"Good evening, Roselle. It's been a while."

A middle-aged man who had just raised his glass appeared within the room. He walked forward unhurriedly and accepted the half-filled glass of red wine Roselle handed him. "I'm only a Marionette now," he said calmly. "Drinking such fine wine would only be a waste."

Roselle chuckled. "It doesn't matter. I still have plenty in storage."

Taking a small sip himself, he added, "I thought you wouldn't dare return to Trier again anytime soon."

Zaratul replied evenly, "You personally sent me an invitation through the Secret Order. Naturally, I had to come back and see what this is about. What did you want from me?"

Leaning against the wall with one arm folded across his chest, Roselle asked, "I wanted to ask you about something. Do you know of a deity called the 'Creator'? The statue depicts a man bearing a cross on his back."

He paused briefly before clarifying, "Not the True Creator."

"..."

Zaratul's eyes narrowed. "Where did you hear about Him?"

"I came across it by chance during this recent voyage," Roselle replied casually. "Someone told me that the one who led humanity in defeating the monstrous abominations that once ruled this world—and who granted humanity extraordinary power—wasn't the Seven Gods, but that so-called Creator. You know, the kind of heretical talk that would get someone burned alive if the Church ever heard it."

He smiled faintly. "Judging by your reaction, it seems you know something."

Zaratul fell silent for a moment before saying, "In truth, I don't know the Creator you speak of. But I do know there exists an extraordinary organisation whose goal is to resurrect that being."

Roselle's heart skipped a beat, though his face remained cheerful. "Wow, resurrecting the Creator? That's quite an ambition! Sounds exciting—I'd love to join! Do you have a way in?"

"No." Zaratul shook his head. "And I have no desire to get entangled with them."

"Ah, that's a shame." Roselle feigned disappointment.

Zaratul gave him a cold look. "Was that the only reason you summoned me here?"

"That's just one of them."

Roselle set down his glass and lowered his gaze in thought for a moment before speaking again. "Do you remember what I told you last time I went to sea—about the deity above the grey fog?"

Zaratul nodded slightly. "I do."

"Do you have any idea what that deity actually is?"

Zaratul gently rubbed his finger along the rim of his wine glass. "No. Why are you suddenly interested in Him again?"

"Interested? No, no." Roselle shrugged and sighed. "It's just that being noticed by such an existence feels terribly unsafe. I wanted to learn more about Him—and maybe get your advice."

"I have no advice to give."

After a brief silence, Zaratul suppressed an improper thought that had begun to form and said coolly, "Anything else?"

Roselle's expression grew serious. "Zaratul, can't you really tell me more about that organisation and the god above the grey fog? This is truly important to me."

"When you first sought me out," he continued, "didn't you say you'd offer me whatever help you could? And now you won't even share a little information?"

Zaratul placed his glass down, his voice laced with mockery. "Heh, I'm more worried that your reckless curiosity will drag me down with you."

After thinking for a moment, he added, "If you can bring me the Antigonus family's notebook ahead of time, I could answer your questions. By then, even if you do something suicidal, it won't have anything to do with me."

With that, he took a step back and vanished.

"You sly old fox…"

Roselle muttered under his breath, staring at the spot where Zaratul had disappeared. Shaking his head, he fetched another bottle of red wine, then briskly left the storage room and made his way to the royal guest chamber where the king was resting.

"My apologies, Your Majesty," Roselle said with a contrite smile. "I had to search quite a while before finding this bottle. Sorry to have kept you waiting."

"It's fine."

Dorian Sauron stood by the window. Glancing at the bottle in Roselle's hand, he pointed and laughed. "Isn't that the same bottle I gave you last time? You're serving me my own wine?"

Roselle laughed heartily. "Well, it really is the best wine I have."

At that, Dorian turned toward the garden outside and asked, "That person sitting next to your daughter—who is he?"

"Oh, you mean Klein?"

Roselle glanced out the window and said casually, "You could say he's a friend of mine."

"Friend?" Dorian raised her brows in genuine surprise. "You? Having a friend?"

"Ah, Your Majesty, that's rather cruel of you to say," Roselle replied with an exaggerated look of hurt. "Why can't I have friends? Besides, aren't you my friend in private?"

The Queen of Intis smiled faintly, choosing not to respond.

She did, in truth, admire Roselle—admired his inventiveness, his creative mind. In private, they occasionally exchanged letters and ideas, but friends? That was an exaggeration.

After all, no one understood Roselle's temperament better than she did.

Accepting the glass of wine he offered, Dorian lifted it slightly, inhaling the aroma before saying evenly, "I came here today because there's something I wish to discuss with you."

Roselle immediately placed a hand over his chest and bowed. "Your command, Your Majesty."

"I would like to invite you to join an extraordinary organisation."

"Huh?"

If those words had come from anyone else, Roselle wouldn't have been this startled. But from her—the monarch of a nation? Was she drunk?

"What… organisation?" he asked cautiously.

