TBR CH98

Tsavorite, its vivid hue derived from trace amounts of chromium and vanadium, is also known as the “emerald sprite.”

—Excerpt from the mineral section of a popular science book, found on Isidor’s bookshelf.

—

Isidor’s emerald-green eyes didn’t blink as he gazed down from his vantage point, tracking the monster attacking the special forces. The humans and the monster were perilously close, and most of the bullets fired missed their mark, deflected by its hardened shell.

This confirmed the experiment’s success. If such incidents escalated to a certain scale, the institute would struggle to respond.

That was their goal—and Isidor’s.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, a chilling glint flickering in his pupils. Now wasn’t the time to stir suspicion; this was merely a test. If the monster proved too troublesome, the institute might grow wary prematurely. He watched the creature, which had escaped through a vulnerability he’d engineered, attacking recklessly. It moved swiftly, its body mostly covered in toxic, armored scales. The small patch of vulnerable flesh flashed only briefly before him, amidst a dizzying flurry of movements.

The perfect moment was faster than a blink. Isidor pulled the trigger.

The gunshot blended seamlessly with the storm of bullets from the two special forces members, cloaked in their barrage. After firing, Isidor swiftly tucked the handgun—once belonging to a special forces member—into an ordinary employee’s briefcase. He slipped away through an empty corridor, his footsteps nearly silent.

On his wrist was the bracelet missing one star, the remaining black star glinting like a dark eye. After ensuring he was a safe distance from the scene, he lightly brushed the tsavorite gem and spoke into it:

“The serum worked as expected. I eliminated the berserk monster. The special forces didn’t detect me. No casualties.”

The tsavorite, hollowed out to house a tiny communicator linked to the outside, relayed a response: “Too early,” the voice said. “To fully verify the effect, you should’ve waited longer. Even to stabilize the institute, you only needed to act before they died.”

Isidor remained silent, his emerald eyes radiating stubbornness. The voice softened: “We don’t distrust you. Look, even though you wouldn’t explain why the bracelet is incomplete, we didn’t press further. But inside the institute, you’re the only human we can rely on. You’re critical to our plan. Remember our original purpose—to free our god from its cage. All sacrifices are permissible.”

“All sacrifices…” Isidor repeated slowly, a cold smile flickering across his face. He hadn’t activated the hologram, so the other party couldn’t see him. “I understand.”

Ending the call was the natural, appropriate response.

He hadn’t used the hologram, and in that moment, Isidor was most grateful for it. He’d prepared for every contingency, his resolve unshakable even by the most terrifying surprises. If he turned the corner to find the entire special forces unit aiming their guns at him, the green in his eyes wouldn’t waver.

Not that they could arrive in time. John had sought him out after seven years, trying to uncover his anomalies, but Isidor saw more flaws in the young security captain. He knew they were occupied with other tasks today, far away.

He’d planned meticulously; no camera could capture a single frame of him.

As Isidor carried out these actions, he was startled by how vividly he recalled these methods. The past of the “Kingfisher” resurfaced in him—cold, ruthless. The beautiful things in his life felt distant, as if he’d never possessed them.

Today should have been better, with Asta seeking him out that morning, adding safety to his subsequent actions. Yet, it was perhaps worse. Guilt crawled up his spine like a spider, and he froze mid-step.

For a moment, no adjective could capture Isidor’s expression.

He instinctively wanted to smile at the sight of the figure before him, but panic and overwhelming dread shattered him first. All rationality collapsed; his mind hadn’t yet recovered, but the emerald in his eyes began to tremble, followed by his entire being.

“Isidor.”

Asta stood at the corridor’s end, its eyes peering through its human guise, quietly calling his name.

Under that gaze, Isidor felt as if he were burning. He couldn’t control his reaction, his legs numb, unable to take a step. He glanced at his wrist, then, as if jolted awake, moved to cover the bracelet. A single black star.

It paled in comparison to Asta’s eyes. But…

Why was it here? It had left earlier—why had it returned? What should he do now? Perhaps there was still a chance to explain, but what lie could he tell?

Isidor looked up frantically, his vision sharp enough to snipe a speeding monster from afar. Asta said nothing more, but he found the answer in its eyes. They were unlike any look it had given him before. It was likely forcing itself to stay calm, but the raw pain of betrayal stabbed them both.

“I…” Isidor nearly blurted out.

