"It's me! A familiar face! Open up!"
Outside the Wizard World's barrier, Orsaga pounded for a while.
After a few attempts, he realized the thing blocking his way was tougher than expected. It wasn't something he could break open quickly.
Unlucky.
Had he arrived just a few seconds earlier, he might've slipped inside and reunited with a few old friends.
After all, it had been ages, and he was feeling a bit nostalgic.
He'd served as a security guard at the Academy of the Silent Heart for a full century. He was curious how many of his old acquaintances were still alive. There were even a few people he'd never liked—this would've been a great time to settle those scores.
Now, staring at the barrier in front of him, Orsaga wasn't out of options, but breaking in would definitely cause a major scene.
R
And judging by his instincts, if he really tried to force his way in, the Will of the universe would probably dispatch a high-level strike team across dimensions to gang up on him.
So, after weighing the pros and cons, he decided to turn and walk away.
He couldn't enter the Wizard World for now, but thankfully, based on the soul marks he'd left in the past, plenty of familiar faces were still wandering around other realms.
---
Half an hour later
At the edge of a battlefield, an elderly man with snow-white hair, Hawthorne, was overseeing logistics and coordinating supply movements across the front.
Once the headmaster of the Academy of the Silent Heart, Hawthorne had suffered a permanent injury two thousand years ago during a battle with a Sixth-Tier psionic. Since then, his strength had gradually declined—like a dam slowly leaking water—and he had never returned to his peak.
Unfit for front-line combat, he had been managing support and logistics ever since.
Inside a command room, after wrapping up a transmission with subordinates, Hawthorne was just about to retrieve some data from the tower's AI system when the interface suddenly alerted him:
"Abnormal presence detected in the room."
Reflexively, Hawthorne began to gather his strength.
Then—he heard a voice. Familiar, and maddeningly casual.
"You've really fallen off, haven't you…"
The tone was provoking, with the air of someone overly familiar.
Hawthorne turned his head—and saw a red-haired figure in a red robe casually grabbing a bottle of liquor from his shelf.
The way the man moved, as if he were in his own home, plus that unmistakable head of red hair, immediately triggered a name in Hawthorne's mind:
Orsaga.
The impression left back then had been too deep to forget.
Over the years, he'd met plenty of mentally unstable individuals, but someone who could freely switch between a normal person and a complete lunatic?
Orsaga was the only one.
Now that he recognized who the intruder was, Hawthorne's tension eased slightly.
Not because he trusted Orsaga—but because, based on what he knew, in his current condition he had about a fifty-fifty chance of surviving an encounter with him.
Better odds than most.
With a sigh, Hawthorne asked calmly, "Who summoned you this time?"
Orsaga casually picked a bottle, bit off the top—cork and all—and slowly chewed it as he replied:
"So heartless. Back in the day, I worked my ass off for your academy for a hundred years.
Can't I drop by now and then to say hi?"
As he spoke, he continued chewing and eating the liquor like jelly.
Even though the bottle had shattered, the liquid inside stayed perfectly still—held in place by an invisible wall of air, unmoving.
Hawthorne replied with a deadpan expression, "I don't think anyone misses you."
Orsaga ignored the dismissive response and laughed, "You tried to extend my contract back then, didn't you?"
After thinking about it for a moment, Hawthorne nodded seriously. "Good thing I didn't."
He could still clearly remember a certain meeting with the guy who sold him the summoning ritual.
The man's face had gone through a range of expressions after hearing that Hawthorne had summoned a demon from the Abyss to protect the academy:
Awe. Admiration. Helplessness. Confusion. Inferiority.
At the time, Hawthorne had been utterly baffled by that reaction.
Until the man explained—
"That summoning ritual... we usually only use it when we're ready to die with our enemies."
Only then did he understand why that expression had looked so complicated.
Only then did he understand why Orsaga had given him such a weird look when asked to sign a long-term maintenance contract.
The more Hawthorne thought about it, the more complicated he felt inside.
He was grateful he'd stopped using that summoning method once he realized how off Orsaga's personality was.
If he hadn't, it could've ended in catastrophe.
After chatting idly for a while longer, Orsaga grabbed a bottle and slowly walked out of the room.
In his eyes, Hawthorne's organs had already been corroded by an unknown power, and only about half of his soul remained.
He was basically a walking corpse.
The white hair on his head was a clear symptom—his life force was rapidly fading.
To Orsaga, a guy like that wasn't worth the effort.
It just felt disappointing.
"I was hoping to kill a few old friends to lighten the mood…"
To Orsaga, the difference between strangers and acquaintances was simple:
Killing familiar people carried more sentimental value.
Unless someone was truly close to him, everyone else—be it strangers, enemies, or neutral parties—was fair game.
'Forget it… I'll just destroy a random world instead.'
With that thought, Orsaga casually tore open the barrier between worlds, closed his eyes, and picked a direction at random.
He wanted to see which poor realm would be "lucky" enough to meet him.
---
A few days later
Abyss Layer No. 65,482,57 — Lava Wasteland — Main City: Ashkarath
After blowing off some steam, Orsaga returned home.
Compared to foreign worlds, home had more familiar faces—and people who knew how to talk properly.
So, as usual, he killed a few unlucky bystanders for fun, tossed out some potion bottles for others to fight over, and then locked himself in his room to contemplate life.
Two days later, the door opened.
A figure walked in and, seeing his serious expression, asked curiously:
"What are you doing?"
Without even lifting his head, Orsaga replied:
"Not in the mood. I decided to sit quietly for a while…"
Stunned, Golariel stared at him and then, without a word, sat on his lap.
She gently pinched both sides of his face, looked into his eyes, and asked with genuine curiosity:
"You… actually have days like this? I thought I'd never see it in my lifetime…"
From the moment she met Orsaga, she'd always seen him as a carefree, heartless lunatic.
The type who wouldn't even flinch after being stabbed a few times.
But now?
Unhappy.
And not just a passing mood—he'd been gloomy for quite a while.
This was the first time she'd seen him like this.
After thinking for a moment, Golariel got an idea.
Still tugging at his cheeks, she suggested:
"Wanna go out and kill a few passersby?"
Hearing that, Orsaga instantly looked up.
Surprised, he exclaimed:
"…That doesn't sound like something you would say."
He knew full well that, as an elf, Golariel had always disapproved of his love for killing.
But she just smiled and said, in a matter-of-fact tone:
"Compared to random strangers, the people I care about are more important. If killing helps you feel better, then go for it."
Orsaga fell silent for a few seconds.
Then he stood up.
"Forget it. Let's just go get something to eat.
That restaurant we went to last time wasn't bad…"
_____
T/N:
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