Imagination was a very simple thing. That was true for everyone. It was also one of the few privileges humanity possessed. When a dying soldier lay in a trench, he would most likely hope he could survive, or simply imagine a moment when he could refuse his superior's order.
In that moment, the cold toe of his boot would make intimate contact with his superior's backside. He would curse the officer's inhumanity, curse him for sending him to the front line—and so on, beyond counting.
But the truth was, he would obey the order, and he would die in the trench. The world was simply that cruel. Imagination was only imagination in the end, a beautiful delusion humanity spun around things it was powerless to change. From that perspective, perhaps pursuing a beautiful process and a beautiful ending was some sort of human nature?
Konrad Curze had reached no answer to that, nor did he want to find one—unfortunately, in a sense, avoidance was also a kind of answer.
The fog was thick, writhing as it drifted away, making even the air viscous. There were no trees on this planet, so there were no looming, indistinct shadows in the mist either, only a boundless white expanse that looked as if it belonged to another world.
Expressionless, Konrad Curze tapped the breastplate of his armor with his right hand, letting a low sound spread through the dense fog. It did not travel far. Even sound seemed to have been caught by the mist.
At his request, Central Hub had designed this pitch-black armor with top-tier enchantment craft and runic engineering. It might have been somewhat lacking in defensive capability, but Curze no longer needed armor to provide additional protection in the first place. The reason he wore it was only for