“I saw everything from the moment you fired, and I heard what came after,” Asta interrupted, its expression complex. It stood at the corridor’s end, not taking a step closer. “Lying must be exhausting, so don’t bother crafting another to deceive me.”

It paused, then said the name: “Kingfisher.”

Isidor wanted to say, “It’s not like that,” but he realized the words’ futility before they left his lips. Unconsciously, he bit his lip until he tasted rust. Every inch of his skin was chillingly cold, yet his senses burned, as if molten judgment would sear his heart to ash in the next second.

“I’m sorry,” Isidor said.

He sounded on the verge of tears, his voice trembling with a sob. Asta thought, The human who just holstered his gun had eyes like emotionless ice. As if everything, including itself, was under his control—kept in the dark from start to finish, a mere piece in their so-called “original purpose,” with no one telling it the truth.

To take it away, to make it their “god”?

No. That much it knew about Isidor. The human wasn’t driven by such motives. But the bloody truth in those words remained unchanged—they wanted to take it away, even if it meant harming others.

“I can’t forgive you,” Asta said, its calm surprising even itself, perhaps because the outcome wasn’t unexpected. “Friends should trust each other. I thought you were the only human I could believe in, but you’ve been lying to me all along.”

“Yeah,” Isidor didn’t argue. He kept looking at it, never breaking eye contact.

For some reason, the monster felt its heart trembling, like a violin string whimpering under immense strain. It forced itself to meet Isidor’s gaze. The watery sheen in those emerald eyes, like an abandoned animal’s, nearly made it forget what it meant to say.

“We’re no longer friends,” Asta said after a pause, leveling no further accusations. “Because I can’t trust you completely like I used to, Isidor.”

“Yeah,” Isidor agreed without hesitation. He took a step forward, as if to approach Asta.

A corridor separated them. Asta suddenly recalled their chase in the archive, when it had been even closer to Isidor. Now, with no barriers, his eyes were fully exposed before it.

“Isidor,” 

The moment it called his name, he froze, gazing at it with a mix of unease and bewilderment, as if jolted awake. The human stood rooted in place, unsure even of what expression to wear.

“Don’t you have anything else to say to me?” Asta asked.

The question sounded ominous, a signal that their abrupt encounter would no longer allow silent proximity but demanded a swift conclusion. To Isidor, it felt like a merciful offer of one final chance to defend himself. The monster hadn’t even shown excessive blame, and in its eyes, this might be their last farewell.

“If this is the last time,” Isidor’s throat tightened, his voice inexplicably hoarse, “no.”

The words locked in his heart, like butterflies trapped in a cocoon, couldn’t be spoken now. They were secrets never meant to be voiced. If they couldn’t be said before, they certainly couldn’t now. In the future, they’d remain like butterfly wings fossilized in stone, never to flutter in the air.

He saw the hurt in its eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he thought it would be fine if Asta forgot him entirely, never letting him stir its emotions again. The special treatment he’d once taken pride in now felt like a dull blade.

If only he could get a little closer. Isidor blinked, trying to see it more clearly, but tears suddenly fell.

“Goodbye,” Asta said.

“Goodbye,” he choked out, his voice breaking. Unable to bear it, he lowered his head, slowly crouching down and covering his eyes with his hands.

Asta had overtaxed its strength to maintain this form until now, and the time to vanish had come. It stepped back but couldn’t help glancing at the human left behind. No sound of sobbing—he was crying silently.

The “weapon” known as the Kingfisher.

The researcher who’d accompanied it for seven years, always smiling gently.

Asta knew it had no reason to linger, yet for some reason, it paused. Isidor heard the footsteps halt, but he harbored no illusions. Perhaps the monster had vanished before his eyes, and when he looked up, he’d see only an empty corridor. He deluded himself by shielding his eyes.

Until he felt the bracelet on his wrist being gently tugged, and a non-human hand brushed against his fingers.

Asta opened its palm, revealing a black star.

“I think I should return this to you.”

Isidor stared, dazed, as if he hadn’t processed it. His face was a mess, streaked with wet tears, his eyes rimmed red. The emerald in his gaze shrank back, but the longing flared helplessly the moment he saw it.

“I…” He coughed, finally grasping its meaning.

The human’s expression dimmed as he took the star.

But his hand didn’t pull away. Along Asta’s fingertips, a soft tendril lightly touched his tear-soaked eyes, wiping away the tears. Shock left Isidor frozen; he must have looked foolish.

