Don Quixote.
The old man Ye Qiyan had met at the Eighth Station in the Wasteland.
He was still just as he had been when they first met.
He wore battered armor, and his disheveled beard clearly had not been groomed.
Even though he had become a Train Conductor and traveled through many Platforms, the short, stout Sancho still followed behind him on a donkey, and his own mount was still that listless-looking old nag.
He was Don Quixote.
The archetype of all the world's failures.
The protagonist of a book, the weakest and also the greatest knight.
"Long time no see, Don Quixote."
Ye Qiyan took off his sunglasses.
Come to think of it, this was the first time since leaving the Knight's Plains that he had actually had time to talk to him without any unusual circumstances.
Last time, at that public Trial Platform, he had been busy fighting and simply had not had the time.
Don Quixote's eyes were still filled with fervor, a fervor born of his absolute belief in becoming a knight who saved the weak.
It was also the source of his [Witness Truth and Falsehood], which remained of great use to Ye Qiyan even now.
Those fervent eyes were Don Quixote's [Talent] in this Wasteland.
"You really haven't changed at all. Aren't you planning to get some new equipment or anything?"
"Haha, no, no. Equipment I get elsewhere doesn't feel right to wear. I'd rather use what I make myself. I have a master blacksmith Module, you know. My Dragon Knight friend, if you ever want anything forged, just come to me.
"Hmm? Why are you still standing here? He's my friend, a very righteous knight, not an enemy."
The Guards swallowed, furiously grumbling inwardly.
They wanted to move, too.
But the Skull-Piercing