The Fate We Create
I take a sip of my tea, letting the warmth and slight bitterness settle on my palate as I gaze at the horizon from my office in the ministry. The golden hues of the setting sun spill through the windows, casting a soft glow over every corner, and my thoughts focus on the figure I've imagined so many times—the person who, at last, will arrive today.
On my desk, a pile of documents rests in silence, each one carrying the weight of imminent decisions.
Today, more than ever, I know I must act radically. My methods must change, and the uncertain, looming future demands bold measures. The impending attack on Priestella forces me to take risks—I'll have to leave without my daughter, without the promise of a safe return.
Every step will be immersed in danger, every decision shadowed by death.
And yet, it is that same harsh necessity that drives me forward, because I know with unshakable certainty that the attack is, at its core, premeditated—another move on this chessboard.
A move made by someone I will have to kill in the future.
The novel—that book that has both aided and taken from me—revealed that the archbishops aren't after the candidates, but something far more important. It was easy to deduce that they are searching for a forgotten artifact, a relic left behind by Echidna four hundred years ago.
An object she desires with the same intensity that I need it, for within it lies both the power she seeks and the power I wish to control.
"It'll be useful for making metias..." I murmur; my voice laced with determination as my eyes scan the documents detailing the agreement with the Muse Company to establish a branch in Irlam.
The formality of the contract contrasts with the urgency in my thoughts. Tomorrow, I have a crucial meeting with Anastasia and Felt. That's where plans will take shape, where every decision will forge our path in the crucible of danger.
According to the novel, the attack on Priestella is set to happen around this time. The clock is ticking, and every day becomes more vital.
'It'll take us twelve days to get there,' I reflect, knowing that even if I can't pinpoint the exact moment of the attack, I can't afford to let inertia consume us.
'I can't let so many people die…'
A frustrated sigh escapes my lips as I picture the chaos that could unfold—the same chaos that played out in the novel. The number of people who perished, the countless lives that lost their homes.
'This isn't about defeating them—it's about saving everyone.'
"Shit, if we had a train, this would be so much easier."
My words linger in the air as I run a hand over my face, letting out a heavy breath in the midst of my tension.
At that exact moment, the doors to my office swing open wide, and as if destiny itself had hurried things along, Otto bursts into the room.
"Hermod has arrived!" he exclaims, his voice brimming with excitement as he rushes in. His suit, crisp and accentuated by a striking red tie that contrasts sharply with his silver hair, is the perfect blend of elegance and urgency.
I glance at him with a small smile, remembering how, at another time, I would have instantly shared in his excitement.
But now, responsibility forces me to hold back.
"Relax," I say gently, aware of how many times poor Otto has held this city together, keeping everything afloat even when the storm seemed endless.
If only he knew how much I'll need his reliability when I leave for Priestella.
My poor Minister of Economy is about to be worked to the bone.
I already know what I have to do.
Later, I'll invite him for a drink, and once his mind is free from exhaustion, I'll explain the finer details of the plan.
'What a great boss I am.'
"Why are you smiling like that?" Otto asks, shrugging as if sensing some hidden secret behind my expression—a flicker of hope, or maybe a concealed worry.
"Do you want to grab a drink tonight?" I reply, letting his curiosity fade into the breeze slipping through the doorway.
The slight tilt of his head suggests that, though surprised, he finds the idea appealing.
"No work talk—we should all go. We could book out the tavern. I just need to ask…"
"I'll handle it," Otto interrupts, with the determination of a man who knows the weight of responsibility all too well.
We step out of the ministry, and at the entrance, as the conversation dissolves into the icy breeze of the evening, my thoughts momentarily drift toward trivial matters.
I have a strange feeling.
I look up at the sky, trying to decipher some kind of omen hidden among the clouds, but soon, something else catches my attention. The already freezing air sharpens, and it feels as if a wave of icy snow lashes against my skin.