“Don’t cry,” the monster sighed, its voice, laced with strange syllables, almost gentle. It stood beside him again, watching him for a few seconds. Then, it retracted its tendril.

An inexplicable softening of the heart.

“This time, I’m really leaving,” it said. “Goodbye, Isidor. I still don’t want to call you Kingfisher.”

Asta’s departing steps didn’t falter. Its figure, reflected in his eyes, rounded the next corner and vanished, the sound of its footsteps fading into deathly silence. Yet Isidor kept staring in that direction, motionless, until he realized he couldn’t stay there any longer.

—

Black Book hadn’t anticipated that a single day away for business would lead to such a mess between the human and the monster.

It eagerly approached Isidor, ready to boast about its efforts, but the fleeting look in his eyes was all wrong. It wasn’t the familiar indifference tinged with slight annoyance but something intense—akin to sorrow, yet subtly different.

“I… I,” Black Book began, faltering after a single word, awkwardly continuing to etch ink onto its pages. Isidor sat quietly at the desk, watching.

“Before, I could only vaguely see Asta’s world-ending fate, right?” If text had a voice, Black Book’s increasingly cautious script would be a whisper. “I used a small portion of my power to gain a clearer view of the fate’s trajectory. If your will and Asta’s combine, we can see the final scene’s full course. I mean, you’d need to cooperate a bit, but I can come up with an excuse so it won’t suspect anything next time you meet.”

It wasn’t just a small portion of power. Even for the Heavenly Dao, glimpsing such a catastrophic, unoccurred outcome required immense effort, which was why it sometimes had to leave.

Isidor stared at the text as if he didn’t understand. After a moment, he said slowly, “There might not be a next time.”

“Why?” Black Book clearly didn’t grasp his meaning. “Didn’t Asta come to see you this morning? You don’t meet every day, but didn’t you agree on a next time?”

“Black Book,” Isidor placed his hand over the page, his face likely ashen. Even the World Consciousness fell silent. His voice was soft, almost pleading. “Please go check on it for me. I… maybe I don’t deserve to know how it’s doing, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

This time, Black Book didn’t ask “What happened?” It cautiously wrote, “It knows?”

Isidor nodded silently. Only then did the World Consciousness realize the human wasn’t idly sitting or pondering. It noticed a pile of papers beneath it—records of his and Asta’s past chats, all pulled out and spread across the desk. He was likely rereading them, line by line.

“You can’t…” Even Black Book struggled for words. Though clueless about human emotions, it had observed romance in two prior worlds. Now, it felt a heavy responsibility. “You can’t do this. Maybe it didn’t mean it won’t forgive you—maybe it’s just the shock. I think you still have a chance. Why not try leaving a message through me? It might reply.”

“No…” Isidor paused, as if struck by a thought. “Not now. But I do have something I want to write for it. I’ll write it first, and you can show it to it later, okay?”

The human was unusually compliant today, his attitude remarkably cooperative. But looking at his green eyes, which seemed to repel light, the World Consciousness felt no joy. It flapped its pages like a bird’s wings to signal agreement, then vanished from Isidor’s presence.

Asta lay in the deep, deep sea, its tentacles floating aimlessly in the water, motionless. The moment Black Book arrived, a rough, sharp tendril ensnared it tightly, as if intent on tearing it apart. This likely wasn’t Asta’s conscious choice but an externalization of its emotions.

Sensing Black Book’s presence, Asta loosened its grip. Yet it showed no intention of surfacing.

A clear sign it didn’t want to talk.

Even the Heavenly Dao felt at a loss. It circled twice above the water, artificial seabirds soaring past. For a moment, it felt as clueless as those dim-witted birds. Isidor hadn’t made any demands, only asked it to check on the monster’s state. Logically, it could leave now.

Black Book gritted its metaphorical teeth, tightened its binding, and protected its pages before plunging into the sea.

…More like a waterfowl now.

The water quickly soaked its pages. The World Consciousness swiftly abandoned its current shell, transferring to another book, hopping from one to the next to descend into the deep sea.

A clumsy method, but having just expended power, it was in a weakened state and reluctant to expend more to shield itself. It had plenty of books as vessels—clumsy or not, it would do.

Asta couldn’t bear to watch. It mobilized its tentacles to envelop Black Book, sealing out every drop of water, then yanked it from the sea. At the same time, it finally surfaced, its tendrils swaying gently as it opened the book, revealing the eyes on their surface.

