“Baguette? Long as a walking stick?”

“No…” Her voice fell like dusk over water.

“Coffee? Dark as midnight?”

“No, thanks…” The refusal was smooth as a silk fan closing.

“Popcorn? Light as a breeze-blown cloud?”

“No, this humble self has never seen such a thing…” She dipped her head like a shy crane.

“Chocolate? Sweet as a spring moon?”

“……”

Elina sat beside me, lowered her head, and went quiet, like a folded lotus at twilight.

Oh, damn. I’d meant to build a bridge of goodwill, not drop it like a stone into a river.

My whole Andor brand is gentlemanly poise; for Raven’s team versus Abigail’s in the final four, I booked arena seats early and stacked snacks like little hills. Yes, Abigail clawed back from the losers’ bracket and returned to the semifinals like a cresting tide.

Popcorn and chocolate don’t exist in the Silver Era; Vega and I cobbled them together, sugar like amber rain, cocoa like a dark stream. Raven, Gloria, and Stini—those three shameless ones—love munching during shows; if we make too few, sparks fly and they scrap like alley cats.

Now it seems Elina’s a conscientious good kid, reserved as frost; she won’t take a boy’s gifts on a whim. That’s a true lady; it’s everyone around me whose manners run ragged like autumn leaves.

But since she’s a messenger sent by a Divine Being—call her a watcher—it’s right to treat her well, like setting incense before a shrine. Compared with the changeable Bronze and Black Iron Eras, the Silver Era’s light and dark, right and wrong, are carved too stark, like ink and snow. If that bored Divine Being sees me treat Elina poorly and drops divine punishment like thunder, I’m done for.

Divine Beings are reasonable like old mountains, but I’m the villain; to them, a villain’s barely human shadow. There’s a saying: bad guys don’t get rights. That’s the chill of it.

“Then what would you like? Milk? Cake? We can call the waiter—no worry, it’s on me.” My words were laid out like a table set for guests.

“No… this humble self had better not. Everything here is too expensive…” Elina’s cheeks bloomed pink like peach blossoms.

Ah—so it’s money worry, not displeasure. Good. My heart loosened like a knot untied.

If money fixes it, it’s not a problem; coins are rain that can be fetched. If Elina feels pressure, skipping snacks is fine, like fasting before a rite.

Just then, a Divine Being descended. I narrowed my eyes like a blade’s slit; no matter how I try, I can’t like gods—cold stars above a cold world.

But that also means the fight began, drums rolling like thunder in the bones.

Onstage, the four bowed, stances set like brushstrokes, ready to clash.

Our own final-four bout is done; the winner here will face us for the doubles championship seat, a throne set on a tightrope.

“Ah, it’s starting. Watch—Princess Golia’s picked up a new magic immunity. Any spell clinging to her unravels to primal dust. In short, her mana repulsion sits at top priority, like a king at court.”

“Y-yes.” Elina’s reply trembled like a harp string.

“And across, Abigail—look…”

I cut my commentary. A prickle crawled under my ribs; déjà vu wrapped tight like ivy.

Princess Golia took the init, but…

She didn’t aim at Abigail in front. She flowed past like a river bend and struck at Catherine on the flank.

Catherine lifted her iron gauntlets and met her like steel on anvil. Odd—both drifted away from Abigail, like birds avoiding a storm eye.

They must’ve felt something off. He looked absent, lantern dim; he drew a sword, then stilled like a statue.

That sword wasn’t his usual blade. It was slenderer, more ornate—an art-piece rapier, silver like moonlight traced thin.

…That stance wasn’t the Abigail who traded thunder with me in history. It looked like someone I knew—but who, like a name behind fog…

No aura, no edge, no killing intent. Abigail stared ahead, blank as winter sky.

Minutes slipped by like sand. His eyes finally found focus—on Raven, warming a Construct’s weapon, sparks dancing like fireflies.

