TBR CH102.1

My Star, please allow me to call you that one last time.

By the time you read these words, everything will have already ended. I’ve attached an address at the end of this letter. After escaping that group of fanatics, you can settle there. It’s a beautiful city, surrounded by the sea, with bakeries and coffee shops at every street corner, and the residents are kind. But you still need to be careful of humans—especially people like me.

—From the first half of a final letter, entrusted to the consciousness of the world to deliver in case the worst possible outcome comes to pass.

The consciousness of the world doesn’t know if what it’s doing is right.

Isidor’s note, hidden in a drawer and slowly rotting away, and the letters written in the black book for different timelines and various endings—these sharp words slice through the white paper, as if desperate to break free from the pale, two-dimensional world.

“This,” Isidor says softly, “if I die and can’t hide it from it, give it to it after everything is over.”

Though the black book doesn’t fully understand humans, it at least knows that such a thing is called a will. It cautiously observes Isidor, whose emerald-green eyes stare blankly at the finished letter. After a while, as if unable to bear it any longer, he reaches out to cover it. The world’s consciousness tactfully turns the page, storing the written words in its inventory.

It secretly forms a plan: to quietly bring Isidor’s writings to Asta.

Haven’t they been in a cold war all this time? Perhaps words, instead of being saved for the future, could have the greatest impact in the present. Thinking it over, the world’s consciousness suddenly feels excited, convinced it has the talent of an emotional mediator. After all, for relationships to progress, mutual understanding of each other’s hearts is the most important thing.

The black book acts on this idea. Compared to Asta’s recent indifference to Isidor’s messages, it noticeably pauses when it hears about the letter. Then, as expected, the monster rare reaches out, takes the black book, and begins to read.

Everything up to this point seems like a victory.

Until, for some unknown reason, Asta’s hand transforms into a frenzy of writhing tentacles. For the first time, it loses control of its emotions. Its sharp, venomous tendrils violently fling the half-read black book away, tearing it to countless shreds in midair with brutal precision. Before the world’s consciousness can even mourn the loss of its vessel, it’s forced out of the room by the monster’s surging power.

The final scene is of scattered paper fragments drifting onto the sea’s surface, and Asta’s beast-like, slit-pupil eyes, swirling with countless cruel and wondrous colors in a deep, somber black. The words on the letter, soaked by seawater, are completely illegible.

How—how could this happen?

The world’s consciousness belatedly realizes that Asta didn’t react with the heartache or was touched as it had expected. Nor did it immediately reconcile with Isidor through these letters. Instead, for the first time, it displayed cold, seething anger. Whatever it read in those words clearly turned its attitude toward Isidor to an extreme hostility.

For a monster that’s always gentle and courteous, to lose composure like this—it must be absolutely furious.

In a daze, the world’s consciousness wonders if it has done something terribly wrong.

Today is Friday, an utterly ordinary day.

Asta gazes at the now-dried fragments.

The last time the Heavenly Way brought these to it, after it detached from its vessel, they were nothing more than ordinary paper. The monster stares at the ink smudged beyond recognition, finally closing its eyes tightly in frustration before raising its fingers with a hint of malice.

The fragile fragments are gently lifted by wide, soft tendrils, gathered together, and laid out to dry in the sunlight.

Then, bit by bit, it pieces them back together.

The room called “Flower” is inexplicably filled with an overwhelmingly rich floral scent, almost spilling over. Standing at the center of this fragrance, its words dissolve into scattered wisps of perfume, coalescing together:

“It shouldn’t be like this,” it mutters to itself. “A premonition of something momentous approaching, a terribly awful premonition. Is someone hiding something, or is it just daydreaming? I can’t see anything—terrifying, I can’t see anything, terrifying. I’m no prophet.”

These scents, as usual, are scattered everywhere by it. But its deranged ramblings are so similar to every other nonsensical thing it has said before that no one pays them any mind.

In a high-rise apartment, a television is on, tuned to the weather forecast. The professional anchorwoman flashes a standard smile, delivering the forecast for each region.

“Kororan City, sunny, 32°C; Digar City, clear, 31°C; Osser Island and surrounding waters, sunny…”

She blinks sweetly. “Thank you for listening… Tomorrow, extreme heat and high UV levels are expected nationwide. Your daily weather reminder: don’t forget your parasol to avoid sunburn.”

