The Watchman scratched his messy hair and gulped down some Whiskey. "Though I know that in every child's heart, their father is a towering figure. I'm glad you still see me as such a great father—but this really can't be done."
He swirled the bottle, amber liquid leaving mottled traces along the glass. "Precept can only suppress those with bloodlines lower than mine, but that's a First Generation Dragon—the King of Bronze and Fire. Other than that supreme being, no one has a nobler bloodline than his."
Manstein hung up the phone in disappointment.
In his memory, that old man had never been some towering, great father. He was the kind of scumbag who got drunk in a casino on his son's birthday and could not even be bothered to ride the Carousel with him.
If he had not truly run out of options, he would never have contacted him with the attitude of giving it a try.
He shook his head at the others in the control room. "Even the Watchman has no solution."
The Library's central control room fell into Silence, unease and anxiety slowly devouring everyone's hearts.
Constantine melted through Valhalla's wall, corroding a gap large enough for one person to pass through.
He stepped outside the hall, lifted his face covered in molten-gold patterns, and drew a deep breath of the air of this era. Behind him, the melted wall continued to drip orange-red slurry, splashing tiny sparks across the ground.
He closed his eyes. His gilded lashes, revealed in the firelight, trembled lightly in the heat wave, as though listening for messages borne on the wind.
Three seconds later, those lava-like pupils abruptly opened. Fixing on a certain direction, he began to walk. Wherever he passed, the lawn became scorched earth and the stone paths