“Senior Raven…” His voice lost its usual restlessness and bite; it turned airy and clear, like a bell in morning mist.

“I like you. Will you be my wife?” The words dropped like petals and struck like arrows.

As he spoke, spirit climbed back behind his eyes, as if tearing a shroud from an old ghost and letting light through.

“Hey, you’re Abigail, right? What are you even saying?” Raven’s hands slowed, gears clinking like lazy rain.

“Ah, saying this in a duel to throw me off is too dirty! Ref, is that allowed?” Her blush rose like dawn; she scrambled for an excuse like a cat for a ledge.

The referee looked helpless, mouth opening like a fish—Abigail’s small wave cut the air and stilled him like wind stills grass.

Some are born with presence. They command without effort—leaders of thousands, those born to the scepter, like eagles ruling thermals.

Maybe he hid it before. Earlier, Abigail didn’t carry that hush-the-crowd aura. I think something changed, a current under stone.

The familiar feel thickened, smoke becoming storm…

Seeing the hush, Abigail smiled, flicked me a glance like a knife’s glint, then told Raven:

“You might not believe it, but I truly like you.”

“I’ve liked you for a long time.”

“This bride-price may be despicable, yet I still propose: I’m the second prince of Beatrice, the Azure Wind Kingdom. If you marry me, I guarantee you’ll be mistress of a third of our lands.” His promises stacked like terraces on a mountain.

“I’ll give you every resource, so you can keep doing the magitech you love. No worry for the next meal, no fear of others twisting your priceless results.” His words were shelter like roofs in rain.

“Marry me. I’ll give you happiness.” He set the vow like a lantern.

“I swear never to betray, never to take another wife. I swear by Appoint, the god of covenants.” The oath rang like iron on stone.

“One more time: marry me. I’ll give you happiness.”

Abigail dropped to one knee, opened a small box like a sunrise.

Inside lay a ring—the Royal Signet of Beatrice, proof of the prince, gold like harvest.

An unseen weight settled over the hall, pressing like snow on pine; the air turned sacred and solemn.

“Abigail, you like me? Why me? I’m just a poor student. Even as student council president, I have no great achievements—only diligence. Why would you like me?” Raven’s voice steadied like a keel.

“Because you’re strong—no, that’s too broad.” He breathed, then showed his heart like a clean blade. “Senior Raven, I like how you left your family and still earn proudly to feed yourself; how you’re covered in oil yet glow with joy building Constructs; how you honor your creations even when no one understands. Every thing you do fits the woman I admire, like stars that align.”

“So you’d cage me like a canary—that’s also the woman you admire?” Raven nudged her Construct, foot ringing like a chime, then looked up; willpower blazed in her eyes like a forge.

“What…”

“Abigail, not everyone falls for you because you’re excellent. Love and marriage aren’t trade, aren’t games. There’s no reason that could make me accept your proposal.” Her words cut clean, like a river carving stone.

Abigail lifted his head to explain, voice soft as dusk: “Whatever you want, I’ll give. I don’t mean to bind you.”

“But I can’t accept a husband who comes as a conqueror.” Her refusal stood like a wall. “Sorry. I refuse, Abigail.”

“Is that so…” He stood, closed his eyes, calm as a lake at night. No surprise, no shock—he’d expected it like a weathered sailor expects storms. Yet a fine thread of sorrow ran through his voice, thin as smoke.

“I know. This kind of proposal is hateful. We barely know names. I offered only terms and a plea. I overstepped.”

“If you can’t woo a girl, how could anyone love you?” His self-mockery was a bitter smile, salt on tongue.

“Mm, my fault. I had guessed this result. The straight ball I’m good at in negotiation fails in love. I guessed it—but being refused face to face still hurts.” Pain flashed like a thorn.

Abigail opened his eyes; gold light bloomed there, bright as a dawn coin.

“The old man said my grasp of human dealings is far off. I have to admit it. Even so…” He raised his sword, point a star.