It looked as wretched as Isidor, maintaining only the barest courtesy.

“Did Isidor send you?” Asta asked abruptly, cutting through any chance for pleasantries.

The question caught the battle-hardened World Consciousness off guard, tempted to blurt “No.” But recalling Isidor’s request, it reluctantly told the truth: “I did just see him, but—”

“Ah,” Asta interrupted, as if grasping something. Its voice carried an eerie distortion, exuding oppressive force. “So you knew. You’ve always known his identity, which is why you sought his help.”

Under its gaze, even Black Book felt a twinge of unease. It began to share Isidor’s guilt, realizing it, too, was a deceiver in the monster’s eyes. If it hadn’t recognized Asta’s genuinely kind nature and earnest efforts to cooperate in saving the world after all this time, it wouldn’t be the Heavenly Dao.

Black Book quickly scrawled “I’m sorry” on the page.

Asta stared at the words for two seconds, then gave a faint smile. The World Consciousness felt a chill from that smile, guilt surging, nearly spilling everything. But it couldn’t—not yet. Even if the world’s destruction wasn’t Asta’s intent, that issue had to be resolved first.

“I was just thinking,” Asta said, “if you’re working with him, you’d better make sure he doesn’t go too far. You know what I mean.”

Black Book understood. It often found Isidor’s actions dangerously reckless, always teetering on the edge of disaster, like a tightrope walker where a single misstep could lead to catastrophic consequences.

But it couldn’t stop him, and so far, Isidor had maintained a delicate balance.

“Wait,” it suddenly realized, “are you asking me to look out for him?”

The interpretation left even Asta speechless for a moment. Black Book shrank back, feeling wronged. It only wanted to help. Based on its romantic observations from prior worlds, Asta and Isidor’s mutual affection had been glaringly obvious. Sadly, the monster didn’t understand human emotions, and Isidor hadn’t taught it well.

Now, both human and monster were clearly suffering.

“Actually,” Black Book couldn’t resist adding, “maybe there’s a misunderstanding. He never meant to hurt you…”

“I know,” Asta said, its tone as flat as if it had taken a sip of water.

The response choked Black Book, leaving it at a loss for words. Asta clearly had no intent to make things harder for it. Even though it had deceived it alongside Isidor, Isidor seemed the greater offender, while it was less culpable.

…Or perhaps it just wasn’t that important.

“Don’t mention him to me,” the monster said bluntly, then changed the subject. “Did you come for your own business? I promised to help, so I’ll keep assisting.”

“I…” Black Book hesitated, softening the truth as it wrote, 

“Regarding the fate I glimpsed before, some parts are still unclear, including matters concerning the institute,” Black Book continued. “To understand it in greater detail, I need your will to assist. Originally, this would require you and Isidor to meet, but if that’s truly inconvenient, lending me your will and power might allow me to preserve it through my own abilities.”

“Alright,” Asta said. It condensed its power into a black pearl, its tendrils coiling around this embodiment of the monster’s will as it presented it to Black Book.

“Tch, that’s enough!” 

The World Consciousness flinched the moment it touched the pearl, startled by the sheer magnitude of power Asta had bestowed—far exceeding what was requested.

The monster’s lips curved faintly, but just as it brushed against a flicker of joy, it suddenly thought of the human with emerald-green eyes. It imagined how they might have planned an outing for this task, recalled those beautiful, warm moments now shattered like dreams. The thought silenced it once more.

“You said you expend energy too,” Asta explained to Black Book, its voice soft but tinged with exhaustion. “Since our personal matters are costing you extra effort, I figured it’s fine to give you a bit more power.”

The monster’s demeanor and tone were gentle, yet they carried a weary undertone. The World Consciousness was nearly moved to tears, but it knew lingering would do Asta no good—it might even worsen its mood. So, it quickly bid farewell, scribbling a hundred thank-yous—an easy feat with its inked words.

After it left, Asta sank back into the water.

Black Book hadn’t dived deep enough earlier, or it might have seen that, in the pitch-black depths where no light reached, Asta conjured a faint glow. Silently, it wove a space shielded from the sea, though it didn’t fully understand why. Within the grotesque, massive shell formed by its seafloor tendrils, the human-shaped monster sat in silence.

Beside it was a stack of carefully preserved pages, identical to those on Isidor’s desk.