Some listeners feel sour about the relentless summer sun; others, especially coastal residents, are delighted, already eager to don swimsuits and head to the beach.

Hill finds John acting strange today. They’d planned a romantic evening together, but John seems preoccupied, as if he has something to say, staring at him absently. When the candles are lit and roses are arranged, John finally snaps back, offering an apologetic smile before suddenly asking:

“How’s work going at Project Alpha?”

“Of course it’s fine,” Hill replies, puzzled. “It’s been so long—why ask now?”

“Oh, I just realized you’ll have to rush off to work again tomorrow morning. It just came to mind.”

Then, like a magician, he pulls a delicate earring from his jacket pocket, its tiny diamonds sparkling, clearly expensive. Hill instantly forgets his earlier confusion, reaching out to admire the beautiful accessory before eagerly putting it on, launching into an excited discussion about how it looks.

In doing so, he misses the trace of guilt in John’s glance.

Isidor passes by John’s office every day—not by coincidence, but to search for evidence. John isn’t entirely oblivious to this, but since he’s rarely in the office, always on the move, it’s convenient to let Isidor chase a decoy.

That’s what he thinks. But tracking someone’s habits isn’t so hard for Isidor.

Isidor can detect any anomaly, even if it’s faint and meaningless.

It’s the only clue he can exploit.

Once again, he passes the office of the C District’s security chief. Nothing seems out of place—researchers come and go as usual, and John’s office door remains locked. Yet, for some reason, he senses a faint discord in the ordinary air.

Like an illusion.

But Isidor doesn’t believe in illusions.

Today is Saturday, another ordinary day.

Asta is used to Hill opening the door. The boy’s pale blue eyes reflect the ocean, as if holding all the world’s most beautiful colors for someone who loves him. He’s in a good mood today. John had set aside an entire evening for him and even affectionately clipped a monitoring camera, specially provided by the Institute, onto his collar.

The device usually fails at critical moments. Sometimes, Asta personally ensures it breaks. But the Institute keeps sending more, undeterred, believing they once gleaned valuable data from it early on—when Alpha probably hadn’t noticed it.

That was long ago, before the creature had even met him. Whatever they learned back then likely doesn’t matter.

The current administrator knows little about the virtual ocean parameters for Alpha, only tweaking the jumbled numbers each weekend per the Institute’s instructions. Hill finds this tedious and often skips it entirely—it doesn’t seem to affect the monster anyway.

Asta slowly rises from the deep sea to the surface, its countless razor-sharp tendrils glinting faintly in the shallow waters. It moves its fingertips lightly, walking step by step through the water.

Hill isn’t as easy to fool as he once was. It needs to act more convincingly.

These days, following the list provided by “Flower,” it has been in contact with some of the monsters Hill had previously tamed. Some of the contained entities were surprisingly easy to deal with, their meager powers no match for it. Asta begins to appreciate its bloodline—a power born to dominate all monsters. Those creatures with unstable minds are effortlessly swayed by the aura of the Child of Fate, just as they uncontrollably submit to Asta’s fingertips.

Some of them seem to misunderstand, assuming Hill is the possession of an even more powerful Alpha, forcing them to abandon their desires under the law of the jungle.

…At least the outcome is favorable.

However, the mid- and low-tier monsters tamed by the Child of Fate are few in number. For the higher-tier monsters, Asta has no intention of approaching them yet, lest fluctuations in its Fate alert them prematurely. It needs to wait until the Heavenly Way is ready to act.

Besides, “Flower” has been tirelessly acting as a mouthpiece, its words like seeds waiting to break through the soil.

As Asta ponders, it steps from the seawater onto the shore. The dark waves obediently lap at its side, yet not a trace of moisture clings to the black-haired, black-eyed monster. Behind it, the tips of its tentacles gleam, as if paving a long coronation path for their king.

Suddenly, it raises its head, gazing at the sun embedded in the virtual sky.

Like an alarm triggered by primal instinct, the monster senses an abnormal glint on the water’s surface. A vast expanse of silvery-white reflections lingers, as if something smooth and hidden lurks within the mirror-like sky. The glare burns Asta’s eyes, just as it glances at the sun.

It’s as if a canvas painted to mimic the sky’s blue is torn away, revealing a hundred suns behind it.

No—not all of them are suns, but mirrors, intricately arranged above the original sky. Each mirror reflects not the real world but sunlight amplified thousands of times, hot enough to incinerate anything in its path.

