Adam shook his head. No ripple of emotion appeared on that face poised between illusion and reality.
He gave up on probing deeper into that unsolvable mystery.
He had once crossed paths with Edwin. In that silent confrontation, he had tried to wield the authority of a "Writer," attempting to alter reality and pave the way for his plans.
But that man had been like a stubborn rock upon which no words could be written—hard, silent, and even forcing him to revise a script he had planned for so long.
From that moment on, Adam had discarded all contempt.
Edwin Howard—the variable represented by that name had already exceeded the limits of what he, a Writer, could control.
Rather than futilely speculate here about a character who could not be observed, he might as well turn his gaze toward the raging sea stirred up by the thoughts of countless people before him.
This power was pure, immense, and filled with the primal urge for change.
He stood upon the shore of that mental ocean, watching an enormous wave crash against the embankment of the real world with unprecedented force.
This tide could destroy an old era.
Likewise, it could—raise up a new god.
Backlund, Buckingham Palace.
The air in the council chamber was as stagnant as lead.
The crystal ashtrays atop the carved mahogany table were piled with stubbed-out cigars, crookedly crowded together like a heap of charred corpses.
No one spoke. Only the grandfather clock against the wall sliced through the dead silence with its monotonous ticking.
"Handle it coldly."
At last, the Minister of the Navy, Admiral Admisor, dryly spat out the phrase. "This is a scandal, not a war.
"The public's anger is like a summer thunderstorm. It comes quickly and goes quickly. In a few days,