Fixing my gaze in the direction of the wind, I spot a carriage seemingly forged from white metal—so elegant in its design that it defies the very notion of a medieval world. It's no coincidence. This carriage moves without the aid of a ground dragon, an anomaly that sparks both awe and unease within me.
My eyes widen.
This can't be possible.
I don't particularly care who the passenger is—what truly unsettles me is the carriage itself.
'Do they already have automobiles?'
I wonder in silence, my eyes drawn to its metallic sheen as my hands start to tremble with a mix of anxiety and fascination. Technology seeps into this ever-changing world in subtle ways, challenging the categories I once took for granted.
The carriage moves without an animal, gliding at a steady pace without any jolting. Though medieval in appearance, this world hides glimpses of modernity in its shadows—glimpses that could easily become obstacles in my future plans.
Whatever.
"Welcome to Irlam!" My voice rings out, imposing, like the echo of an inevitable fate, and we bow in respect. The man standing before us is a candidate for the rulership of Gusteko, and from the very first moment, the atmosphere thickens with a nearly tangible presence.
The mana in the air grows denser, as if deliberately asserting its dominance, reminding us that here, he is the one in control. Observing him closely, I notice something extraordinary: his mana is unnaturally pure, almost like that of a spirit.
It flows with a cadence and precision that go beyond mere skill.
This man is a genius.
His golden hair bristles in the wind, framing sharp blue eyes brimming with confidence and authority. With the air of a king, he extends his hand, and in a gesture imbued with mysticism, he summons something like a delicate snowflake, a brief symbol of his dominion.
But then, something unsettling catches my eye. Behind him, like a phantom, the silhouette of a frightened person flickers into view. It's like seeing two souls entwined, two facets of the same being coexisting within a single body.
He doesn't seem to have any companions, which is strange. In a world where power is often accompanied by entourage, his solitude only amplifies his enigmatic presence. Despite possessing a strength capable of making any adversary tremble, arriving alone is almost a declaration in itself—either he fully trusts his abilities, or he prefers to cultivate an aura of mystery.
"It's a pleasure to meet the hero of Lugunica, as well as the owner of the former marquis' lands." With a subtle smile, the summoned snowflake dissolves into the air, and he extends his hand toward mine in a firm yet amicable gesture. "My name is Hermod Novikov."
'Novikov?' I think to myself. 'That sounds Russian.'
I glance at Hermod with curiosity, but I know the time will come to investigate his origins. After all, in this world—where echoes of my homeland surface in unexpected ways—a Russian surname isn't entirely improbable.
I grasp his hand firmly, finding in his gaze an ocean of experience and untold secrets.
"The pleasure is mine. Feel free to consider these lands your own. Later, I'll take you to see the industries." I turn to Otto. "This is my Minister of Economy, who will also be joining us today, Otto Suwen."
Otto bows politely, completing the introductions. The three of us proceed to the meeting hall, a space both austere and elegant, meant for forging alliances and shaping the future. This meeting isn't just about diplomacy—it's about weaving a network of support that benefits both sides.
Once seated, Hermod glances at the wall for a brief moment, making me hesitate. Discreetly, I imbue my eyes with mana to discern any hidden signs, and in that instant, the truth reveals itself.
"Seems like you noticed." He smiles, and suddenly, a figure materializes beside him, leaving behind a faint trail of frozen mana.
Before us stands a woman of striking beauty and commanding presence—a full-blooded elf. Her sharp features and long, elegant ears, significantly longer than Emilia's, contrast with her jet-black hair and a complexion as luminous as snow. Her gaze, a deep ochre, complements her dark locks, while her armor—crafted from the same metal as the carriage—doesn't emit mana. Instead, it absorbs it, channeling the energy with an almost organic fluidity.
"That's an interesting suit of armor," I remark, unable to mask my intrigue.
"My sincerest apologies for the lack of politeness!" she exclaims, bowing in sincere respect.
"No problem. If I were visiting an unfamiliar city, I'd probably do the same," I admit, turning my gaze back to Hermod.
"She is my guardian. Her name is Indis." His tone is casual, which puts me at ease.
