The plan had reached its last page, like a lantern burning low at dusk.

No more knots to pick at, like thorns pulled from cloth.

No need to burn the midnight oil, like a moth circling an empty wick.

I could go back and happily roll in the sheets with Vega, like two carp slipping into warm waves.

Raven turned down my banquet invite, like a bird veering off into a different wind.

She went to celebrate the top-four slot with the student council, like a small festival under campus stars.

Princess Golia and Elina went too, like lilies drifting on the same pond.

So my usually crammed nightlife opened up, like a street after rain.

Berenz sometimes drops by to play or tumble in bed, like a stray cat threading a familiar alley.

But not now, not at this busy mouth of the plan, like a river narrowing before the falls.

I had a rare chance and the mood to have a drink, like finding a bench under a quiet maple.

It wasn’t some fancy bar, just a small place, like a warm window in winter.

The regulars came and went, like tides touching familiar stones.

It promised hush and music, like incense and a bell in a small shrine.

Well, music is new; half a year ago, there was none, like a room with only candlelight.

Only the barkeep, the quiet air, and good liquor, like velvet in a dark box.

About a month ago, a young hire came in, like a breeze pushing a chime.

Since then, each night carries a clear tune, like moonlight poured into a glass.

He’s an interesting one, like a pebble that hides a spark.

Guitar, sure; but also cello, violin, and piano, like swallows layering nests.

He even coaxes the truqin, a wooden flute, and a French horn, like rain tapping different roofs.

I’ve lived long and nosed into music a little, like a fox sniffing trails.

I can hear it: his skill sits near the human peak, like a summit above the clouds.

More curious, he isn’t tied to one instrument, like a river knowing many banks.

He’s high-level across all of them, like a grove where every tree bears fruit.

So tonight’s idleness put me in the mood to talk, like a hand reaching through beaded curtains.

“Hey, want a drink?”

Even as a worker, he isn’t playing nonstop, like a bell that needs quiet to ring again.

His set and his rest are about even, like day and night sharing a horizon.

Probably for guests who don’t like music, like owls avoiding noon.

When his piece ended, I waved before he could slip backstage, like catching a fish before it vanishes.

He looks plain, like gravel under clear water.

Gray hair tied back carelessly, like a rope on a dock.

A white lab coat on his back, with a black belt outside, like ink on snow.

I’ve only ever seen him in that outfit, like a monk with one robe.

Maybe it’s a small creed.

Plain as he seems, that plainness jars against his mastery, like silk wrapped around iron.

Something deeper sits under that face, like a well under moss.

It stirs my curiosity, like a moth to a lantern.

He put the violin away, like a bird folding a wing.

Then he stepped down and sat beside me, like a shadow choosing my bench.

“Martini or gin fizz? It’s on me,” I asked, like tossing a coin into a fountain.

“Then a martini, thanks,” he said, like frost cracking softly.

He took the glass from the barkeep and smiled at me, like a crescent moon behind gauze.

I wasn’t talking to him on a whim, like driftwood bumping a pier.

That smile looks very much like my dad’s, and like Abigail’s today, like echoes in a canyon.

Different, yes.

Dad’s smile was light as wind and cloud, like shade under a tree.

This musician smiles often too, like a river that never stills.

Thinking on it, I haven’t seen him not smile, like a mask painted in pale ink.

His face always hangs that faint smile, like dawn that won’t turn to noon.

It’s also like Daviya’s happy smile, like sunlight sliding off glass.

So I thought—Philosopher?

I asked at once, like an arrow loosed without fuss.

“Are you a Philosopher?”

“Mm?” He lifted a brow, like a feather stirred by breeze.

He seemed surprised, then answered fast, like a pebble dropped straight in a pond.

“No. A Philosopher won’t feed you. I’m just a plain citizen with a few propositions to prove,” he said, like chalk on a slate.

“...”

It’s a sharp question; for the poor, food comes first, like bread before books.

Not everyone will walk alone to ask the weak about life and worth, like a hermit in snow.

But his answer shows he’s thought on many things, like roots under a calm field.

“Your music’s top tier,” I said, like tapping a crystal for tone.

“Why not go to a big place for work?”

“Why go?” he said, like a leaf refusing the river.

He swirled his glass, more drawn to the liquor than the topic, like a cat to a patch of sun.

“Because people always want more, right?” I said, like stacking stones on a cairn.

“With more money, you buy better food, live in a better house, and so on, like climbing steps.”

“So to sum up, we want more stuff?” he asked, like a mirror catching a face.

“Yeah, and fame, and glory too, like banners in wind.

You won’t get that serving in a small tavern,” I said, like pointing down a narrow lane.

“So what then?” he said, like a ripple that doesn’t break.

A bad omen bled from his words, like cold seeping under a door.

This isn’t the tone the Silver Era should carry, like smoke in a bright hall.

“Hey, don’t tell me you’re one of those ‘everything is empty’ types,” I joked, like flicking water off a leaf.

