TBR CH38

Time flow?

The world consciousness was momentarily dazed before it finally remembered that this small world indeed had such a special existence. It was almost considered a natural disaster unique to this continent. Though its occurrences weren’t frequent, there were still many who had experienced it firsthand.

Some said that the time stream was like a hole, through which one could see a bright, silver-white river. The moment they tried to take a closer look, they were swallowed by the hole.

However, from an outsider’s perspective, all that could be seen was a flash of white light—nothing more.

An old man who had just finished his final recovery period laughed heartily at his wife beside him:

“She was scared out of her wits when she saw me gradually turning into a child. And me? I was shouting at her, demanding that this old woman return my parents to me! Haha, thinking back on it, it’s hilarious. Good thing I was still by her side.”

In other words, this rift—born from the world’s instability—would randomly reset any existence it swallowed to any point in their past.

First, their memories would change. Then, their appearance.

After a period of time, the affected individual would gradually revert to their original state. As for how long it would take, it varied. It could be as short as several hours, or as long as several thousand years—far beyond a human’s lifespan—depending on their race, all left to the whims of fate.

“Though it doesn’t sound like a great idea, however—”

Tarksius tapped the black book in front of him with the back of his finger. “According to the prophecies in your book, at this point, the Holy Son’s progress in ‘conquering’ me is already halfway done. I absolutely wouldn’t be able to harm him at this stage.”

“If it weren’t for your interference making me regain my clarity, then it must have been something else that disrupted my mind and caused me to suddenly lose my reason.”

At first, the World Consciousness found this manufactured coincidence too absurd, but then it couldn’t help but think deeper.

It… actually made some sense?

The time stream was a phenomenon born from the world’s original power, meaning it treated all things equally.

One of the most famous incidents was when the former Sun God, Helris, had his memories scrambled by the time stream. As a result, he personally killed his spouse, the then-Queen of the Elves, Radina.

This act plunged him into despair, and after regaining his original self, he chose to walk toward his own destruction. The bright and dark factions of the Elves also began their divide from that event.

After all, even gods could not escape fate’s arrangements.

And now, fate—the force that maintained balance in all things—stood before the Dark God in the form of the black book.

The world consciousness mulled over the idea, and the more it thought about it, the more plausible it seemed.

Using the time stream as an excuse… this could indeed provide a reasonable explanation.

Seeing that no further objections appeared on the black book’s pages, Tarksius knew it had likely agreed to this method.

[Of course.] New ink marks surfaced: [you must retain your memories.]

“No kidding.”

Tarksius chuckled. “And my power too. I have no interest in returning to the past empty-handed.”

[But… will you really be able to convince the Holy Son and the system?]

“You should already know the answer to that.”

Tarksius lowered his head. His jet-black hair draped down, concealing his dark red eyes. He looked like the very embodiment of evil—merciless, devoid of any emotions associated with kindness, high above all others.

That was the gaze of a supreme being.

“Surely, you of all existences should know what kind of being I once was?”

—

Faking that the Dark God had his mind wrecked by an unexpected time stream event was not a simple task.

Let alone ensuring that the deception would actually be believed.

Yet, when Tarksius calmly stepped out of the time stream, even the black book found it a bit unbelievable.

If his divine form was like a sharp, obsidian stone of darkness, then now… he was a piece of chocolate liqueur.

The dangerous aura that once surrounded him had seemingly been wiped clean. His flowing black hair, once reminiscent of creeping shadows, now appeared softer, obediently draping over the young demon’s shoulders. Paired with his eyes—glowing like the finest garnets, steeped in the rich hues of aged wine—he exuded a sense of both mischief and nostalgia.

“I never expected to return to my demonic form again.”

Tarksius sighed. “Sure enough, the past is forever gone. Even for gods, it’s the same.”

His temperament was entirely different now. Only by looking closely could one still perceive the resemblance between the Dark God and this young demon through those identical crimson pupils.

