By the way, Abigail—don’t use that legendary magic. It burns like dry leaves in an autumn wind.

Abigail, about to leave the tavern, paused mid-step and looked back at me, confusion hanging like fog.

You know, in the mortal realm you pick “knowing” or “doing,” not both. The more you see, the less you can move—like a tipped scale.

What do you mean? Her voice fell like a pebble into a well.

Your eyes—what did they see, and what storm did they hold?

…

If it were your own magic, I’d let it pass. But that longsword named “Vigil”—I’ve seen it before.

In the Western Pioneer Gardens, I found a recording stele, and I saw someone wield that blade, like lightning carved in stone.

It’s normal others used it besides me; I didn’t forge it, like a river that lets many drink.

That was the sword’s first master. He… he wasn’t from this era.

The last age? When the Creator still lived?

Yes. He was the greatest Hero, fate’s lord, heaven’s chosen king. No one took a single strike; even mountains and rivers bowed like courtiers.

In his hand burned the strongest power; in his gaze flashed the sharpest light. Wherever he stepped, wasteland turned to royal orchard; whatever he spoke rang as holy truth.

So what. Her tone lay flat as a sheathed blade.

Legendary magic burns soul and obsession like an oil lamp. His legendary magic isn’t for just anyone to use, is it?

Not even me? Abigail’s displeasure edged like frost.

Right. You’re chosen by the age, and by Head. But next to the greatest Hero, you don’t measure up—nowhere near.

My dear old man Saster was Andreas’s last gatekeeper at the brink of world’s end. He faced Andreas in full rampage, fought for decades without sleep, and only then fell.

He died on his feet, sword like a banner in a blood wind.

Even before the utter dark, his mind never rotted or stained, like jade kept from grime.

You were chosen by Vigil… but no. You haven’t seen the will in that king’s eyes. He almost stepped beyond mortal bounds. Your soul can’t bear that grandeur.

I lifted my spoon and waved her off, like shooing smoke.

Force power past the soul’s and spirit’s limits, Abigail, and you’ll die—die in pain and despair. You’ve seen that much.

Yeah. So I abandoned the Sacred Sigil Mail, the Codex of Endless Wisdom, the Iron Crown of Thorns. I kept only this sword. I must see. So my legendary magic is “The Fool-King’s Scorching Insight.”

What do you want to see?

The future, right and wrong, justice—so many things, like stars I can’t cup.

Have you seen them now?

Not enough. The answer was thin as winter light.

Seeing means nothing. By the time you see it, nothing can be changed; the river’s already found its bed.

Even so, I must see. I can’t stand to walk on stupid and lost, like mist without wind.

All Heroes and warriors do that. Soldiers never divine their death day; once they know, they won’t charge—like arrows without flight.

…Then I won’t be a Hero. I’ll be a side character. I won’t change a thing. I’ll just watch, like a shadow on a wall.

Then where’s the meaning?

When you—no, when Raven—falls into despair, I can point her a living path, and save her one last time, like a lantern in snow.

Abigail drew a deep breath, his tone solemn as an oath by fire.

…You can’t change the future; once seen, it locks. That’s the seer’s fate. Wait—are you saying…

A seer gets only one true chance to bend fate in a lifetime. I’ll spend that one to save Raven.

…You’ll die.

I’m not Anna, a villain with a hole where feelings should be. I understand love and hate, loyalty and faith, the iron of will, like mountain bone.

So I could only sigh for Abigail. I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t pitying. My heart was a still pond.

Life for life. Fine.

He sighed and spoke softly to me, like night rain.

Andor, I really like Raven.

When she smiles, I’m happy. When she cries, I hurt. I really like her, like spring after frost.

I can’t abandon my country for her. But I can spare this life.

So, Andor, treat Raven well. Don’t let her cry again. What follows, I leave to you, like a sword laid on your palm.

He raised his umbrella, pushed the door, and went out, rain-beads drumming like tiny bells.

——————

So, another win for the bad kid?

That nameless musician sat openly in Abigail’s seat, lifted the martini, and sipped, movements smooth as flowing ink.

It was too fluid, too natural. Until he spoke to me, I didn’t register he was there, like a ghost between beats.

A shallow-colored smile lay on his face like a watercolor wash.

His gestures were put-on yet upright and elegant, like a stage bow in moonlight.

The air around him slowed time, like syrup pouring.

Like a gray shadow in a color cartoon, he fit and didn’t fit, presence both faint and sharp, like a knife under silk.

We need traits to define others, he said: long hair or short, trench coat or jacket, round face or sharp. For me, white lab coat, gray long hair, glasses—those are traits, trapped on the skin.

So… what’s your point?

Traits. Because of traits, you save the world. Because of traits, you win the beauty. Because of traits, you love who you love. Funny, isn’t it?

You’re saying everything develops with a person’s traits?

Yeah. At least in this world, this era. “Person” and “traits” steer the river of events.

What nonsense… the world’s trend erases lone world-changers. People want more stability, no variables, success that’s inevitable.

As you say, a future world saves itself, so no heroes are needed. Then strong traits aren’t needed. People drift dull and become cogs, not “people.” You can picture that world.

You’re going too far, too extreme.

It’s only a possibility, and I only need possibility, like a spark near tinder.

Your personality’s extreme enough.

Extremity is a trait too. I wonder—if I match someone’s traits, can I fully take their place, like a perfect mask?

What do his black pupils reflect? I don’t know; I only feel his will poured into that question, like weight on a scale.

I began to think, slowly, like frost spreading.

If Abigail chooses to save Raven, the branch bends toward snow.

If Abigail also carries an evil soul, the ink would match the paper.

If Abigail stands where I stand, the shadow overlaps mine.

If not Abigail—if a blank person, named Andor, is given a soul and power from darkness—could he replace me, like one star for another?

Hard, maybe. Yet I can believe a being could do it—not a man, a god, like storm over sea.

Worse, that god and I get along like flint and oil.

This question’s dangerous. I might see you soon in the cells of the Heretic Inquisition, like a moth in a jar.

Hahaha, then call it a joke.

It better be.

So today’s conclusion: traits aren’t born; people choose them and think them out. Unreliable, yet controllable. So today, you with “villain” and “rebel,” beat the prince with “steadfast” and “patriotic.”

…How do you know he’s a prince? I didn’t answer. I parried with my doubt, like a blade meeting a blade.

Oh… I guessed. Did I guess right?

Unruffled, unmoved, he kept that pale smile, like winter sun.

…You did. How’d you guess it?

Also traits. From clothes, movements, habits, and speech, I judge a person’s identity, thoughts, choices, and bottom lines.

In the end, it’s guessing: stack possibilities and pick the largest, like stones in a cairn.

I see… impressive.

It’s just a craft mortals can train. Nothing to brag about, like calligraphy practice.

He shook his head; it wasn’t important. The gesture brushed the air like a feather.

I kept eating my ice cream. A question drifted up like steam, and I asked.

By the way, how do you read me? What traits mark my likely path?

He didn’t answer. He watched me quietly, playing with the empty glass like a clear bell.

And he smiled, shallow-colored as always, without ripples, like a cloud that won’t rain.