CHAPTER 87: THE BEGINNING

The wind barely whispered across the plain, as though even it feared to disturb the stillness that clung to this strange space. Petals of midnight blue drifted through the open lattice doors, spiraling past carved eaves and gilded beams until they settled like whispers at his feet.

A man stepped forward slowly—silent, composed, a silhouette of dark silk and untold burdens. The scroll in his hand trembled once, but not from frailty. It bore the memory of the world: every achievement, every growth, every change, every evolution etched into the parchment—the weight of every deed, the essence of every name it carried.

Before him stretched a wall of light. No—of memory. Ancient calligraphy shimmered in suspended air, carved not onto stone but into the soul of the pavilion itself. Each character pulsed faintly, as though alive, drifting gently as they descended in endless vertical lines. A cathedral of unspoken voices.

He raised his hand.

Fingers brushed the edge of the scroll, unrolling it with the reverence of a mourner reading last rites. The ink began to glow, mirroring the wall before him, and for a moment his breath caught. The names were matching.

This was no mere history.

This was a binding.

Behind the veil of characters, vague reflections stirred—echoes of those who once bore the memories now illuminated, whether events or legends. Their features blurred, as though the space fought to preserve them even in its erosion. One spirit—tall, draped in silver robes, eyes sharp as dawn—stepped forward, pressing its hand to the mirrored wall from the other side. But the man did not flinch.

He had witnessed too many of these things.

Instead, he brought his brush down onto the scroll, dipping it in the inkstone fastened to his belt. His strokes were fluid, unbroken. Not calligraphy. Not art. A rite.

After refreshing the characters shimmering on the invisible wall.

He stepped back and finally turned away, revealing his pale face and silver hair that tousled like a storm yet to pass. Two black horns jutted from his head, sharp and regal, framing eyes that blazed with cold, unnatural blue fire.

He settled into a small set of two stools and a round table. He took the small kettle from the table and poured a little tea into the stainless cup.

Then he took a gentle sip.

Only for the entire pavilion to tremble the next moment. Even the tea he was drinking spilled and scorched his lips.

He withdrew it with a sharp intake of breath and crushed the cup in his hands. The poor little cup compressed until it was the size of a bead. Then the man hurled it aside.

As the compressed cup flew, someone emerged from the space and immediately ducked, letting the projectile sail over his head.

"Kalamoska!! I dodged it again! I’m getting used to this!"

The man scowled at his visitor—he clearly didn’t appreciate that his intruder was growing rather adaptive.

"What is it this time?"

The messenger who had arrived possessed a nose like that of a pig; his eyes were large and green, as though inflated.

Despite his boorish and quite gutter-worthy appearance, he was draped in a prestigious blue robe bearing a circular insignia. Within the insignia was a strange rune that read:

Hall of Fame.

"The Elders of the 99th floor have spoken."

The man cocked his head slightly.

"Do I look like I care? Those old cunts speak all the time."

The messenger halted before him and reprimanded him sternly, pointing his finger.

"You will not call the Elders cunts! That is blasphemy! We are the order of the past, the renowned recorders of achievements, and they... they began this long before you and I gained enough fame and were assigned to the Hall after our deaths."

The man shifted his gaze and stared at the messenger. The blue flames in his eyes intensified, making the messenger’s shoulders quake.

"Wh—wha—what?"

"I never asked to be a Recorder. I just wanted to live. And that’s what I’m trying to do despite being given a second chance I never requested by our fucked-up Queen Mother. Yet now, I am even trying to make the best of this situation, and you, pig-face, keep interrupting that for me!"

The messenger’s large eyes grew squirmy at that moment, his shoulders trembled, and he began to sob.

"P—P—P–P-Pig f-f-f-face?"

The man stared at him—not particularly sorry, nor regretful—he simply stated facts.

"That is such a cruel thing to say to a little child."

As the voice boomed, the man shifted his gaze, turning slightly to the side with a dark look in his eyes.

The sound of a staff striking the ground clicked rhythmically as the owner of the voice drew nearer. Her movement was like blooming fire—elegant, strange, and impossible to ignore.

White curls framed her face beneath a towering hat crowned with roses and blazing antlers.

Her eyes, hidden behind round red glasses, glowed with subtle crimson radiance.

Dressed in layers of crimson and gold, she carried the scent of ash and perfume. In one hand, she cradled a flickering heart of flame. At her side, a pale serpent with glowing red eyes coiled protectively.

She stopped before the Master of the Pavilion, standing beside the messenger.

The man said without ceremony:

"You are here, Administrator Seraphina."

"Yes, I am here, Administrator Long Xieren."

Seraphina folded her hands. Her staff stood on its own, and the snake at her side slithered slowly over her shoulders.

"The Elders instructed that I come. They were concerned you would dismiss the Messenger without an audience."

Long Xieren leaned back in his chair, tapping the remaining cup with his long nails while contemplating something.

Seraphina narrowed her sharp eyes, and the glasses narrowed with them.

"You wouldn’t happen to be thinking of hurling that at me, would you?"

He turned down his lips and glanced at the messenger.

"The pig-face still vexes me. I want to smash his face."

He grinned mischievously.

"But who knows... I could miss."

Seraphina sighed.

"I am tired of you. I’m so glad you’ll be away for a while."

Suddenly the air shifted. Long Xieren’s eyes sharpened like cold steel.

"What did you just say?"

Seraphina met his gaze directly.

"Yes, Administrator Long, you have been given a very important assignment."

Long Xieren hissed.

"I couldn’t care less. What are the details?"

Seraphina shook her head dejectedly.

"You are to venture into the world and retrieve the egg of the black dragon. Being a dragon that has not hatched for ten thousand years, it must not be allowed to hatch. So you are either to retrieve it back to the Hall, or you destroy it. Although I doubt the latter is possible."

Immediately, Long Xieren stood up. He bent sideways, stretching and cracking his stiff bones.

"Ah! Yes! Finally! I am finally free of this place."

He bounded forward with unbridled joy.

"Wait! Wait! You are not free—you are on an important assignment!"

Long Xieren did not even turn back once. A door of white light opened, and he stepped through it, vanishing from sight.

Seraphina stared at where he had just been with a pale and incredulous expression.

"That fool didn’t even wait to hear the other part of his assignment."

The messenger looked at her with worry.

"What do we do now, Administrator Seraphina?"

She looked at him and let out an exasperated sigh.

"I’m sure Queen Mother was watching. Whatever will happen will happen, I suppose."

With that, both of them turned away. Seraphina stole a glance at the messenger.

’He does kind of look like a pig... ah, I’m so sorry.’