It was the first New Year after the Demon King fell. Birand’s fame rose like a spring flood, so high it scared even the bold. Across the realm, nations planted stone blossoms—statues of the Hero—and founded Hero academies.

While the storm’s eye centered on him, Birand sat in the grand cathedral of Holy Paris’s capital, trading small talk with the Bishop beneath arches like frozen waves.

“Birand, your renown’s that high now. Don’t you want to do something with it?” The Bishop smiled, voice smooth as warm tea.

Birand set his water down like a snowflake landing, then drew a small smile. “You’re overthinking it, Your Excellency. I’ll keep my promise. I’ll retire soon.”

“Heh-heh.” The Bishop’s chuckle drifted like woodsmoke, but his eyes stayed overcast. He set his cup down and tapped the table, a fingertip metronome of rain.

Birand saw age etched on that face like wind-carved stone, and worry brushed his heart like a passing cloud.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll go. I wish you health, Bishop.” Birand offered a dusk-soft smile.

Harmless words—yet to the Bishop, old and near the frost-line, they fell like ash. His face dimmed like a sky before snow.

“Hero, it’s hard to say who’ll outlive whom,” the Bishop said, light as drifting leaves.

“Heh.” Birand didn’t answer. He pushed open the doors, and light spilled like a river.

As his foot crossed the threshold, the Bishop called, “Hero, I hear they’ve formed something called… the Hero’s Personal Guard?”

“Just zealots playing at order,” Birand said with an easy smile, calm as still water. “You won’t read too much into it, Bishop, will you?”

“I won’t… I won’t.”

Their talk ended there. Birand left without looking back, a lone bird cutting winter air.

Behind the Bishop, a shadow rose like smoke. He stood in reverence, still as a candle before an altar.

The Bishop stared at Birand’s cup, his face turning winter-cold. “Good thing you didn’t act just now.”

The shadow knelt, forehead low like a river stone, motionless.

“His power’s grown strange,” the Bishop said, rising with hands clasped like folded wings. “I must report to the Celestial God. Alone, we can’t afford the price of taking him down.”

The shadow seemed unconvinced. He lifted Birand’s cup. It shattered like thin ice. A force surged from the tea, a wave intent on snapping his arm.

He crashed to the floor and howled, pain carving through him like winter wind.

Walking the street, Birand felt reverent eyes on him, heavy as iron rain. The danger in his chest thickened like a stormfront.

“Soon. It has to be soon.” He sighed, then slipped away like a hawk on the wind.

Raise a god on the shoulders of praise, and the peak-dweller draws arrows like a lone tree on a ridge. Above, a true god watches like an unblinking star.

After a few spatial jumps, Birand reached his secret cottage, a quiet ember in the woods.

Inside, Icarina had lunch ready, steam curling like mountain mist.

He looked at her flawless profile, calm as moonlit water, and his unease ebbed like a receding tide. He gathered a smile and walked to her.

“Back already?” Icarina rose from the table, bright as a bell. Hard to imagine the fierce elf general with such an adorable blankness.

“I’m back.” Birand slipped an arm around Icarina’s waist, his smile warm as hearthlight.

After the meal, they leaned together before the cottage. Hills rolled like green waves, and the view quieted their restless hearts.

“The Elf Race…” His mood dipped first, like a leaf sinking, before words followed.

“Mm. They still won’t accept me being with you,” Icarina said. She rested on his shoulder and sighed, soft as falling snow.

“I don’t get why they bear me such a grudge.” Birand rubbed his brow, helplessness knotting like tangled vines.

“You sealed the dark elves to the last. Our Elf Race lost at least half its numbers,” Icarina said with a little laugh, bright as a spark.

“I had no choice. They swore they’d never yield. To calm the chaos, I had to.” Birand shrugged like a mountain shedding dust. “The other rebel tribes—I executed them all. Can’t they see my intent?”

“I can. That’s why I eloped with you!” Icarina pinched his waist, a playful sting behind a smile.

Back then, when Icarina couldn’t escape, she suffered alone like a caged bird. Birand snapped, stormed the Elven City, and took her like thunder stealing a bough.

Maybe that’s why the Elf Race still withholds its blessing, a closed gate in spring. Later, Icarina’s younger sister rose to power like a new moon.

Thinking of those reckless days, Birand’s face tightened, heat creeping like a blush under armor.

While they basked in quiet sun, elsewhere the air crackled like a powder keg.

Two long conference tables faced each other like drawn blades. At the front, one main seat bridged them like a stone over a stream.

“This was our chance to spread the Church across the world,” an old knight barked. His sword slammed the table like thunder on oak. “What are you cowards afraid of?”

“Annias, mind yourself!” An elder opposite shot up, palm cracking the wood like a breaking branch.

Others along both tables glared across, tempers sparking like flint.

At the main seat, the Bishop raised a calming hand, a lid over boiling water. He turned to Annias, the Hero’s loud backer. “Old friend, you haven’t thought this through.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Annias frowned, lines deep as bark.

“The Hero isn’t from our world,” the Bishop said, voice level as a blade on a whetstone. “He’s an invader, near enough to the Demon King.”

“But he saved you.”

“But his prestige already tops ours,” the Bishop cut in, quick as a gust. “Annias, you fought outsiders before. Now you’ll argue for the Hero?”

“I just think we can’t be ungrateful. And we can use his fame to spread the Church,” Annias said. He felt edges in the air like hidden knives. His eyes narrowed, and he sat.

“That’s why we’re discussing it,” the Bishop said with a mild smile, a veil over a spear.

“On how to handle the Hero, and that Hero’s Personal Guard recruiting everywhere in his name, we must report to the Celestial God,” said the man nearest the Bishop, voice cool as stone.

“But, Yelson…” The elder who’d quarreled with Annias rose, words sputtering like wet tinder.

“Old Leif, if you speak that boldly, do you have a way to deal with the Hero?” the Bishop cut in, tone soft as snow, gaze hard as ice.

Under Yelson and the Bishop’s deep stares, Leif’s face shifted like cloud-shadow. He sat, and across from him Annias’ eyes held a sliver of glee, sharp as a fishbone.

“You are the upper echelon of our Holy Court Church,” the Bishop said, standing with hands behind him like a closed fan. “State your stance. I’ll report your opinions to the Celestial God.”

Leif answered coolly, a thin stream over gravel. “From the great empires’ reports, they all fear the Hero. In some nations, the government’s voice is weaker than the Hero’s Personal Guard.”

“That’s indeed a problem.” The Bishop nodded, a slow pendulum.

Seeing that look, Leif grasped the Bishop’s true mind like a shadow catching shape. He held his tongue.

“All who agree to let the Hero retire, stand,” the Bishop said.

Only a scattering rose, like few reeds in a wide marsh.

Annias counted less than a third and darkened, his face a gathering storm.

“Those who think the Hero’s uncontrollable and must be restrained, stand,” the Bishop said.

Chairs scraped in a wave, a rustle like rain through leaves. Most stood.

The Bishop nodded. “I’ve noted your views.”

Annias left with a sour face, the door breathing shut like a curtained wind.

Watching his back, Leif smiled. “Bishop, I don’t think Annias should remain Cavalry Marshal.”

The Bishop smiled and said nothing, his silence deep as a well.