'Does he even need a guardian? This man's apparent strength alone seems enough to be a walking disaster.'
As the atmosphere relaxes, we move on to the matter at hand—establishing various contracts. Hermod focuses on the production of steel, the implementation of steam-powered machinery, as well as the industrial loom and the printing press. His priorities are clear: these are the signature products of progress, the foundation for both kingdoms' aspirations.
"Essentially, the flagship goods." I smile, watching as the terms and figures in the contracts—amounting to over a thousand holy coins, payable in monthly installments over a year—align to form a mutually beneficial alliance.
"Also, I'd like to offer you a gift." I ring a bell, and within moments, a servant enters, carrying a typewriter and a metia mirror—tools that promise to keep us connected, regardless of time or distance.
Hermod's eyes light up, genuinely intrigued by the device.
"It's become quite popular among nobles and writers in Lugunica. I'm giving you this as a token of appreciation for hiring our services."
A faint murmur of approval ripples through the room. As I take in the magnitude of the offer, the atmosphere shifts—less tense, more cooperative. It's as if the initial friction has dissolved into the warmth of an amicable exchange.
The magical properties of these armors intrigue me, but this doesn't seem like the right time to ask about them.
"Hermod, now that we've established a business contract, there's something very important I need to ask you."
His expression doesn't change. He keeps smiling, confident.
"Do you know the country of Russia?"
He raises an eyebrow but quickly sighs.
"My last name gives it away. I suppose it's fairly unique." He nods, locking eyes with me. "I'm not Russian, exactly. But the body I inhabit is. For someone from Earth like you, it was only a matter of time before you noticed."
His gaze lingers on us, his demeanor relaxed—like he already knows us, like we're old acquaintances.
'I shouldn't bother asking how he knows about me. This doesn't seem like the time for that.'
"Russia?" Otto asks.
After I explain, his expression hardens even more.
Otto is naturally distrustful. In that, we're alike. But he's much better than me at reading people's intentions. No wonder he's such a great negotiator.
"I'm a spirit possessing this... half-corpse?" His words leave us stunned. "The soul of the original owner was destroyed, but I was already here when it happened. This body was never dead, but its soul is gone."
Otto watches him carefully. His eyes ask the question his mouth doesn't.
"I didn't kill him. He sacrificed his soul to save me." Hermod smiles, then sighs. "He was the son of a World War II soldier. A member of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic of Russia army, transported here during an operation."
Otto shoots me an inquisitive look. The story is strange, but it sounds eerily similar to how I ended up in this world.
Hermod places a hand on the table.
"I'll tell you more later. For now, I'll just say I came here to fulfill a promise."
'A promise?'
"I'm going to tell you how to rescue Beatrice."
He spreads a map across the table, pointing to a red-marked spot.
"It's up to you whether you save her or not. If you want to try, meet me in Pardochia in a month. Right now, entry is impossible—the dense mana makes it lethal for humans. But once the condensation season ends, access will be safe."
He smirks playfully.
"Of course, if you had better control over your mana sensitivity, you wouldn't have to wait."
He gets up, and I react immediately.
"Wait!" I reach out, staring at him in disbelief.
'What the hell is with this guy?' Instead of having a conversation, he just keeps dumping information non-stop. Suddenly talking about saving Beatrice, right after hinting at my power... It's too much, too fast.
But there are things I have to do, no matter how I feel.
"There's something else I want to propose."
His gaze sharpens.
"Oh?"
I meet his eyes.
"A political alliance between potential rulers."
Right then, Emilia enters the room.
The atmosphere shifts. It feels like two powerful forces colliding, the air freezing from the sheer impact. Two icy presences, each trying to be colder than the other.
"I've heard a lot about Candidate Emilia. It's a pleasure."
Hermod takes her hand and places a light kiss on it.
"My name is Hermod Novikov, candidate for the throne of Gusteko."
"The pleasure is mine." Emilia smiles calmly. "My name is Emilia, candidate for the throne of Lugunica."
