"...Amon?"
Ouroboros's voice suddenly took on a note of confusion, as though he had seen something he had never encountered before.
He had followed the Lord for a thousand years and considered himself well versed in the world; he watched fate and believed he had witnessed millions of different paths through life.
But what was this supposed to mean, Amon praying to him with Sefirah Castle hanging over his head?
He truly had never seen anything like this.
Soon, however, Ouroboros's gaze once again shook off the brief bewilderment brought on by the incomprehensible sight and grew focused:
"...No, this isn't Amon."
Indeed, the one praying to him was not Amon. He could not possibly be Amon.
If Amon-that rebellious son of the Lord-had obtained Sefirah Castle, the first thing he would have done was ascertain the Lord's condition, then drag Medici out of hell and tie him to a pillar to flaunt his Sefirah Castle.
He himself would probably not have escaped Amon's pranks either. Their meeting might have been a "summons," but it could never have taken this form.
Given Amon's humanity, that was likely the sort of thing he would do.
Waves of fate began to churn in Ouroboros's mercury-like eyes. He looked at the figure praying to him and saw a distorted, bizarre gray silhouette brimming with malice.
It resembled an animated "Sefirah Castle," something alien wearing Amon's skin.
Ouroboros tried to cast his gaze into the Spirit World, only to discover, to his astonishment, that the figure had no projection there. Yet he sensed that the Spirit World had acquired an almost imperceptible tinge of gray.
Ouroboros's gaze began to tremble, traces of fractured blood-red appearing in eyes that had been as placid as a lake.
It was as though the entire Spirit World had