This time, Parotti didn’t step through the final door with us; he stood at the threshold like a tree that chose its roots over the wind.

Not coming with us, to see the end? I asked, voice low as dusk mist.

Parotti only shook his head, like a lantern dimming before dawn.

“That’s enough. I’m no hero, just an ordinary scholar. I can’t bear another friend’s death,” he said, voice thin as paper in rain.

After all, I’m only a guide. He added with a crooked smile, like a cracked mask still worn.

I nodded and pushed open the last door, palms cold as river stones.

Beyond lay no shadowed corridor, but a wavering space where light bent like fish under water.

“Go on. This is our last sanctum, the Truth Seekers Assembly’s final secret. Lili and Raven are waiting for you there,” he said, each word falling like beads.

“Oh.” I stepped forward, and rings like water rippled in the air; my next step landed on something solid, like finding a shore in fog.

“Thanks, Parotti,” I said, the words light as ash and heavy as iron.

“Don’t thank me. I’m one of those robbed of what I loved, who hates you heroes,” he said, bitterness like old tea.

Is that so? Either way, everything ends today, I said, calm as snowfall.

“True. Death embraces all things in this world,” he answered, like a bell struck in an empty hall.

I nodded to him and motioned Stini on; my hand cut the air like a quiet blade.

No hesitation, no regret, no penance; just keep walking, like a river that won’t look back.

First came the stars. Then ranks of orderly construct machines. And… that alien blade Nagash once summoned, “God-Not-Holy,” gleaming like a forbidden prayer.

Above, below, front and back—nothing but the sea of stars; we floated in a boundless firmament, pure darkness pricked with light like ice on velvet.

Beauty beyond good and evil swelled like a great tide, and it took my breath like a hand to the throat.

I haven’t seen it in so long—the Earthen Age sky, wide as a memory that never learned to fade.

The Silver Era has stars too, but they’re the gods’ estates; mortals could only gaze from the ground, never reach that “highest” air, let alone this vista.

I’m guessing… Head kept in touch with the Truth Seekers Assembly for a long time; this outer panorama is likely Earthen Age texture he showed them, like a painted skin stretched on a world.

If I were Head, planning to bury my own ally, I’d also help those who resist a Divine Being; a knife cuts truer with a second edge.

“Where are we, Miss Lili?” Stini asked, voice a pebble skipping.

“Call me Liqibela. This might be another world, or a seam in time, or a place outside fate, above the gods. I don’t know,” she said, as calm as a still lake.

“The view outside… did Nagash build it?” I asked, each word testing the air like a hand through smoke.

“You can tell it’s constructed? Not bad. To stay composed and analyze while staring at this… you’re the first I know,” she said, praise sharp as a quill.

Lili—Liqibela sat straight in her chair, poise like a drawn bow; she even smacked Raven’s forehead when she tried to lunge at us, then made her keep reciting.

“I need a little more time. Could you wait a bit?” she said, voice steady as a metronome.

“But the Heretic Inquisitor won’t wait for you,” I said, the name falling like a cold coin.

“No problem. The Hall of Truth’s remaining personnel and the defense barrier are all in my calculations. We have at least fifty minutes. Sit anywhere, but don’t go further in. This is the Truth Seekers Assembly’s secret ground,” she said, steel hidden in silk.

She pushed up her glasses, the gesture crisp as a tick of glass on glass; confidence made the edge sound clean, not harsh.

“Lili, did something happen?” Raven asked, worry fluttering like a trapped sparrow.

“Call me Liqibela!” she snapped, the syllables like a ruler rapping a desk.

Liqibela went back to coaching Raven through ciphered structures—likely some legacy, a way to decode sealed documents; her voice wove like thread.

Raven pulled a face at us. Stini finally relaxed and sat, a little stiff, like a student on the first day. I shrugged and sat too, bones settling like stacked books.

I checked the magitech core in my arms, sent mana into it, tried to read it; the current ran like ink through grain.

As expected—cipher. A heap of scrambled signs, a thorn thicket for the eyes.

While I was testing an eleventh decoding method in my head, Stini sidled close and nudged my ribs with her elbow; pain bloomed like a quick spark.

She really knows how to hurt just enough to stop short of anger; precision like a tailor’s snip.

But she leaned on my shoulder, soft and warm as fresh bread; I let the complaint drift like smoke.

