Do I Fight Kal'tsit? Seriously?

"I still think it's more important to take the right path," she said.

"Hey, I've got a joke." Gerald cheerfully set his empty cup aside. "A new recruit joined my old squad once, and he asked me, 'Captain, Captain, what if I run in the wrong direction on the battlefield one day? Is there some practical, effective way to get back to camp without getting yelled at?'"

"I told him, there is, brother. There is."

He continued, though the content clearly didn't quite match his current tone. "Just keep moving forward until you reach an Ursus camp, slaughter all the enemies there, then carry their heads back in the opposite direction to our camp. That's also the right path, and I definitely won't yell at you."

"...That was a joke?" There was obvious confusion in Saria's voice.

"Hah, that's empirical evidence." Pegasus couldn't hold back his laughter. "Alright, if we keep talking, none of us will get any sleep tonight. We've got a train to catch tomorrow."

"Let's get moving first, Saria. No need to overthink it."

Gerald drained the remaining wine in Saria's cup and set it back beside the boulder. "The sleeping bag Kannott gave me has an inflatable pad. Your tail should fit. Get some proper sleep, and all the complicated stuff will sort itself out."

He snapped his fingers, and the wind stopped at his command once more. Flames sprang back to life atop the wood.

"Good night." Pegasus in Saria's eyes gave her a gentle smile. "Sweet dreams."

Then he walked toward the other side of the camp.

The Vouivre remained where she was for a while. She silently watched Pegasus's departing back, as though she had thought for a long time before finally moving again.

She looked into the distance.

The wilderness was no longer as dark as before.

Gerald slowly made his way toward the edge of camp, toward that familiar presence.

He was still wearing the casual clothes borrowed from the prison guards: a sky-blue jacket over a tank top, while even his pants were standard prison guard issue. They did little to ward off the cold of the wilderness night.

Though he had no intention of sleeping just yet.

"Did things go smoothly with that Vouivre lady, friend?"

A heavy voice came from behind the iron helmet. That familiar figure stood beside a layer of rock, with a cloth-wrapped object at his feet.

"Come on, what do you take a chat between friends for? Therapy? She doesn't actually need anyone to talk her through things." Gerald walked to Kannott's side and looked toward the distant horizon. "She knows exactly what she needs to do."

"I can see that. I usually have little interest in receiving a Columbian entrepreneur, but I have to admit that someone capable of earning a reputation like hers is enough to make me change my attitude. On the other hand, people like that rarely meet good ends, so I sincerely hope her future differs from everything I've seen."

Kannott bent down and picked up the parcel from the ground. "But let's return to the matter at hand, friend. This belongs to you."

"For me?" Gerald took the parcel from Kannott and frowned. "So you really were waiting for me?"

"Ah, yes. Though I had no idea in what form or by what means, you still appeared before me." Kannott nodded. "When someone told me to wait for a person in the Columbian wasteland, I was quite surprised, especially considering that person's very unusual identity."

"She specifically told me not to tell you her name. You would naturally know."

Gerald instinctively looked at the parcel in his hands. "Our operation was classified... So someone gave you a prophecy?"

"I'm afraid so." Kannott sighed. "I had a feeling this would be troublesome, but friend, this matter has now entered the realm of extremely troublesome... Do you remember something I said when I first introduced myself to you?"

"I've helped many people: Rusthammer, the Cyclopes of Sami, the mysterious scholars of Sargon. Ordinarily, a prophecy can't possibly provide an exact time, and its usual outcome is self-fulfillment. Yet she gave me a specific date."

"Considering the identity of the one who commissioned me, there is a very, very serious problem here."

"I'm beginning to feel afraid." Kannott silently turned his gaze toward Pegasus beside him. "But no matter what, delivering this parcel into your hands is a transaction I must complete."

Gerald nodded. His eyes lowered, and the flow had already told him what was inside. "Do you mind if I open it?"

"Why would I?" Kannott clearly had no objection. "My professional ethics forbid me from opening it, but I can certainly satisfy a little of my curiosity with your permission."

So Gerald tore away the outer wrapping.

When he saw the actual object, his breathing stopped for a second.

Inside was a sword.

His family's sword.

"You look surprised."

Kannott's words pulled Gerald from his thoughts. He continued, "There's a triangular symbol on the sword, the emblem of Kazimierz. Combined with the intricate patterns and excessive ornamentation, yet considerable practicality, it is clearly a model example of Kazimierz noble craftsmanship. It isn't difficult to guess that this is a sword of the Windchaser family."