My heart skips a beat, but I ignore it when I feel Otto's intense stare burning into me.
'I'll kill you if you say anything stupid.'
I meet his gaze, but his eyes glint with amusement.
'Jealous, jealous.'
This idiot thinks I'm some kid who gets affected by a simple hand kiss. What nonsense. It's just a diplomatic gesture; there's no reason for me to feel jealous. Besides, Emilia and I aren't a couple, so it shouldn't matter to me.
'I could kiss her hand whenever I wanted.'
She sits in my spot, directly across from Hermod.
Seeing that Emilia wants to speak, he lets her.
"Go ahead." He smiles confidently.
Emilia clears her throat. "Thank you."
She closes her eyes for a few seconds, thinking, then looks at him firmly.
"Your campaign on freedom intrigues me. I read your proposals in the reports, and I believe we share many ideas."
Emilia leans her arms on the table with determination, her gaze cold and analytical. She's not the same inexperienced girl as before—she's learned how to negotiate, to measure her words, and most importantly, to stand her ground against those who test her.
"What you know about me is what the media says," she begins, her tone calm but firm. "But I need you to understand something: my goal isn't just to rule Lugunica. I want balance, a middle ground. If I strive for peace in my kingdom, I have to ensure other kingdoms prosper too."
My eyes suddenly widen, his manner of expressing himself has taken a complete turn.
I look over at Otto momentarily, who also looks surprised.
'Is she imitating me?'
Hermod smiles, but in an instant, his expression darkens. He raises a hand to stop her.
"I understand your perspective, Candidate Emilia. It's noble… but naive." His tone is no longer friendly—it's heavy. "Gusteko isn't like Lugunica. It's a kingdom walking up a staircase that leads straight into the abyss."
"The church?" I ask, but Hermod shakes his head.
"Odglass, one of the Four Great Spirits." His voice hardens, his hands clenching on the table. "I've spent four hundred years trying to kill her. She created Gusteko's church and its entire religious system. She's the one who appoints the king—or rather, the pope."
I let out a low, incredulous chuckle.
'He's telling us these things like he already knows us. I can't wrap my head around it.'
This man—whatever he actually is—is dead set on doing something insane.
'Killing one of the Four Great Spirits?'
"I will eradicate the church. It should never have existed in the first place," he declares, his gaze drifting toward Indis, who nods with a smile. "Gusteko must change if it wants to survive what's coming."
His statement makes me pause. Gusteko has never been a weak nation. Its warriors are fierce, its spirits powerful, and its magical ore is one of a kind. But if its foundation is rotten, I can understand his point.
"Corruption keeps spring from ever arriving," Hermod murmurs with an enigmatic smile. "Tell me, candidate Emilia, will you make an enemy of an entire nation? Will you stand against one of the Four Great Spirits? That is precisely what I intend to do."
Emilia lowers her gaze, deep in thought.
Her silence is heavy, as if she weighs each word before speaking.
"What makes them evil?" she finally asks. "I don't mean to sound rude, that's not my intention, but... how do you know they're truly the villains?"
I smile at her question. She refuses to be swept away by others' judgments—she needs to understand for herself.
Hermod's eyes widen slightly before his smile turns proud.
"Slavery. Massacres of both humans and spirits alike—in Gusteko, that is just daily life." He pauses, his voice heavy with bitterness. "Information travels slowly in our country due to the extreme climate. The church hides in that silence, doing as it pleases, seizing power, committing acts that will never allow the people to prosper."
'Churches are always the villains in these kinds of stories. It's a little cliché,' I think, though I don't say it aloud.
Though, more than the church, it seems the governing spirit is the real problem.
"But to be honest, that's not what matters most to me," his voice drops, his expression darkening. "My true goal is to kill Odglass. The church is just the executor of that spirit's will."
His finger taps against the map on the table, pointing to the mountains.
"Odglass wants to destroy the seal in Pardochia. That's why he needs to gather enough power. I can't tell you more. I've already said enough for now."
