People can never understand one another; like stars in different skies, they never align.

The Construct flared gold-red, clack-clack like heated iron, taking shape within his “Rapid Alchemy” sigil that pulsed like a dawn wheel.

That line struck him out of nowhere, like a cold wind through reeds.

No reason? His chest tightened—there’s no such thing as no reason.

As an alchemist chasing first causes, he let his restless heart backtrack, like a river winding to its spring.

The Fishfolk have a gift—Remembrance. The Lunarfolk can sense their last moonrise; the Fishfolk never forget, memory held like pearls in deep water.

Their souls differ from the Primordial Nine Races. They store memories in the marrow of spirit; when needed, they rise like fish to the surface.

Why? Why did that thought surface now? Curiosity pricked him like thorns.

The Construct neared completion. The gold-red fire sharpened, clear as crystal. It washed his face; his clouded eyes narrowed like drawn knots.

As a child among the Fishfolk, he blazed with talent. Voices surrounded him like waves. One line bit deep: “This child is favored by the Divine Beings.”

Divine Beings?

He earned his achievements with callused hands. Why call it a divine favor?

At first, he wasn’t angry, only bothered, like grit under the lid. Then more talk of the Divine drifted in like mist.

“The herded fish were eaten by monsters—must be a trial from the Divine Beings.”

“Father died—never mind, it’s the will of the Divine Beings.”

There weren’t many such lines, but they lodged like fishbones.

Why must the Divine define everything?

Why must all be the will of the Divine?

He wasn’t foolish. He knew you shouldn’t ask such things aloud. He was beyond the age for naive questions.

So he chose himself. Let mortals, with mortal hands, cut their own fate. He forged Construct after Construct, bred magitech like sparks, until his worth shone for all.

The Fishfolk chose him as their brightest inventor, a once-in-a-century talent. At the award for a world-shifting magitech, he thought his wish had landed; a mortal had seized his future.

Then he heard his work called “a gift from the Divine.” Shock hit like a dropped hammer; the trophy slipped and shattered like ice.

Why does everything belong to the Divine Beings?

Amid laughter like warm rain, he wore a mask too. This is the last day, he told himself, swallowing nausea like bitter tea.

From that day, he—the most brilliant Arcane Engineer of the Fishfolk, direct blood of their Sorcerer Emperor, Nagash—left home like a gull breaking from its bay, and flew to the human nations, where magitech burned brightest.

Later, he joined the Truth Seekers Assembly, a school gathering those who resist gods gripping mortal throats. They study magitech, hoping one day mortals can write their own weather.

The first feeling of finding home glowed like lanterns in memory.

Then what? Why did he now feel “humans can never understand each other”?

Right—months ago, a girl named Raven joined by a friend’s invite. As chair, he glanced at her work, a stray gust through his study.

Hasty, raw, crude lines, fantasies with no footing, designs that flip the world—on and on like tangled vines. Awful. He’d seen countless rookies. They think their first spark is lightning. Maybe later. Not yet. Train longer.

Duty held him like a bridle. He read to the end. Only then did he see how her talent opened like a sea cave—vast, black, and full of singing.

He thought the Assembly marched forward under his lead, nearing the day to topple the Divine. Raven’s drafts showed him his grand edifice was a sandcastle.

No one else saw it. Even he, a lifer in magitech, caught only a single flash—one hawk’s glance—of the world behind those bare-bones sketches.

Clack-clack snapped off, like a cut string, breaking his Remembrance. He jolted back. The Construct still needed its final touch.

Too late now. He moved with peak Arcane Engineer craft, salvaging what he could like a surgeon in a storm.

As expected, this overturning thing bites old bones. He gave a bitter smile and hid his scorched hand in his robe’s shadow, sparing his rushing assistant the sight.

“Master, what… did Rapid Alchemy fail?”

“I’ve never made this kind of thing. Some parts might’ve failed.”

“Master, that’s a little girl’s casual piece. Don’t wreck your body to fix it…”

“Never! That’s humanity’s hope! Don’t call it trash!”

He jolted like a thorn-prick and roared, voice like a struck gong.

If Raven’s masterpiece is trash, then what are his achievements? Dregs on a riverbed?