The young demon looked like the type of guest who was both intelligent and cunning, someone charming yet dangerous, frequently seen in various taverns across the demon realm—flirtatious yet unpredictable, always carrying the scent of roses.

His power was not particularly strong, even among demons. In fact, he belonged to the weaker ranks. But capturing him? That was another matter entirely.

So this… was what the Dark God looked like a thousand years ago?

It was surprisingly convincing. A near-perfect success.

With this appearance, playing the part should be much easier.

The black book steadied itself.

It wrote the slanted divine name “Tarksius” upon its pages, only to have a hand press down over the text.

Despite taking on a different form, the Dark God had lost none of his power. His vile temperament remained just as unbearable. Dark forces churned beneath his fingertips, forcibly halting the ink from continuing.

This same dark power also originated from the world’s essence, yet it had already become a force he could wield at will—used now to defy the essence itself.

His other hand lightly pressed against his lips, forming a silencing gesture:

“From now on, I am the demon—Tal.”

A name forgotten for a thousand years was now spoken again, rolling off his tongue with a hint of sweetness—something Tarksius would never use in his usual speech.

Yet, on this demon, it sounded both dangerous and enticing.

…Fine.

After a brief pause, he withdrew his hand, and new ink marks fell onto the page with the expected title:

“Tal, next, we need to let the Holy Son see you like this.”

Only then did the world consciousness realize something, and it hesitated.

“But the Holy Son is currently in the Holy Light Church at the center of the continent. How can you possibly approach him in this identity…”

“Don’t worry.”

Role-playing was addictive.

Tarksius quickly adapted to his new… or rather, his old identity. When he curled his lips into a smile, his pupils would slightly slit, and the horns symbolizing his demonic nature swayed faintly. His smile was like honey.

“The contract has resurfaced. I believe it won’t be long before I appear before someone in the church. How absurd, how ambitious. His soul must already be teetering on the edge, just waiting to be dragged into the abyss.”

“A contract?”

A god would never casually bind his fate to some summoning spell. This sounded more like a trick demons enjoyed playing.

“Yes,”

Tal’s smile deepened. He lowered his gaze and murmured,

“The contract that summoned me from thousands of years ago.”

The Holy Church was located at the heart of the royal capital, a place where white doves circled in flight. Every morning, as the first light of dawn broke, high-ranking priests ascended the highest point of the White Tower, leading the clergy in prayers and blessings for the Light.

Looking down, one would see a square engraved with a rose sigil. Here, eternal holy candles burned year-round, exuding a pure and sacred scent. At the very center of the square, the fountain splashed bright, diamond-like droplets under the blazing sunlight.

However, on this day, no one had the mind to admire such a scene.

People whispered among themselves. Rumors, like crows with wings, not only fluttered through the corridors of the Holy Church but also hovered over the entire nation, letting out their harsh, grating cries.

It was said that the Holy Son of Light had suddenly teleported into the morning prayer hall, covered in blood and barely breathing.

It was said that the priests had activated a sacred ritual that had not been seen for hundreds of years, pleading for the Light God’s divine grace to save him.

It was said that the Pope’s wrath had roared like a thunderclap, vowing to get to the bottom of this.

The grand silver doors, entwined with roses, were now tightly sealed. The church prohibited any outsiders from entering. But within just one morning, discussions had escalated to a frenzy.

People spoke fervently, rumors ran wild—whether or not they were related to the incident at all.

For some reason, a claim that had never been noticed before was now being pushed into the spotlight:

The church’s Archbishop, Edwin, was a fraud. He had concealed his disgraceful origins and tainted bloodline, which had angered the gods and brought disaster upon them all.

People excitedly exchanged their insights. The devout gathered to pray, begging the Light God to forgive these blasphemers and to grant peace to the Holy Son. But those with sharper minds could sense that there was a much larger force lurking behind these rumors.

