But Roselle soon realized something was wrong.
He looked down at his hands. The skin on them gleamed like ivory, and they carried no warmth to the touch.
Though they resembled hands, they were not the hands of a living person, but something closer to a puppet's.
Moreover, everything around him was far too large.
No, more accurately, he himself had become far too small.
He stood atop an enormous office desk that stretched almost beyond sight.
The mahogany grain across the desktop looked like dried-up canyons beneath his feet.
The chandelier hanging from the ceiling had crystals dangling from it, each one as massive as an iceberg.
The scent of Taso Cigars hung in the air, so thick it seemed ready to pickle his tiny body.
What the hell? What happened? Am I dreaming?!
Roselle's thoughts briefly crashed.
Based on the characteristics of the Black Emperor pathway, shouldn't he have revived in the secret mausoleum he had personally designed and hidden in the gap between reality and the spirit world?
But no matter how he looked at it, this place was just an enlarged office.
"Long time no see, Roselle Gustav. You're still as jumpy as ever—"
A voice came from behind and to his side, carrying a hint of teasing.
More importantly, he knew that voice very well—
Roselle abruptly twisted his stiff neck, making it creak.
He raised his head and followed the source of the voice. He saw a man standing before an enormous floor-to-ceiling window, his back to Backlund's misty skyline.
Though that face held more human weariness than Roselle remembered, and less divine radiance, there was no way he could mistake him.
"Fuck! God of Steam and Machinery?!"
At the sight of that familiar person, Roselle cursed outright, his expression as though he had