Gerald was silent for a while before saying, "It is. But under normal circumstances, it should be displayed in my home right now."

"Perhaps someone is trying to hint at something?" Kannott nodded, his tone carrying a probing note, though he clearly knew where the line was. "In any case, now that the transaction is complete, I think I should remove myself from this matter. I hope you find the answer soon, friend."

His figure vanished into the darkness beyond the rocks, leaving Gerald alone to run his fingers over the blade's surface.

Setting aside the objective fact that no two swords in this world were completely identical, he himself rarely used the Windchaser family's sword. Using such a distinctive weapon on the battlefield was no different from exposing his identity to others.

Thus, ever since he inherited the title of Long Rider, this sword had remained neglected in his basement for a long time, only being brought out during certain ceremonies or important occasions.

But accordingly, there was one place where he had indeed used it, and where people had truly seen him wielding it.

The dream.

He held the sword horizontally before his chest and assumed a defensive stance.

Following the way he had fought that Feline general in the dream, he recreated every movement in reality—smoothly, without the slightest hitch, as though the weapon were an extension of his arm.

Those one hundred and nine duels had long since accustomed him to this sword's balance. Even if he were handed a standard Kazimierz military longsword, it might not feel as natural as this one.

Yet this sword held no scent of blood. It was more like a vase meant purely for decoration. If he had to face powerful opponents next, it might even risk breaking.

After all, more than a century had passed since this sword had been forged. No matter how excellent the craftsmanship had been, in an age where every kind of technology had steadily improved, it was no longer especially impressive.

At that thought, Gerald pulled out the ornament at his chest. Over the past few days, he had made sure to remove it before sleeping and hold it in his hand.

At this moment, that one-fifth of nothingness still remained glaringly in the center, showing no sign of changing.

An unfamiliar ceiling.

Or rather, the wilderness itself had no concept of ceilings. The only possibility was that he had returned to the Banshee's River Valley.

It did not take him long to gather his thoughts and feel his limbs again. However, unlike the last time he entered the dream, he was not lying in the room the Banshees had originally provided.

It could even be said that he had no time to consider the room's layout or construction—because at this moment, a hand that did not belong to him was gently stroking his forehead.

He forcibly suppressed the urge to draw his sword and cut it off.

Ten days had passed, and clearly recalling the previous dream was no easy matter. Yet his battle with Lamaline remained deeply etched in his mind. His final memory was of the Banshee lord bringing him to her bedroom and treating his wounds... In other words, at this moment, he was the severely injured one being cared for.

"Good morning, Gerald."

A gentle voice, like a fragrant breeze, came from above him.

He raised his head, and his gaze met a pair of crimson eyes.

"I hope I didn't disturb your rest." Lamaline stroked his silver-white hair. Though it felt somewhat rough, the faint smile on her face seemed to show that she particularly enjoyed this tranquil moment. "The Incantation put you to sleep for some time."

"How long was I asleep?" Gerald tried to speak normally as he usually did, but before his words could fully leave his mouth, the rough, knife-like pain in his throat made him instantly realize that the problem was likely far more serious than it appeared.

"Three months."

The words from Lamaline's mouth were entirely at odds with her casual tone, nearly freezing his body solid.

"Three months." He instinctively repeated Lamaline's words, then immediately tried to climb to his feet—fortunately, his body was still as agile as ever. "But I was conscious even after the battle ended."

"Under the same Incantation, Banshees often remain unconscious longer than you did. Some Banshees even spend much of their youth in that muddled state. And the Incantations they suffer don't even come from my power."

Lamaline was completely unsurprised. "Aside from certain special races among the Sarkaz, an ordinary person who took even one full-force Incantation from a lord of the Royal Courts could never merely fall unconscious. You endured three of them, not counting the Incantation used for cutting—that alone says a great deal."

"However, there is something that concerns me." She paused slightly, removed her hand from Gerald's hair, and gently touched his forehead, as though carefully sensing whether there was anything abnormal about his body. "Your vitality remained unusually vigorous throughout your coma."

"What does that mean?"

Gerald silently turned his head aside, trying to avoid Lamaline's touch.

He was still somewhat unaccustomed to such contact when it wasn't necessary.

"It means you may have been able to wake up earlier."