The weight of his words settles over the room, but Hermod doesn't expect an immediate answer. He leans back in his chair, watching me with renewed intensity.
"You don't need to decide now. However, I have one requirement before I even consider this alliance in the future."
His stare sharpens.
"I want you to bring someone to me. I want to see what kind of warriors you have. If an alliance is to be possible, I need to witness a strength that can sustain it."
Hermod has already deduced some of our abilities. His memories have given him insight into our firearms and their potential. He won't be impressed by technology or conventional strategy. If he wants to gauge our strength, I have to choose someone who embodies our true potential.
'My best option is resting... but I still have someone else.'
"Fine. You'll have your match tomorrow," I answer with a smile. "For now, let's visit the factories. I want to show you the greatness of Irlam."
Hermod nods, and with that simple decision, the rest of the day passes without incident.
The battlefield thrums with energy. Luan and Indis take their positions at the center of the courtyard, where the ground, still damp from the morning humidity, begins to shift in anticipation of the clash to come.
They lock eyes, understanding that this fight is as much a battle of will as it is of strength.
Luan has endured much—war, the fight against Roswaal. Her power remains a mystery, but she is destined for something greater.
She must keep growing.
Indis, standing firm and composed, chooses not to draw her sword. Instead, she raises her fists with precision, as if she wishes to measure Luan's worth without the need for weapons. The difference in strength is evident, but what intrigues me most is discovering just how far Luan can go with the training she has undergone.
"I'll give you ten free hits," Indis declares, her tone cold and unwavering. As she speaks, a crystalline ice barrier manifests around her in an instant, glistening like a diamond fortress under the light.
Luan closes her eyes for a brief moment. In that internal silence, she fights a battle within herself. The cold outside fades as the heat from her hands grows unbearable. When she opens her eyes again, her once pale hair ignites into vivid shades of red, and her gaze burns crimson with fierce intensity.
Flames erupt from her palms, as red as the blood spilled in old battles.
"Now that's more like it!" Luan shouts, hurling massive fireballs at the barrier. Every movement is a silent scream of rage and determination, an answer to the painful memories of a past where weakness meant death.
Luan's explosive mana crashes against Indis's icy defense, generating a dense mist that momentarily shrouds the battlefield.
As the fog dissipates, Indis's shield remains, though visible cracks have formed. Luan frowns, surprised; she had likely expected her fury alone to shatter it instantly, as it had with Roswaal.
From the sidelines, Hermod murmurs in awe, almost reverently:
"A dragon's emotions fuel their magic. Rage, sorrow, determination... they are the fuel that amplifies their power."
'A dragon?'
With each strike, Luan's face contorts in a mix of pain and fury, the fire in her hands intensifying, expanding in waves of heat. Then, amidst the chaos, a raw, desperate cry rings out:
"I want to be strong!"
It's not just a declaration—it's the cry of her very soul, the echo of countless deaths and suffering endured in war, where weakness had cost innocent lives.
Every painful memory, every tear shed, turns to fuel for her rage, causing her power to spiral out of control. The air grows stifling; the grass beneath her feet sparks and burns, while the atmosphere fills with the scent of ozone and molten metal.
Garfield watches the battle, slack-jawed, unable to look away.
"She's strong..."
With a swift, decisive motion, Luan crouches, gathering all her strength into a single strike. Taking a deep breath, her eyes—now an almost supernatural shade of red—blaze with unwavering resolve.
Boom!
A deafening explosion shakes the battlefield. Her fist, wreathed in vibrant flames, collides with the ice barrier. The shield doesn't shatter immediately; instead, the sheer force of the blow melts the frozen layer bit by bit, turning it into a pool of water that evaporates in an instant.
Every drop that falls creates a fleeting mist, but Indis's defense, protected by her frigid aura, endures.
"Well done, girl."
Seizing the opening, Indis strikes with lethal elegance. With precise, ice-cold movements, she lunges at Luan, delivering three jabs to the face, stomach, and abdomen, each impact ringing out like the strike of an icy hammer.