“No,” he said, wearing that pale smile, like chalk dust on fingers.

He sipped his drink and set it down, like rain ticking off eaves.

“I think everything exists, but nothing has value or meaning,” he said, like a candle that refuses a label.

Now I’m sure.

He’s either a Philosopher, or a worshiper of some demon, like two paths under the same fog.

Some say Philosopher and devil are one step apart, like cliff and ledge.

In the end, rulers draw the line, like ink on a map.

In the Silver Era, the rulers are the Divine Beings, and they won’t back this thought, like sun refusing night.

The fine liquor in my mouth went flat, like a blossom without scent.

Good.

A sharp discussion is tastier than steady wine, like spice on a simple dish.

“Then tell me this,” I said, like setting a board for go.

“Tomorrow I fight the academy’s two-man finals in the Martial Festival, like thunder over an arena.

I’ll face a rival in love and in arms, like twin blades crossing.

Even if I don’t win the beauty, we’ll prove our strength over the other, like banners higher on the wall.

You think that too is meaningless?”

“Meaningless, yes, meaningless,” he said, like rain repeating on tiles.

“Hey…” I said, like a spark biting my tongue.

“Things just happen and exist,” he said, calm as a lake.

“They hold no meaning or value by themselves, like stones in a riverbed.

Humans slap meaning on them and grant value, like paint on wood.

It’s just talking to ourselves,” he said, like wind past an empty shrine.

“By that, you deny all of humanity,” I said, like a blade testing a whetstone.

“Not so.

Humanity itself is meaningless, like dust under stars.

But from valueless, meaningless things, we pull out meanings that belong only to us, like pulling silk from cocoons.

That is humanity.

That is the proud human,” he said, like a bell rung in a quiet hall.

He spoke quietly and evenly, like snow falling in a courtyard.

I felt doubt, like a cloud snagged on a peak.

A hundred years of knowledge doesn’t equal wisdom, like books that never leave the shelf.

I’m no great mind in philosophy, like a sword unused in debate.

So I asked straight:

“Wait, I’m not following,” I said, like stepping on a loose plank.

“Are you praising humans or dumping on them? Don’t play coy,” I said, like flicking a fan closed.

“Neither praise nor dump,” he said, like weighing fruit in his palm.

“Mm… call the center of my thought ‘equality.’ Can you grasp that?” he asked, like laying out a compass.

“Equality as in ‘all are born equal’?” I said, like tracing a motto on a gate.

“Broader,” he said, like opening a map to the sea.

“Above and below, strong and weak, one and two—absolute equality,” he said, like placing stones on a scale.

“...That’s just crazy,” I said, like a spark spit from iron.

I can’t understand it; not that I don’t get the words, like lines clear on paper.

I can’t grasp why such a thought exists, like a bridge to mist.

“An example,” he said, like a teacher chalking a line.

“What do you think of my music?”

“It’s great, beautiful to hear, like spring water over rock.

Otherwise I wouldn’t buy you a drink,” I said, like tipping a jug.

“But against gods and demons?” he asked, like a shadow pointing at the moon.

“One song can cleanse all filth, or seduce mortals to fall, like incense that turns hearts.

They can play the sacred or the profane directly, like fire or ice from bare hands.

Mortal limits sit here, like a fence in tall grass.

We can’t grasp everything,” he said, like a blindfold tied firm.

“That kind of comparison is pointless,” I said, like waving smoke aside.

“So, is it fair to bite down on the claim that mortals can’t surpass the Divine Being?” he asked, like a net thrown too wide.

“That the chosen will always beat the plain supporting cast?” he asked, like a script written in stone.

“So just don’t compare?

How do you prove you can surpass gods or demons?” I asked, like a drumbeat under storm.

“No need to rank everything,” he said, like taking a step off a dais.

“I just need to show that strong and weak, up and down, aren’t absolute,” he said, like water finding a crack.

He shook his head and asked for another drink, like a reed bending for more wind.

“Ah, right. The only meaningful comparison to me is free will,” he said, like a flame standing steady.

“What’s your definition of ‘free will’?” I asked, like carving a character into bamboo.

A new term again; my head hasn’t heard fresh ideas in ages, like a drum long unstruck.

So I listened gladly, to this heretical tune, like a night bird savoring moonlight.

“Literal,” he said, like a door opened without flourish.

“The ability to think freely.

The ability to choose freely.

Unaffected by a Divine Being’s decision, decided by the self alone, like a seed choosing where to root.

Funny enough, the only meaningful thing to compare has no way to be compared,” he said, like a horizon without markers.

“What’s that good for?” I asked, like tossing a pebble into deep water.

“Generally, it’s useless,” he said, like a smile that doesn’t warm tea.

“But I think it’s the greatest gift the Creator gave humans,” he said, like handing fire to the first night.

“The greatest gift? Not life and body?” I asked, like weighing gold in both palms.

“It’s freedom,” he said, like a window thrown open.

“A Divine Being urges you to follow his doctrine, like a river urging toward the sea.

