Bitcho flicked his shoulder with a nonchalant smirk. The smirk wasn't just arrogance—it was an ancient mischief, the kind that knew far more than it ever let on. His eyes glinted with a mocking kind of light, the kind that made people question what was real.
"Stop it," Bitcho drawled, voice silked in irony. "You really think it's not Najiro?"
The air thickened.
Subhadip's eyes narrowed like twin blades sliding into place. His voice sliced through the murmurs—sharp, bitter, and wounded.
"Quit joking around, you tyrant," he hissed. "You knew his real face all along, didn't you? You played us."
Whispers fluttered like leaves in a monsoon. Some soft, some brash.
"Yeah... he's right."
"He looks exactly like him."
"That is Najiro..."
Subhadip stumbled back, as if the truth had struck him across the chest. His voice cracked—raw and human, trembling with the weight of betrayal and something deeper: identity.
"Then… if that's true…" he whispered, "Does that mean he can be the god?"
And then—
A hush.
A hiss.
A click.
A mechanical sigh filled the space as Najiro's hand rose—slow and deliberate—and peeled away the illusion that cloaked his face. The crowd watched, eyes wide as eternity.
Underneath the mask…
Was Subhadip.
His own face, mirrored back to him like a prophecy torn from time.
"No…" Subhadip shook his head, voice hoarse like burnt parchment. "No, I'm not the god. Not even the son of one... I'm just—"
Silence. A silence so perfect it screamed.
And then—
"I say he is the real god."
The voice rang through the stillness like a cathedral bell echoing through winter air.
Heads turned, all at once. Even Bitcho's smirk twitched, faltering.
She stepped forward.
A vision in sleek black, her coat swirling like storm clouds stitched in velvet. Power hummed from her like a silent thunderstorm, demanding reverence without raising her voice.
Aleksandra Szczęsny.
Her name alone made the stars hesitate.
Member of the elite Korliop.
Governor of CirantanaAi.
Heiress of the third richest family in the multiverse.
And only 17 multiversal years old—a mere breath older than Subhadip.
She didn't smile. She rarely did. Instead, her gaze fixed on Subhadip like she was looking not at him, but through him—into a destiny forged before language itself.
"If that's true," she said coolly, "then why is your potential four times Najiro's? The God's power is barely half of what you're capable of. You... are the one and only one."
Subhadip's breath caught in his chest.
From behind, a softer voice broke through the weight of divinity.
"I believe in you," Himiko whispered, eyes glistening, "So… please make yourself useful."
Bitcho frowned, as if something sacred had been upended.
"Isn't it wrong?" he asked. "This much power in one person… isn't that always dangerous?"
Subhadip looked at him, eyes no longer trembling. They glowed now—quietly, purely, undeniably.
"I told you," he said, his voice full of thunder held in glass. "The prophecy was rewritten. And why are you so concerned, Bitcho? Unless…" He leaned in slightly, aura swelling, "Are you the one?"
Reshuro stepped out from the side like a dusk-shadow given form.
"If that is true," he murmured, "then I may now have truly become able… to speak your name."
Subhadip turned to him. Calm. Steady.
"If you call me god, then follow Eienism—my philosophy. Not just belief. Understanding. Harmony."
The quiet warmth of lamplight glowed in the high glass chamber, filtered through blue curtains that made the world feel slower. The room smelled faintly of lemon oil and old paper—a mix of elegance and calculation.
Aleksandra sat at the polished obsidian table, her coat draped on the side like a sleeping panther. Subhadip sat opposite her, still processing the unfolding of too many truths.
Najiro leaned on the window sill, moonlight touching his shoulder. Himiko sat beside Subhadip, her presence like silk wrapped around steel.
"I want to offer you a place in my party," Aleksandra began.
Subhadip raised an eyebrow. "I thought Korliop was your party."
Aleksandra shook her head. "Korliop is Congress. Neutral. My party is Kla—'Klesturo Lage Anal.' In Rankintish, it means The Party of People."
Subhadip laughed softly. "Sounds like a club more than a party."
She allowed a flicker of amusement. "Maybe. But it's going to lead the next Klejov—our elections."
"But why me?"
"Because," she said, folding her hands, "I'll lose my post as Governor next year. Reservation policy. You're the successor. If you run independently, we lose control. If you join Kla, we hold the heart of power."
Subhadip was quiet. Then—
"And... Himiko's in your party?"
"She's one of our top members," Aleksandra replied.
Subhadip looked at Himiko in shock. "You never told me."
Himiko gave a small, almost apologetic smile. "There were things you had to learn on your own."
Aleksandra added, "Also, our family's firm—Alek Group—is the top business partner of Traveler's Co.. Which… you co-founded. Remember?"
"That's not coincidence," Najiro muttered. "That's design."
Subhadip narrowed his eyes. "And you? You'd rather I start my own?"
Najiro nodded. "Yes. Because I can't. Not as a member of the Seal Clan or the Hyakuyan line. You can."
Subhadip sighed. "Then maybe I will—"
Aleksandra cut in, voice crystalline.
"You won't."
He looked at her, startled.
She stood, her expression shifting. A heavy truth about to be dropped.
"The Seal Clan signed a pact with our family. The prophesied Subhadip—you—was to marry the descendant of our line. Me."
"What?" Subhadip whispered, as if someone had pulled the floor from beneath his feet.
"We paid 328728292020 million kreds. A non-reversible deal. An alliance marriage. Political. Strategic. Unavoidable."
"I'm sorry," Subhadip said, standing. "But I love someone else."
Aleksandra's gaze stayed still. "This has nothing to do with love. You don't have to love me. Just… marry me."
Himiko watched quietly, expression unreadable.
Subhadip outranked her. She had no right to speak.
But her eyes—oh, her eyes—screamed a thousand silences.
Aleksandra stepped down that day.
No longer Governor.
Just a party member.
An elite mind in the Ministry of Being Rights.
But she would wait.
Because she believed…
That fate was not a thing you found.
It was a thing you became.