She smiled and dipped a small bow to Aphelia. Her voice drifted like a spring breeze, and Aphelia’s guard loosened despite herself.

“I don’t have a very precise name. If you use the name this era gave me, call me Enkidu.”

The green‑haired woman called Enkidu smiled and met Aphelia’s eyes—if she still had eyes at all. She waited in quiet stillness. With Enkidu’s white dress before her, Aphelia felt a calm she couldn’t explain.

“Enkidu… Miss Enkidu, I’m not great with your pronunciation. If I got it wrong, please forgive me. If this is our first meeting, why that look of ‘you’re finally here’?”

She hesitated, checked that her Crimson Flame wouldn’t scorch the woman, then voiced her doubts in a slow, careful breath.

So much had crashed down in succession that confusion clung like fog. Everyone seemed to know what was happening except her, and the blindfold feeling gnawed at her.

At least—at least she needed a reason. Why was she here? Who had brought her to this place?

“Your pronunciation is perfect, Miss Aphelia.”

Enkidu nodded in simple approval, then smiled.

“Because you were bound to arrive here, Aphelia. Waiting for you here is my mission. Thankfully, you came before my next slumber.”

“Because you were bound to arrive here, Aphelia. Waiting for you here is my mission. Thankfully, you came before my next slumber.”

Aphelia seized on the words at once.

“I was bound to come here? Miss Enkidu, why?”

She cried out and grabbed Enkidu’s wrist. Her Crimson Fire flared on reflex, a red storm rising. It didn’t spread. Enkidu stilled it with a calm hand.

“Please, don’t be agitated. If I could solve that for you, I would have already given you the answer, Miss Aphelia.”

Aphelia realized her lapse. She let go at once, stepped back several paces, and apologized again and again.

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you…?”

“Of course not. I was born from this flame. How could it harm me?”

She brushed her wrist. Pale skin only blushed faintly, no other mark at all—as if the Crimson Fire that tormented Aphelia was nothing before her.

Enkidu took no offense. She smiled, hooked her arm through Aphelia’s, and led her toward the pavilion.

“For other questions, I can still answer, Miss Aphelia. Come to the pavilion with me first. This era tolerates the nonhuman more, but your state needs a little cover.”

Aphelia could only accept. Enkidu had pardoned a near‑disaster; this small request was easy to grant.

If the green‑haired woman held hidden intent, Aphelia wasn’t helpless.

Besides, her presence felt balanced and upright, with no trace of darkness.

“Then, Miss Aphelia, though I can’t tell you why you came, I can tell you who made me wait for you here—or perhaps, what did.”

They reached the pavilion. Enkidu poured tea and spoke in a steady flow.

Aphelia lifted a hand, then saw her palm was already a Crimson Flame. A soft sigh escaped. She withdrew. Enkidu acted as if she hadn’t seen and continued.

“You could come here, which means you’ve spoken with the World Will, haven’t you?”

“Of course… She told me those pasts. But a lot she hadn’t told me yet, and I already turned into this.”

At the thought of that mercurial woman in white, Aphelia sighed deep and heavy. Her present state seemed her doing. The World Will sent her to reclaim her power, then vanished without a trace, a riddle wrapped in smoke.

If Aphelia knew the World Will had already cast herself into her body’s sea of fire, she might think differently.

Enkidu only smiled at her gloom, then said:

“She has a fickle nature, like the world itself, changeable toward humankind. Maybe one day they’ll master the world. For now, they still revere it, so they seek ‘gods’ like us for a refuge.”

While they spoke, several white‑robed women carried fruit trays from the hall. Aphelia tensed and tried to slip aside. Enkidu stopped her with a slight gesture.

Aphelia opened her mouth. Enkidu shook her head. The meaning was clear. Aphelia yielded and sat.

The attendants were unruffled by Aphelia. They bowed to the two in the pavilion, set the trays on the stone table, and withdrew in smooth steps.

After them, a black‑robed woman passed by and came before the pair.

“Lady Enkidu, by the king’s order, I’ve come to report our recent state of affairs.”

To Aphelia’s surprise, aside from Enkidu’s unusual name, the rest was in a tongue she understood.

The black‑robed woman reported a vast range—agriculture to policy, commoners to nobles, detail by detail, each followed by a request for guidance. Enkidu spoke scarcely a word. Their tacit rhythm held. The woman finished one point and moved to the next.

As the report unfurled, a prosperous, grand empire took shape in Aphelia’s mind. An age when gods still walked, ruled by a Demigod king.

Their sovereign didn’t preach might‑above‑all. Everyone found a place. And Enkidu seemed to share the king’s standing. It stirred deep curiosity.

In an age of living gods, perhaps that wasn’t strange. In Aphelia’s era, crown and altar had already clashed to the brink of breaking.

If not for the Church’s strength in the First and Second Epochs, and a True God’s occasional sign that checked mortal realms, war between Church and state would have erupted long ago.

If gods still dwelt openly among men, the Church might now be the supreme power of this age.

Aphelia gave a rueful shake of her head. Different eras, same knife‑edge. The rift between humans and gods never seemed to soften.

The report lasted long. To Aphelia, time thinned to smoke. As she listened, she learned to hold the Crimson Flame that made her, no longer losing control.

“Ah—sorry, Aphelia. That took a bit of time. It’s the annual report period.”

“It’s fine. I’m the outsider getting in the way. Miss Enkidu, could you tell me why you had me sit through all that?”

She had noticed: Enkidu wasn’t short on time. She meant for Aphelia to hear the report and grasp the kingdom’s shape.

“Then let me ask you one thing. If you were in my place, how would you handle those issues?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Enkidu. I’m not a leader type. I could fix a few, but plenty leave me lost.”

“My mistake. Let’s choose a clearer one. In the current bond between humans and gods, how long can it last, Aphelia?”

Her tone stayed gentle, but her face turned solemn. She met Aphelia’s eyes and waited.

“Your country looks flourishing. I guess that bond could last a long time…”

“I want the truth, Aphelia. From your era. Your real thought.”

Enkidu’s solemn gaze held. Aphelia sighed. She knew she couldn’t gloss it over. From any angle, that bond defied easy judgments.

Her own stance was a knot. Her ties with Brynhildr and Sigdrifa were still a maze. How could she speak of a bond she hadn’t untangled?