The force bends Luan's body, but instead of faltering, her fury burns even hotter; every hit she takes fuels her rage, and her mana surges like an impending explosion.
"I WON'T FALL!" Her mana erupts, forcing Indis to step back.
A wave of fire sweeps through the battlefield, only to be extinguished by Hermod.
Luan's body changes—her frame trembles, her clothes are completely incinerated—but her eyes remain resolute.
"Don't lose focus!" Indis throws another powerful jab.
In a whirlwind of movement, Luan dodges the fourth strike, pivoting swiftly to the side. Her legs execute a spinning kick that cuts through the air, forcing Indis to evade.
"AHH—"
With a strained roar, Luan extends her hand, gathering a new fireball, her fingers trembling with raw energy.
"I can do this!" she shouts, and in that instant, her hand morphs into a sword of white-hot flames. The radiance is blinding, illuminating the battlefield with a near-divine glow.
Amid the chaos, Luan launches into an acrobatic leap, closing in on Indis with the speed of a hunting eagle.
But Indis doesn't look surprised.
With a spinning jump, Indis delivers a descending kick with the deadly precision of a dancer. Luan, harnessing the energy amassed in her white-flame sword, catches the attack in an unexpected display of strength.
Fire and ice collide in a violent embrace—the heat of Luan's mana clashes against Indis's freezing aura, igniting an explosion of light and steam that briefly obscures their surroundings.
"Luan!" Emilia's voice is frantic.
The battlefield turns into a chaotic symphony: kicks slicing through the air, punches engulfed in flames, and shards of ice flashing in the dim light. Every exchange is a dance of fire and frost, the intensity of the battle reflected in Luan's gaze.
Luan's wounds bleed and evaporate at the same time, but her eyes are beginning to look weary.
"I can keep going!" Her screams fuel her fire, her strength surging, but Indis refuses to give her an opening.
'Not only power is not enough, but her expertise.'
Indis's counterattacks land like icy hammers, clashing against Luan's burning fury as they slide, block, and strike with mesmerizing fluidity.
'How much she's improved in such a short time...'
Luan's face twists with pain and fury, every hit reigniting the fire in her veins.
"I have to be stronger!"
But Luan's flames begin to flicker. Indis capitalizes on the moment, landing a devastating punch to her jaw. Her body staggers, and amid their final clash, she collapses, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
The fight ends in an instant; the echoes of their battle fade, leaving only the whisper of the wind and the rising steam.
Luan's hands are burnt, her clothes completely scorched. She fought with everything she had, yet she couldn't land a decisive blow on Indis.
But I feel proud.
'She's become so strong.'
The silence that follows is deafening. Every spectator holds their breath. Emilia rushes to her side.
"Luan!" Emilia dashes toward her, Otto right behind, wrapping her in his coat.
"It burns!" Otto winces, while Garfield keeps his eyes locked on Indis.
"That was a good fight."
Her precise, powerful movements prove just how much she's grown.
Hermod, standing beside me, speaks with a somber tone. "That girl… her future will be harsh."
His expression says it all—there's a destiny awaiting her, but it doesn't look like a happy one.
Meanwhile, Indis slowly inspects her feet, carefully removing the shoes forged from enchanted minerals.
Though Luan's flames didn't melt them completely, her feet bear deep scars, covered in blisters—evidence of Luan's sheer power.
"Her magic burned through the metal and reached its target," Indis murmurs, applying a tonic to her wounds, exhaling in relief.
"Let Emilia heal you," I say firmly, shifting my gaze to Hermod.
Luan endured long enough to leave an impression on him.
Hermod's methods are straightforward, and I respect that. I had expected him, being a four-hundred-year-old with such vast experience, to be more like Puck. But that doesn't seem to be the case.
He grins, turning to Garfield. "That was interesting. I can see you have powerful allies. Rare bloodlines, without a doubt."
After the battle, Hermod and I head to Roswaal's office for one last conversation before his departure. Indis remains behind, keeping watch over Luan, who still lies weakened from the fight, while we settle into the room to conclude our meeting.