“Hey, Andor, you think Raven knows we’re going to kill Liqibela?” she whispered, voice under a leaf.

“Obviously—she doesn’t. Liqibela’s hiding a lot from her, even the battle outside. Raven probably has no idea how dangerous her spot is,” I said, words quiet as coals.

Otherwise, that smile of hers wouldn’t look so wholehearted; sunlight doesn’t fake warmth.

We whispered, and Raven kept peeking, her round, pouty face puffing rounder like a steamed bun.

“So… what do we do later? Raven’s not a kid who can kill,” Stini murmured, worry hanging like morning fog.

Right, she and Raven have that childhood-friend setup; grew up together, both carrying a bit of country dust in their light.

Kind, sunny, trusting in love and peace—two lilies growing by the same ditch.

But Raven’s a top student; that part lazybones Stini can’t copy, no matter how many notebooks she buys.

“No choice. She has to face it. I can do the earlier ones, but this one—Liqibela—Raven must do it herself,” I said, each word a stone on a scale.

“Or else you can’t explain it to the Heretic Inquisition?” she asked, head tilting like a curious finch.

“Stini, stop. Let me handle this,” I said, voice flat as a blade laid down.

I cut a corner off my coat with my sword, wiped the blood from the Holy Sword, and handed it back to Stini; the cloth drank red like thirsty earth.

“The blood’s on me. You just hold the sword. When we go back, stay glued to Raven and tell the world she helped us—she’s a hero,” I said, a plan like scaffolding.

“If you need to bathe or sleep… crash at my place. Stini, you must stand as a hero at her side,” I added, like a stake in ground.

“Or what?” she asked, head cocked, eyes like wet glass.

“Nothing ‘or.’ I’ll explain later. Don’t ask now. The more you know, the easier it is to fail at saving Raven,” I said, sealing the box.

“Mm… okay,” she said, consent a small nod.

She took the Holy Sword and tried to sheath it; the blade suddenly weighed her hand down like winter water, and surprise flickered across her face.

“Was it always this heavy?” she asked, breath catching like a hiccup.

“That’s the weight justice brings,” I said, feigning distance like a closed fan.

The Holy Sword had already started rejecting Stini—rejecting her “injustice”; its judgment was cold as iron.

Even if you deem your deeds “reasonable” and “right,” this world—and the justice the Holy Sword recognizes—denies your stance; the verdict falls like frost.

Evil may tolerate neutrality and those outside the frame; justice doesn’t. It rejects all deviation, calls even small shifts a sin; its harshness cuts like winter wind.

Understand it soon. Or don’t. Or refuse. In the days ahead, you must think, and find an answer—escape, endure, or rebel; choose your own mountain.

Until then, I’ll wait in quiet, like a lantern with patient oil.

Dozens of minutes passed quick as sand through fingers; time hummed like a taut string.

After about half an hour, Liqibela ended the lesson, closed the book, and handed several sorted stacks to Raven; they slipped into her space ring like birds into a nest.

“That’s all,” she said, dusting her palms like sealing a box.

Liqibela clapped, and a rare smile touched her mouth, soft as tea steam.

She drew out a ritual blade she had prepared long ago, held it with both hands, and solemnly offered it to Raven; the steel lay across her palms like moonlight.

“Take it. It’s our custom in the Truth Seekers Assembly. When a teacher deems a student worthy, they give a sword—mithril from the Eastern mountains, forged by a dwarven master, crowned with my best enchantment,” she said, pride steady as a drumbeat.

“For me?” Raven asked, awe bright as frost.

“It’s Teacher Nagash’s final masterpiece, crafted for you… Sharper than the finest katana, lighter than the thinnest dagger, sturdier than the heaviest Greatsword. Even an alchemist can wield it,” she said, each comparison a rung on a ladder.

“But… Lili, that’s too precious!” Raven protested, heart flaring like a match.

“Then keep working. Not to join the Truth Seekers Assembly…” Liqibela glanced at me, then corrected herself. “No. Just keep walking the road of magitech. That will honor your teacher’s faith.”

She added, like a pin at the end of a ribbon, “And call me Liqibela.”

“But the way you say it, it sounds like…” Raven began, words stumbling like loose beads.