But he didn’t stop you from worshiping the devil,” he said, like a fork in the road left unblocked.

“This world has Inquisitors, made to kill the devil’s faithful,” I said, like iron on iron.

“But before you’re killed, you still have the freedom to believe, like a candle lit before wind.

The Divine Being didn’t root out the thought ‘I might believe in a devil’ from the source,” he said, like leaving one wildflower in a yard.

“...”

I went silent, like a cliff swallowing sound.

I’d never considered that.

I know very well that Wisdom God Haydon could do such a thing, like a scribe rewriting a book.

Head has his reasons, like currents under ice.

But think about it: if he just planned mortal thought to save the world, wouldn’t that be more efficient, like a road laid straight?

To blur light and dark, to carry the world into the next era, Head made unimaginable sacrifices, like a tree bleeding resin.

His power’s enough to change mortal thought into the future’s shape, like carving jade to pattern.

So… why not?

Is it really like he said—granting mortals freedom, like releasing birds from a cage?

How laughable!

Is my nemesis that magnanimous, like a mountain bowing to grass?

No way I’ll admit such a petty guy beat me, like thunder beaten by a drum.

“...Other than free will, everything else is mixed with others’ will, more or less,” he said, like tea tinged by the pot.

“So they’re unfit for comparison, like mirrors fogged by breath.”

“No.

At least strong and weak have meaning to compare, like boulders and pebbles in a stream.

At least status differs,” I said, still angry, like fire in dry reeds.

I stood and slammed the table, and wine splashed, like rain off a ledge.

“You’re right,” he said, like a reed agreeing with wind.

He didn’t react much.

He raised a fist and gave me a punch, like a hammer wrapped in cloth.

Heavy enough to hurt, not enough to inflame, like a bruise blooming under skin.

“That stings,” I said, like salt on a cut.

“Good,” he said, like a nod in shadow.

“That’s a weakling’s punch.

Pain means it has effect, like a thorn drawing blood.

If it has effect, it proves the weak can beat you,” he said, like a seed cracking stone.

“How would that slow punch land in a real fight?” I said, like wind slipping past a blunt blade.

“It’s only possibility,” he said, like a lantern guarding a spark.

“I only ask for the possible.”

I didn’t like that slippery phrasing, like an eel in the hand.

I skimmed his mana circuits, like a hawk tracing thermals, ready to laugh that envy drives his talk, like smoke from a green fire.

“You’re kidding,” I said, like a door thrown wide.

But his talent left me speechless, like a bell struck clean.

On mana circuits alone, he might surpass Stini, like a taller peak behind a known ridge.

Yet his mana’s untrained, with only life force, like a muscle left to sleep.

“You… you’ve got absurd talent,” I said, like finding a gem in mud.

“Why not train magic? Why waste it, like water poured on sand?”

“Ah, that’s my personal creed,” he said, like a path refused at the fork.

“I’ve always believed strength isn’t everything, like a scale missing one pan.

But you can sense my circuits?

Looks like you’re in the ranks of the strong,” he said, like a lantern seeing lantern.

He glanced at me with thin feeling in his eyes and smile, like winter sun over stone.

“No, not just strong.

You’re the protagonist, right?

The lead of a legend?

Nice.

Impressive.

Your life must be vivid,” he said, like flags on a high tower.

I’m bad at reading eyes, like a traveler at strange stars.

But this time I knew his inner gaze held nothing, like an empty well.

That’s the deepest impression from our talk, like a mark pressed into wax.

No envy, no want, like a lake without ripples.

Everything seems ‘whatever’ to him, inside and out, like faded ink.

One drink, and I’d struck gold, like a pan catching a nugget.

“You could say that,” I said, like wind flicking prayer ribbons.

“I’m happy living.

I’m happy because I have power, like a boat with oars on a wide river.

With power comes the ability to act, like legs on a road.

It’s not that I have a set mission, like a script burned in.

It’s that when I want to do something, I can, like a gate open when I knock.

That’s the happiest thing,” I said, like sunlight on my back.

“Mm, true,” he said, checking the clock, like an eye on a sundial.

It wasn’t time for his set yet, like clouds before rain.

“When a girl’s in trouble, you help, like a hand catching a falling kite.

When a nation’s in crisis, you uphold it, like a pillar in a storm.

That’s a free life.

Doing what you want is joyful,” he said, like a mountain breathing out.

“Yeah.

Some say if you can do everything as you wish, you become a god,” I said, like counting beads.

“Mm-hmm,” he said, like a low drumbeat in fog.

We kept drinking.

The shared silence felt good, like a hearth without talk.

We could’ve waited like that until closing, like stars sliding behind roofs.

But I hadn’t heard the answer I wanted most, like a fish refusing the hook.

I wasn’t satisfied yet tonight, like a moon not full.

“Alright, after all that, one question,” I said, like a knife finally drawn.

“Do you want to become a god?

The all-capable god you just described,” I asked, casual as tossing a pebble into a brook.