After the other party had so clearly expressed his rejection, Lamaline's disappointment was plain to see. Yet she quickly concealed that expression, which should not have appeared at all. "The essence of Banshee Incantations lies in the soul. Flesh and soul are one; when consciousness is completely lost, a body deprived of its soul gradually approaches death. Banshees sometimes use sparring between Incantations to experience that sensation."

"...I understand. Thank you."

Asking more questions was no substitute for action.

Gerald took a deep breath, firmly planted both feet on the ground, and supported himself upright. He raised a hand to stop Lamaline, who had immediately wanted to step forward and help.

His clothes had been completely replaced with a brand-new outfit. His original ring rested quietly on the table, while his sword and scabbard were neatly placed side by side beside the bed. Clearly, the room's owner had given them extra thought, or she would not have left such obstructive objects in a place used every day.

Gerald slowly walked to the bedside, reached for the hilt, and drew the sword.

The instant his fingertips touched it, cold metal passed into them, and at the same time, that familiar scent of blood entered his nose.

This truly was not the same sword.

But if that was the case—how should he explain the prophecy Kannott had told him about, and the sword he had obtained in reality?

"Are you alright, Gerald?" He heard the Banshee lord's concern behind him.

"I'm fine."

Gerald calmly sheathed the sword and let out a soft breath.

At least for now, there was one conclusion he could tentatively draw.

Perhaps he should not have been unconscious for three whole months.

Seeing Gerald's current state, the Banshee leader slowly rose as well. Without heels, she was still a few inches shorter than Gerald, but that could not conceal the fact that she was tall.

In her own room, she no longer wore the solemn, imposing attire Gerald was familiar with. Instead, she had changed into more relaxed clothes suited for the home.

A dark robe draped to her ankles, its intricate patterns resembling faint gleams of light emerging from the night. Her long hair had not been deliberately arranged and merely fell loosely over her shoulders, with several slightly curled strands hanging by her cheeks.

The dark veil that had once concealed her face no longer needed to be worn—at least, not in this room, not before him.

Lamaline walked lightly to the window and slowly pushed it open. The wind carried a fresh scent as it rushed in, and the tireless chirping of birds echoed in his ears.

The days when spring turned to summer had arrived.

Searching for the rules amid endless possibilities felt like this again.

To sort through his thoughts, the first thing he had to trace was the passage of time—just like when he defeated the Feline general, after defeating Lamaline this time, he had also gained a period in which he could move freely. And likewise, the phenomenon of time passing had only appeared after he entered the dream for the second time.

That meant the passage of time could, for the moment, be tied to [defeat/major story progression], but as for the sword and the prophecy...

Even in reality, his current actions were entirely uncertain. Neither Mansfield's final destination nor the direction they would choose to leave could be predicted.

Unless it was a prophecy.

But a prophecy could not accurately determine time, which made this another contradiction that could not be resolved without setting aside [abilities beyond existing understanding].

Therefore, under the current conditions, the only possibility was that he had personally told that [she], who had then passed the "prophecy" on to Kannott.

If that assumption held true, then it raised a question:

Perhaps the him in the dream really was experiencing the past, perhaps even becoming a part of history. As one of the unrecorded heroes, he might truly have participated in that battle against the allied armies of three nations.

Then—

He understood what he needed to do.

Lamaline gently raised her hand, her fingertips tracing an arc through the air. Fine Incantations, like flowing light, drifted softly around her. Those faint words dissolved into the air in an instant and floated away on the wind.

When she turned around, she saw the expression on Pegasus's face.

"..." Lamaline's smile faded. She gently straightened, her movements carrying a hint of imperceptible caution. "Gerald, are you really alright?"

"I'm fine, Lamaline. Better than ever." Gerald placed his sword at his waist, raised his head toward her, and answered seriously, "In the end, I found that the unknown and uncertainty were the most frightening things. Once the doubts in your heart have an answer, things become much easier to handle."

Pegasus responded in the same tone he had always used—though by always, he meant in reality.

The him in the dream had always been somewhat hesitant, but there was no need for that now.

He put the ring beside the bed back on, feeling the wind in the room, while his heart was calmer than it had ever been in the dream.

Twenty-six years old, still an ordinary man alone. Perhaps he had a few friends, companions worthy of sharing his heart with, and strength enough to overturn certain powers.

But in the end, he had no anchor where he could remain for long.