"It's called the Twilight Hermit Order," Dorian explained calmly. "Its members come from various nations across the continent. It's a rather loose, non-compulsory organisation of Beyonders. There are no strict obligations or special restrictions. You can think of it as a society for extraordinary individuals—somewhere to trade information, exchange items, or accept missions issued by the organisers in exchange for specific rewards."

She paused briefly before continuing, "However, all members of this organisation share one common goal…"

Roselle's heart gave a sharp thud. "What goal?"

"To advance the trend of the times—and to bring about the resurrection of a Great Being."

"..."

Roselle lowered his head, pretending to sip his wine thoughtfully. After a moment, he asked as naturally and curiously as possible, "Your Majesty, are you…also a member of this organisation?"

"In a sense," Dorian replied calmly.

"Oh, pardon me…I'm just a little surprised. I never expected a king—well, queen—to join an extraordinary organisation."

After some contemplation, Roselle hesitated before asking, "But…may I know why you'd think to invite me?"

Dorian smiled, a small and inscrutable curve of her lips. "No particular reason."

Yeah, right.

"Take your time to consider it," she said lightly. "Once you've decided, let me know."

"As you wish, Your Majesty."

Bloody hell…

He had just learned from Zaratul that there existed a secret organisation dedicated to resurrecting the Creator—and now, mere moments later, the Queen herself was inviting him to join it.

What kind of absurd coincidence was this?

And why did such a coincidence send a chill down his spine?

———

At the banquet hall.

Edward was this close to losing his composure because of Bernadette's antics. Her teasing and childish pestering nearly made him retaliate in kind—rolling on the floor and throwing a tantrum just to match her energy. Fortunately, he restrained himself at the last moment and, with a flash of inspiration, resorted to his signature escape technique: "Pee Escape."

He lingered in the washroom for about ten minutes before finally stepping out—only to see the girl waiting not far away.

The instant she spotted him, Bernadette rushed forward.

Just then, a faint and chaotic whisper of prayer brushed past Edward's ears. He froze mid-step, then abruptly turned around and headed back toward the washroom. "Ah, stomachache again."

"Argh!" Bernadette stomped her feet in frustration, her cheeks puffing with anger. Mr. Sparrow is absolutely impossible!

Blame your father, Roselle, Edward thought as he sat upon the bronze throne within the Sefirah Castle, gazing at the star representing Roselle.

He reached out, letting his spirituality spread forth. In the depths of the grey fog, the image of Roselle appeared.

Roselle was seated on a toilet, hands clasped in prayer. "Mr. Chairman, I have something I wish to report."

Tsk, tsk…As expected, the Lord of the Castle is also the God of Washrooms.

Anyone connected to the Sefirah Castle ends up praying from a bathroom sooner or later, Edward mocked silently, shaking his head.

He infused spirituality to construct a connection, allowing Roselle's vague, illusory figure to appear within the Castle.

It had been some time since Roselle's last visit, and he was clearly a bit nervous. Still, he quickly composed himself, bowed, and greeted respectfully, "Good evening, and pardon the intrusion, Mr. Chairman."

"Good evening, Mr. Didn't-Live-Properly."

Huh? Mr. Didn't-Live-Properly?

Oh—right, that was his codename here.

Roselle blinked in brief confusion, but before he could speak, he suddenly felt another gaze—a cold, unsettling one—fall upon him. He looked up and saw that behind the Chairman, a large tree had appeared, and hanging from one of its branches was a birdcage.

Inside sat a black crow, staring straight at him.

What stood out most was the delicate monocle perched over its right eye.

Edward smiled faintly. "Ah, that's my new pet. A talking parrot. Don't mind it."

"A parrot? Isn't that…"

Roselle almost blurted out a protest, but caught himself just in time—this was a Divine Kingdom, after all. He forced a polite smile. "Good evening, Mr. Parrot."

Amon—disguised as the crow—cast Edward a faint glance, then turned his eerie, mirthful gaze on Roselle. "Good evening, sir."

So it really talks?

No, wait—this isn't a parrot! That thing is definitely not ordinary!

"Speak," Edward said, leaning back in his throne. "What did you wish to report?"

"Yes, well, Mr. Chairman…"

Though Roselle still felt a healthy amount of wariness toward this so-called "evil god," he had to admit that the being had thus far been remarkably trustworthy—always honouring his word whenever Roselle made a wish. Even those "Misery Contests" were likely just for amusement.

After thinking it over, Roselle decided to share his latest "coincidences." Perhaps he might gain something from it.

"About three weeks ago, on my return voyage from the Fog Sea," he began, "I landed on a primitive island to replenish supplies. There, I discovered a strangely styled church. Inside was a priest—an older man with a golden beard, dressed in a simple white robe."

"He told me—"

Before he could continue, Amon chuckled softly. "Oh? For that Paranoid Zealot to approach someone of his own accord…this 'believer' of yours seems rather intriguing."

———

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