would ask, “I’m unmatched, now what?” like a hawk asking how to fly?

Honestly, anyone who keeps calm under my killing intent isn’t normal, like a statue refusing to crack in frost.

In a notebook I found in Overlord City, it clearly said this: everything of the Demon Race comes from something called the Abyss—place or person.

The address was bizarre, like a road sign pointing both ways.

Some called the Abyss their homeland; some wrote about “him” with personal pronouns, like a whisper naming a storm.

After nights and days of study, I understood: the Abyss stands on the same tier as the Celestial God, like twin peaks under different skies.

Only the stance differs, like sun and shadow sharing one wall.

So, sir, will you tell me who you are? Birand chuckled, the sound dry as paper.

Ah, yes. Telling you now won’t cause trouble. But— The Abyss paused, like a drumbeat held back.

What? Birand asked, curiosity flaring like a spark.

Before I tell you, one last confirmation. Yuris’s tone was mild as dusk.

You chose your path already. Why did you get so sensitive about my identity just because I asked about Demon territory? Yuris’s voice was thin and cool, like a reed flute.

Heh. Then let me tell you something. Birand shook his head, like dislodging dust. On the eve of victory, my spy in the Demon Race sent one final message:

The Demon Race has a Holy Sword too—and it’s about to be born. His voice dropped like a cloak.

You’re not from either camp, so it’s fine to tell you. In our Allied Army—at least in the reports I saw—we never found that sword, Birand said, like laying cards on a table.

Or rather, a half-finished blade. He drew a deep breath, like a bellows. So the only possible place is Overlord City, which we never fully searched. You asking so suddenly—I had to make sure you weren’t Demon.

Or one of their offshoot branches, Birand added, like naming tracks in snow.

You’re overthinking it. Yuris smiled, light as drifting pollen.

Birand tilted his head, studying the old man’s smile in his memory, like tracing a pattern in frost.

Was he mocking me? Or was it... something else?

He’s the Abyss? Birand squinted; his face turned ugly, like thunder building behind clouds.

Not bad, not bad. He even copied the inner workings of the Abyss well, like a craftsman mirroring a master’s cut.

Oh? Then you can open this thing? Birand smiled, like testing a blade’s edge.

At the same time, he confirmed it—this guy stood close to the Abyssal extreme of the world, like a compass needle leaning north.

Of course. Its structure is obvious. You folks just haven’t dealt with it. Yuris smiled, easy as rain.

It’s nothing else, really. Once you find the pattern, it’s simple. Yuris smiled again, like a cat blinking.

Birand curled his lip. That’s the point, isn’t it—we can’t find the pattern, like blind men groping a tiger.

So Birand watched Yuris roam the halls of Overlord City, east to west, like a swallow mapping rafters.

He skipped every room, like stepping stones over a river.

Then, to Birand’s stunned stare, Yuris lifted both hands through empty air, like a conductor summoning thunder.

Countless sigils and runes lifted from every corner, swarming skyward like fireflies stirred from grass.

At his fingertip command, they poured into the central gate, like a waterfall of light.

The runes slammed in; the gate groaned open, then crumbled to powder, like old bones to ash, and a breeze whisked it away.

See? No big deal. Simple, Yuris said, smiling like a quiet knife.

Birand recalled that blizzard of sigils that made his scalp prickle, and Yuris’s calm as still water, and his head ached like a struck gong.

You call that simple? Birand was speechless, words like stones in his mouth.

Of course. I’m not even out of breath. Yuris laughed, like a net drawn up clean.

If he’s the Abyss, everything lines up like stars on a cold night.

Observer, he said. What a joke. I’ve been a Hero for years and never heard of any “Observer,” like a legend no bard sings.

Great. Just great. Birand’s smile turned a shade cruel, like a blade showing teeth.

He raised a hand and clenched at empty air, as if crushing something brittle, like frost under boot.

He gritted his teeth; his face twisted, like bark under lightning.

Back then, I actually handed the Demon Race’s sword to him?

What kind of brain-dead idiot was I to pull a brain-dead move like that?

Heh... heh? Birand’s laugh was dry and cracked, like reeds in winter.

He sat cross-legged, floating, like a lotus above dark water.

Bursts of violent energy skittered through the air, like wild dogs snapping at chains.

After a long moment, it smoothed out, like ripples settling in a pond.

Birand rubbed his brow and stared at the sea below, irritated, like a storm brewing behind his eyes.

Now, how do I pry loose the thing that old bastard locked here, and do it clean?