“Sorry to cut the touching talk,” I stood and gave a perfunctory clap, like knocking snow from sleeves. “What Miss Lili meant was: ‘As magitech advances, people will one day find the courage to speak with the gods; otherwise it fails Nagash’s regard for Raven.’ Right?”

“Mr. Andor, what are you getting at?” Liqibela pushed her glasses back, voice cooling like shade. “And why are you calling me Lili too? Call me Liqibela.”

“The ones we met earlier called you that,” I said, letting the word fall like a leaf.

“I’ll scold them later… But what do you mean, Mr. Andor?” she asked, eyes like needles.

“Nothing. Just making the subtext plain. Will you deny it?” I asked, holding her gaze like a mirror.

Language carries power; my father, Head, Ferrel, and that musician whose name I never learned—all said so; words shape fate like wind shapes dunes.

And nothing is stronger than last words; they stick like iron under the skin.

Liqibela wasn’t wrong, but a simple kid like Raven might carry her phrasing as intent, and twist it into “living for someone’s final wish,” a chain disguised as blessing.

In the Silver Era’s dragon-tongue, “shackle” and “power” differ by one last breath; it’s easy to inhale the wrong syllable.

Strength from obsession also cages you in that obsession; the loop tightens like a noose made of silk.

I honor free will; I respect others’ thought and fixations. But how much interference is still fair? For me, Liqibela’s already stepped out of bounds.

So I corrected it—turned the insides out and let Raven see the weave; truth is best in daylight.

“…Heh,” Liqibela laughed under her breath, a low tremor rippling through her like wind through tall grass.

“All right. Yes, that’s what I meant. After this, Raven, think for yourself. I’ve done all I should. The rest—of the world—has nothing to do with me,” she said, laying the burden down like a traveler’s pack.

“Then, Miss Lili… Miss Liqibela, now you should say…” I began, words cupped like water.

“Ah, about that—give me a moment, okay? My whims don’t matter, but… please, a little time to dress,” she said, voice softening like dusk.

“The Heretic Inquisition…” I warned, the name like thunder far off.

Her tone grew rare and gentle, like a brushstroke lightening. Someone tugged my coat; I turned and saw Stini pleading at me with her eyes, like rain beading on glass.

I sighed, breath a white plume. “Fine. If time allows… I don’t mind.”

“No problem! Your partner is reliable. We still have twenty minutes. That’s enough,” Liqibela said, timing crisp as a bell.

Raven asked, baffled, her words tilting like a kite: “Um, did something happen?”

“Yeah. We need you to kill Liqibela,” I said, the truth placed like a blade on silk.

“Why! Why kill her! Lili’s a good person!” she cried, the protest bright and raw as a fresh cut.

“Because… put simply, the Heretic Inquisitor wants your head; you’ll need someone else’s—say, the leader of the Heretic Inquisition—to buy your life,” I said, hands spread like empty plates.

I laid out the situation to Raven like a map on a table: her current danger, the Assembly’s state, Nagash and Maki’s status.

I left out Head’s part, tucked away like a letter never sent.

“So I have to kill Lili? No. There must be another way. There has to be!” she said, hope flaring like a lantern in wind.

A normal reaction for someone who lived well and suddenly learned the world calls her a criminal, and only her mentor’s head can save her; grief thrashes like a netted fish.

But for the moment—and for a hero—it’s a failing grade; sooner or later, the mountain teaches the climber what ice feels like.

Raven can shout and cry, but in the end, the current pulls one way; she must kill Liqibela, feel the weight of it, and keep living.

Live on, and find joy again, like grass after fire.

Raven argued with Stini at the side—noise without lines, emotion without a ladder; I sat back down, picked up a fruit, and bit in, juice bright as a small sun.

I had just cut down a few heroes; steel still sang in my bones.

My gut felt like someone kept stirring it with Heaven’s Jade Spear.

My throat burned dry, as if lit from within.

Hunger gnawed, savage and endless.

I wanted meat still warm, or wine drawn fresh from the cask.

My blood ran wild; a dark sea inside me heaved and crashed.

I grabbed some fruit; its cool sweetness fell like rain on ash, and I steadied.

I don’t know how long passed before Liqibella stood before us again.

To my surprise, she wore a wedding gown, white as new snow.

She held lilies, pale moons gathered in her hands.

She reached out to me, a hesitant smile like spring testing the frost tugging at her lips.

“Could you... please... stand on my right?”