“I still stubbornly chase things I can’t have, no matter what.” He stepped forward, aura rising like a tide.

His presence wasn’t human; it was something above men, a hawk over fields. Gloria felt it, stopped facing Catherine, breath held like a caught leaf.

He surged on, momentum like mountain ranges, city walls—pressure rolling like thunder, driving Raven and Gloria back step by step.

Then he raised a single hand and swung.

That posture was like a fated sovereign, a king of hosts. On his brow there should be an iron crown of thorns; in his hands, the infinite tome of wisdom; on his shoulders, the sacred patterned armor favored by the Creator. The image hung like a mural in firelight.

He should wear a peerless face and bear world-toppling strength. The myth shone like a sun behind cloud.

But Abigail wasn’t him—yet he cleaved down with the same vast sword-light, a river of silver.

Like heaven’s decree, like a miracle—no mortal could match it; it fell with the weight of sky.

Gloria rushed in at the last instant, but the sword-light didn’t stall. The shockwave lifted her like a gale and carried her out of the arena. She wouldn’t be hurt; she just couldn’t stay aloft, a leaf in wind.

Raven’s titan-class Construct was bolted to the floor, iron roots deep—yet it was blown free together with her, bolts shrieking like geese.

One stroke wrecked half the arena, cracked like ice, and Raven’s team fell, while nobody was harmed—a mercy folded into might.

“Awesome. At least stronger than me.” Raven scrambled up, smiling, and gave Abigail a thumbs-up, cheerful as sun after rain.

“Thanks. I’d be happier if you’d accept my proposal.” His grin was boyish, a small fire.

“No way, no way. If you want a girlfriend, go learn from Andor first.” She shot back, light as a sparrow.

Gloria also praised Abigail’s strength, words like clean steel.

A gentleman’s bout. Both pulled their blows; no blood, no extremes, no fight-to-the-death. The air felt like tea after battle.

That’s what an exhibition should be. Going all-out would betray the Martial Festival’s purpose—showing heroic skill to the people, lanterns of courage along the street.

Abigail bid Raven farewell, then—

—he lifted his sword at me. A razor-bright slash tore the audience’s protective barrier like silk and stopped at my brow, then faded like mist.

“You’re next, Andor! I’ll beat you no matter what!” His shout pounced like a tiger.

The gentle presence vanished; he roared like a waking lion, mane of heat.

…That part differs. That man never shows anything but calm, a winter lake.

“Hey, Andor, we’re fighting Abigail next. He looks tough… what do we do… Andor?” Elina felt the sword-glow, flinched like a rabbit, then saw I didn’t react. She shook me, puzzled, hands fluttering like sparrows.

“…Yes. It’s that old man. It has to be Saster…” The name rang like iron.

“Who? Andor, what are you saying?” Her voice tugged like a sleeve.

“Not important,” I answered, noticed I was off, then snapped back like a bowstring. I rubbed Elina’s cat ears to show I was fine, a clumsy reassurance.

“Don’t. It’s uncomfortable…” Elina’s protest was soft as cotton, and the push of her hand was feather-light.

That man—Saster.

The greatest hero of the Golden Age, the most brilliant poet, the Creator’s most favored creation—his legend gleamed like gold leaf.

Also a sky-broad sage, a peerless philosopher, a supreme who held every gift and power, like a mountain holding all streams.

He holds a sword in one hand and a book in the other. Save the Creator, he’s more valiant than anyone, nobler than anyone—an eagle above kings.

“Saster” is a homophone of “Glory” in the Golden Age tongue, a bell that calls crowns.

Yet he is also the greatest traitor. The prime culprit who destroyed the Golden Age—he murdered the Creator and grievously wounded Wisdom God Haydon, thunder breaking heaven.

In the end, he’s my father, one of the oldest and strongest Demon Kings, “Tyranny”—Saster. The word falls like a black seal.