It doesn't seem like he'll bring up Echidna, so I'll let it slide.
Reaching into my bag, I retrieve a black vial and place it in front of Hermod. "Now, there's something I'd like to know. Tell me—what do you know about concentrated miasma?"
The vial contains a liquid miasma, a dense fog infused with decaying mana, pulsing as if alive, capable of consuming and creating monstrosities from whatever it touches.
Hermod examines the vial, approaching it with an enigmatic calm.
"I can't say much; I've never been particularly interested in it. The only thing I can tell you is that the world is returning to its primordial state."
His words linger in the air.
'The world is returning to its primordial state…'
Hermod continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "Only by uncovering the truth of this world and freeing it can we unravel the true nature of our existence."
Without warning, he breaks the vial. The miasma freezes instantly, forming a frost that glimmers in the dim light. The amount of mana released is astonishing, far surpassing anything his door could possibly contain. This man is, without a doubt, dangerous.
"As I see it, magic and miasma are two sides of the same coin," he declares, closing his eyes for a brief moment, as if recalling secrets, he'd rather not reveal. "We must decide, but..."
Suddenly, his expression darkens. He grips his head with one hand, as if he just remembered something he wasn't supposed to.
"Marco Luz, it seems you're going to be involved in the truth of this world." He points at me, and all I can do is listen intently. "I understand what you're trying to do, and I support you, but you have to make a choice… Can the world handle the truth? You seek to uncover it, but maybe the world is better off without it."
With a resolute gaze, I tell him, "I'm building a world that can withstand what's coming." I place a hand on my chest. "That's my goal, no matter who stands in my way."
I don't care about the truth—I care about creating a future where people can grow, where they can move forward. I don't want to destroy things; I want to create opportunities.
'If hardships are necessary for that, so be it.'
Hermod turns his back to leave, but before he departs, he speaks in a voice both mysterious and warm. "I don't need goodbyes. Come to Pardochia if you want to know the truth of this world. Then, you'll understand what you're up against."
I smile, accepting his terms. "I'll see you there."
The day nears its end, and I walk to the window, where the murmur of conversation blends with the tranquility of twilight. At that moment, the door opens, and Otto steps in, his expression serious, his unease palpable.
"Marco, I need you to tell me everything."
His tone is firm, but I can hear the concern in every word. Otto and I share a similar mindset—we both believe in helping others, but we also know we can't afford to take on everyone's problems.
But I know that's not the path I want to take.
I turn around and see two bottles of wine in his hands.
"You're not planning to get me drunk just to talk, are you?" I ask, an ironic smile playing on my lips.
Otto smirks and replies, "You've almost died several times in just one week. Let's talk for a bit, yeah?" He gestures toward the window. "Emilia is with Luan and Garfield, so it's just the two of us."
These are the moments I enjoy most. I walk over to the couch and sit across from Otto as he opens a bottle with an air of camaraderie.
"I'll start with what I know about the truth," I say as he pours the wine.
I take a sip and begin explaining everything I've discovered—the future attacks, the devastation caused by the miasma, and the disturbing visions the kingdom has uncovered. I leave nothing to chance; every detail is laid out with precision.
I even tell him about the future that might come to pass. The details of Emilia's visions during the trial.
"So, there's a sense of contradiction," Otto murmurs, looking toward the window where moonlight begins to filter in. "Shit, and here I thought we were already in trouble."
I smile, pouring myself another drink. "Brother, we're in this together." I raise my glass, looking at him with pride. "I told you you'd have a lot to do if you wanted to be great."
Otto chuckles dryly and clinks his glass against mine. "You just have me as your slave!" he shouts, but a grin quickly takes over his face. "I need to get stronger—I can't let the world end after finally getting a girlfriend."
"We have to keep going, to leave behind a world full of possibilities for future generations."
Our glasses meet again, and in one full gulp, I remark, "Maybe then, I can repay a little of what I've done."