“Okay, it’s good stuff. Please, Master, calm down. I’ll mark it as a pass.”

“It’s not that. It’s not… you don’t get it. You don’t get anything.”

Her sad eyes met his like two rains. He could only answer with the same wet weather.

Humans can never understand one another. The thought settled like ash.

Ah. There’s the answer.

The gap between genius and the average always yawns, two worlds apart, the gulf a chasm you can’t bridge.

Like his folk back home, who couldn’t grasp his genius. They could only look up like villagers to a mountain. Facing Nandu-grade hardships, they wished for a wiser, stronger hand.

So he was lonely. He held ideals like lanterns, visions like maps, with no one to share the fire. Others only echoed and nodded like bobbing reeds.

This time, it was his turn to look up.

He shook his head and pressed down sorrow like a lid. He unlocked the arcanic seal on the central showcase and lifted another Construct like lifting a relic.

He placed both Constructs on one testing rig, set them against each other like twin stallions.

He knew the answer already, but he couldn’t stop his hands, a moth circling flame.

He no longer hoped to surpass Raven. He only wanted to measure the distance, a horizon in numbers.

The machine rumbled like thunder. The result fell exactly as foreseen, a stone in the gut.

When your effort and your crown get erased, what does it feel like? He had wondered. He knew you can’t stay peak forever in magitech. He never thought the dusk would fall this fast.

He snatched his once priceless Construct, hurled it to the floor, and stomped like breaking a snake.

“Trash, trash, trash, trash!”

“Master, what are you doing? Please, come back!”

The assistant hugged him from behind, crying like rain on tiles.

He stilled. He patted her hand, a quiet wave, saying he was calm.

She loosened, half convinced, standing guard, afraid of another flare-up.

He knelt and gathered the shards, cradling them like a newborn. His arms were soft; his breath trembled like a reed.

“Lily, do you know? This was my peak, my most loved work—my child. I used the finest materials, spent all my gift, pushed output to the edge.”

“You…”

“But it still can’t match Raven’s idle design. Even her half-finished piece eclipses my masterpiece.”

Tears slipped out like untrained horses. He didn’t want to break before his assistant. He couldn’t dam the flood.

When you must admit you have nothing, that you’re worthless, despair surges like a black tide and swallows the mind.

“No, that’s not it, Master. I saw Miss Raven’s work too. It’s a clumsy Construct!”

“That’s why I say you don’t understand… Strip the immature shell, and it’s a perfect jewel. Raven lacks only experience; she has everything else.”

“Master…”

“How is Raven now?”

He reset himself like a blade, stood, and asked the practical question.

“She… submitted another piece. Still clumsy—no, hard to parse. And the large Construct design ‘Godslayer Weapon’ got destroyed. She piloted it unauthorized and fought the Demon King. What should we do?”

“Tell her we gathered plenty of data. No self-blame. Anything else?”

“No… Master, must you carry out this plan? You’ll die.”

“If I don’t die, that’d be the flaw.”

He wiped his face with a handkerchief, a bitter smile like winter sun.

“An old man dropped by the times should leave the stage. If I can blaze one legend and spark a prairie fire among mortals, that’s enough. Here—take this.”

He went to his desk and drew out a notebook like a seed from a husk.

“This is my life’s experiments, my ledger. Give it to Raven. Let her grow faster.”

“Yes.”

“Raven’s drafts look slapdash at first glance. Give her time and chances.”

“Yes.”

“Better tell her straight—her importance, why we care, the weight she bears.”

“…Yes.”

“Don’t be so reluctant. After I’m gone, you must protect Raven. She’s humanity’s hope.”

“If that’s your will.”

He set a hand on her shoulder, solemn as stone.

“Lily, if you truly follow me, protect Raven. When the Heretic Inquisition attacks, guard her even if it costs your life.”

“I swear loyalty to you, not to Raven.”

“Raven is the continuation of my dream—the ideal shape of it.”

Her face still winced, eyes ready to spill. After a quiet, she nodded, firm as a tied knot.

“Thank you, then, Lily.”

He felt a boulder lift from his chest. His face looked younger, like dawn after storm.

“I can die in peace.”