The Institute had quietly constructed a glass corridor to harness true sunlight. This light, gathered from the natural world and magnified, is funneled into the Dawn Project. For it has been proven that only true sunlight affects monsters—any other light, or isolated components like ultraviolet rays, has no effect.

This searing sunlight, deemed by the Institute as a light too intense to exist in this world, is what will bring about the dawn.

And the switch for this dawn will be flipped by an unwitting “Child of God.”

As the light scorches Asta’s skin, the monster seems to hear Hill’s scream. The boy nearly rushes out of the control room, but the blinding light outside forces him to stay. His face pales, unaware of what he’s done, futilely returning to the array of data and buttons, trying to revert them to their original settings.

It’s no use.

The boy knows nothing about the complex machinery, oblivious to the fact that the data has been locked. He hasn’t yet grasped what’s happening, but the light and heat outside tell the whole, terrible story.

“The Institute tricked me,” he says, eyes wide, vaguely glimpsing Asta struggling in the intense light. “They knew I’d never agree to harm Alpha now, but… but what about the taming mission? Alpha saw me operate the controls that caused this. What if it misunderstands me—”

“Host,” the System’s voice, usually calm, now trembles, but it sees another possibility. “The villain might truly perish in this operation.”

“What—what?” Hill stammers, staring incredulously at the glass window, slowly realizing what the System means. Before, Asta’s strength was unfathomable, a bizarre and magnificent monster impervious to harm. But now, it seems gripped by panic and pain. Its dripping tendrils rise from the water, flailing wildly like a massive black net enveloping the sky.

Even the mightiest monster has a weakness as fragile as a golden egg.

“What do I do?” Hill grits his teeth, forcing himself to stay calm. “And my situation now—damn it, I was too quick to trust their deal. And John—John was lying to me too—”

At that moment, the titanium-white door slides open, and the outside air rushes in. This place, once the Institute’s most beautiful, now feels like a shattered illusion burned by fire and heat. John leads the way, his expression alert, his gray eyes sharp like a hawk’s.

Clearly, the plan’s smooth execution has relieved the young special forces captain. He turns, spotting Hill, his face unavoidably tinged with guilt as he gestures to ensure Hill’s safe exit.

Behind him is the entire special forces team, moving as one, like carrion birds hungry for blood. Their eyes hold only cold, heavy intent to kill—nothing matters more than eliminating their target, not even life or death.

In this atmosphere, even making a sound feels like a mistake. Hill trembles, descending the steps. John looks at him as if relieved, reaching out to take his beloved’s hand, but Hill violently shakes him off and rushes forward.

“It wasn’t me!”

He looks like fragile porcelain, too beautiful for anyone to bear harming. “The Institute used me! Believe me, I’d never hurt you!”

Then he turns, teetering, and looks at John with sorrow. “I didn’t expect you to be like this. But I don’t blame you… I think you still have feelings for me, don’t you?”

Just moments ago, Hill had quickly weighed his options.

There are two possibilities now. In one, the monster survives, and his target remains Alpha. This moment is his last chance—he must prove himself to it, even at great risk.

In the other, the monster dies. The System told him that Alpha’s death would transfer its Fate to its killer, most likely “Black Hawk” John. If that happens, the taming mission would conclude unexpectedly early.

So he delivers a flawless performance. Sure enough, he sees guilt and emotion in John’s eyes. If the second scenario plays out, winning John over completely is within reach.

Just as he feels a flicker of relief, a chill runs down his spine. Then, a tendril capable of tearing anything apart sweeps frantically across his chest.

Hill hits the ground with a dull thud.

John, without hesitation, scoops him up and orders him taken away.

As he turns, his heart sinks again.

Behind the special forces team, unnoticed until now, stands a lone figure. The teacher’s information travels too fast. Despite John’s efforts to block all leaks and set up layers of obstacles, there he stands—a human with emerald-green eyes, silent and still.

He burns coldly, like a flame.

In that moment, John feels an intense, unresolved unease. That’s not Isidor’s gaze, nor the gaze of the Kingfisher, silent for seven years. In his left hand, he holds a familiar pistol, its silver-white body capable of firing the most lethal bullets—a standard issue for all. But what truly draws the eye is the rapier in his right hand.

That sword is a true beast, the sharp beak of the Kingfisher.

It’s the gaze of the Kingfisher at its peak.