As we continue talking, I decide to tell him more about my plans—the constructions that are essential, the advancements made in my world.
With a skeptical look, Otto comments, "Damn it… People in your world actually made it to space?"
I nod several times, recalling the first time I saw it.
"Yeah, my world wasn't special in itself." I glance at the stars, hoping one of them is that Earth. "If my phone had any charge, I'd show you the wonders of my world."
Even though it took everything from me, it also gave me so much.
I reflect.
"Humanity advanced step by step—from sticks to metal, from metal to machinery, and from machinery to combining it with electricity. What's beautiful about humanity is that it always finds a way to progress. Dismissing its achievements through destruction is pointless; even guilt can drive progress."
I sigh, wondering if that world is doing alright.
"It took us about three hundred thousand years of existence to reach the moon."
I smile, watching the wine swirl in my glass.
"This world still has a long way to go, but who knows what it'll be like in a few years."
"Maybe it won't even exist," Otto murmurs, and for a moment, our worries intertwine. We both see the unease in each other's eyes.
Otto's response is fair. Who knows what might happen? No one can predict that far into the future. If we fail, if we can't rescue and rebuild the world the way it needs to be, then everything will have been in vain.
"For starters, we don't even know what we're really up against," I say, looking at the ceiling with a distant gaze, my sigh revealing my uncertainty.
Going to Pardochia isn't just a duty—it's a necessity. Not just for my daughter, but for the desperate need to change this world's fate.
"Next up is the attack on Priestella," Otto says, his seriousness cutting through the moment.
I nod grimly. "The attack on Priestella will happen because they need to obtain a weapon from Echidna," I reply, clenching my hands, unable to hide the tremor of desperation. "If I can't make the necessary alliances, I'll have to abandon Anastasia and Priestella. I have no other choice."
Otto sighs and, with a smile that tries to ease the tension, pours me more wine.
"You? Abandoning someone who needs you?" he asks, and in his question, I hear both astonishment and reproach.
I knew my past would make me hesitate, but in this world, I've learned to see things I never knew I had. In another time, I would have forced myself to walk away, but now I know—that's not who I am.
It has never been.
I smile, feeling vulnerable yet determined.
"Ha! Yeah, right. Whatever… The people I'm going to ask for help are just as brave as Emilia," I say with an ironic wink. Felt, despite her fiery personality, seems willing to risk everything for the sake of others—maybe even more than Reinhard.
"Even so, your plan sounds dangerous," Otto admits, his grave tone laced with unmistakable concern.
"Risk is worth its weight in gold," I reply with a smile that's more of a statement of principle than a joke. I don't care about money—I care about saving lives.
If I can help, if I can save the lives of those who need it, I'll do it without hesitation.
That's the person I want to be.
Maybe that's why the weight of every decision hurts so much.
"Emilia wouldn't even hesitate for a second to save those in need," I murmur, watching as they walk away, their figures outlined against the dim light.
"That's exactly why you like her so much," Otto comments, his voice tinged with knowing amusement, as if he already understands the path my heart has chosen.
For a moment, I remain silent, staring at the moon peeking timidly through the clouds.
"She's the brightest sun I've ever seen," I finally say, placing my hand against the cold window, letting the chill of the glass remind me of the world's fragility—and its hope.
The future is uncertain, yet its inevitability remains unchanged. Predictions, fears of the unknown… none of it matters.
"I understand that feeling."
Otto's gaze softens as he nods slowly, grasping the depth of my words. That silent understanding between us is the only comfort in the midst of so much uncertainty.
"For the future."
With our glasses raised, we seal an unspoken pact. No matter the risks, no matter the pain—we'll move forward together, no matter what fate has in store.
Every sip, every word is a reminder that, even when the world teeters on the edge of the abyss, there will always be those who dare to fight for hope.
Every being, every person in this world will play their part—to build or to destroy.
And that's why I will fight.
I will fight to lead people toward a better future.
My father's words return to me, weaving through my heart, merging with my desire.
"Toward a brighter tomorrow."