“Sir,”

They smiled knowingly, hooking your curiosity but refusing to elaborate further. They merely wagged a finger at you.

“I don’t dare say more, but soon, the world will know the truth about our dear Archbishop.”

At that very moment, Edwin was kneeling before the statue of the Light God.

Behind him, a large crowd of clergy members were also kneeling, either rolling rosewood prayer beads between their fingers or clutching sacred silver crosses, all fervently praying.

But prayer was not the priority right now. The church’s top priority was conducting the sacred ritual to plead for divine grace.

Yet, as the Archbishop of the royal capital, he had been excluded from the ritual.

The Pope’s gaze toward him was complicated, carrying a hint of pity, yet his voice remained firm and unquestionable when he ordered him to leave the ceremony.

“Although…”

The Pope hesitated briefly, softening his tone ever so slightly.

“The truth of the rumors remains uncertain, but we cannot take any risks. Your contributions to the church—rest assured, the Light God sees them.”

At the eye of the storm, Edwin’s hands remained steady.

He knelt before the grand cathedral’s statue of the Light God, eyes closed, rolling the rosewood prayer beads between his fingers, feeling their rough texture scrape against his skin, leaving behind a faint scent of sacred balm.

He was dressed in a pure white archbishop’s robe, a symbol of holiness and purity. His ceremonial staff, now unnecessary, lay horizontally before him. The dove-blood red gemstone embedded at its tip still glowed brilliantly.

As the five o’clock bells tolled, the white doves returned to their nests, the sky darkened little by little, and only the flickering candlelight remained in the cathedral.

Only then did he finally open his eyes. His gray irises were as deep as the thickest mist, betraying no emotion.

“Everyone,”

He spoke softly to the clergy behind him.

“Our prayers may end for now. If any of you wish to leave, now is the time.”

This group was never part of the church’s true inner circle. Now that the Archbishop had spoken, some people hesitated but eventually left.

However, many remained.

They were pious, obedient, and utterly devoted.

Edwin did not leave either. He swept his gaze around the room. Seeing that no one else looked up, he simply knelt again.

The Holy Son had yet to awaken. He had to keep kneeling.

It wasn’t until midnight that someone finally arrived at the cathedral with news.

The ritual had been a success.

The divine power of the Light God had healed most of Holy Son Noah’s injuries. However, he remained weak—the force that had harmed him had been an exceptionally strong darkness, one that even divine power could not expel in a single attempt.

But at the very least, there was no longer a threat to his life.

“May our God bless us.”

The clergy pressed their palms together, sincerely thanking the Light for once again bestowing His grace. The Archbishop, of course, did the same. Under the watchful gazes of many, he raised his staff, and the holy light radiating from him dispelled much of the exhaustion in the room.

However, he did not heal himself.

It was understandable.

Whether the rumors were true or not, he had failed to ensure the Holy Son’s safety. The weight of this grave sin rested upon his shoulders. For now, he was a man awaiting judgment.

Some people looked at Edwin with pity. Others, however, looked at him with unfiltered suspicion.

But the Archbishop seemed utterly oblivious to these gazes.

He had knelt for an entire day. His legs were completely numb, prickling with sharp pain, yet his expression remained calm. His gray eyes were like a fog untouched by the wind.

Not a ripple of emotion could be seen.

Not until he returned to his chamber, sitting at the edge of the deep crimson velvet drapes, and pulled an old book from the pile.

When the pages fell open, a single yellowed sheet of parchment lay there.

A summoning circle was drawn upon it.

No matter what the cost…

At last, the dense mist in his eyes began to stir. The deep ambition he had hidden away was now laid bare.

The so-called calm submission—the appearance of surrender—was nothing more than an illusion.

The truth was—

From the lowest depths, he had climbed his way here, grasping power beyond imagination.

And he would continue to ascend.

He would not fall.

Even if it meant sacrificing his very soul.