Klein thought for a mont and asked, "As a novelist yourself, what do you think the main storyline of her book might be?"
Fors spread her hands.
"To figure out the main storyline, the first step is knowing who the protagonist is, right? Who do you think it is?"
"You?"
"No way."
Klein shook the letter in his hand.
"But Edward said you're the special one."
"No."
In the candlelight, Fors's face appeared sowhat hazy, but her eyes were firm.
"She didn't pull into this world to make the main character. She just wanted to witness this world she's built with my own eyes. She wants to prove that my evaluation of her work was wrong!"
Klein blinked.
"Your critique of her novel was…what again? That the characters were poorly developed? Like emotionless puppets that only exist to tell the story?"
"Exactly."
Klein looked confused.
"But isn't that exactly what this snow-covered town feels like? All the townspeople wear smiles like puppets by day and turn into monsters at night. Even outsiders end up becoming puppets after dying multiple tis…Doesn't that confirm your critique?"
"Which is why—she never intended to build a vibrant world full of flesh-and-blood characters. Because she knew that was beyond her capabilities from the start."
Fors stepped toward Jessica.
"So, who's the main character of this book…? Isn't it obvious? Let talk to her."
Klein sat down on the nearest bench, eyes locked on Fors, prepared to act the mont anything went wrong.
The bell-ringing girl ca over and sat beside him. In a hushed voice, she asked:
"Hey, I forgot to ask earlier…Did Detective Zreal send you to find ?"
"Detective Zreal?"
Klein hadn't expected to hear that na again.
"No, he didn't."
The girl removed her hood, disappointnt crossing her face.
"Oh…I thought he'd sent you to look for ."
Klein's eyes widened.
In that mont, a flood of vague mories surfaced—This girl was Cynthia, the maid he had been searching for all along!
Right! That's how I ended up here in the first place—searching for her…
Damn it. Just how much have I forgotten?
She sighed and clutched her coat.
"I wonder how he's doing now. I still have sothing he gave ."
He's dead.
Klein hesitated but decided not to tell her.
They had no idea when—or if—they'd get out of here.
Why crush her hope now?
"What did he give you?" he asked.
She looked away.
"That's not sothing I can just tell you. If you're really his friend, ask him yourself when you see him."
Uh…I'm his friend?
Ahem. Sure. A kind-hearted lie.
And as for asking him myself…better not.
Wait, if I'd known from the start that she was Cynthia, would I have already asked her about Talim?
But I don't rember…
Should I ask again?
Just then, she stood up, bracing herself on the backrest of the bench.
Her eyes landed on the writing on Klein's hand.
"Why do you have that written on your hand?"
"Oh, just so maxims to remind myself."
She tilted her head.
"Weird maxims.
Especially the second one—'If you can't even trust yourself, who can you trust?' If you can't trust yourself…doesn't that an you can't trust the maxims you wrote?"
"Can't trust…the ones I wrote?"
Klein repeated the words.
He stared down at the three lines on the back of his hand, murmuring again:
"The ones I wrote…can't be trusted?"
There were three phrases on his hand, written before his mory loss:
Whatever you do, don't die!
Don't trust anyone—including yourself!
You'll need soone else's help.
After days of surviving, he had co to understand the first one:
Death doesn't an permanent death, but it results in mory loss—and eventually turns people into puppets like the townsfolk.
The second reminded him to be vigilant—
Even with soone like Fors, with whom he shared a degree of understanding, even knowing she was Miss Magician—he had never completely let his guard down.
The third line he was living out through cooperation with Fors.
But thinking deeper…
Aren't these things just basic survival rules here?
Why go through the trouble of writing them on my hand?
So maybe—these phrases carried deeper anings.
And if so, why not write them more clearly?
Was he…playing mind gas with himself?
Too dumb!
Edward's letter explained part of the mystery:
This was a book world, and there was an "author" observing from the shadows.
Perhaps Klein, before losing his mory, had sensed sothing wrong—and left vague, cryptic notes for himself to follow.
And the "author" likely understood his intent—but didn't stop him.
Why?
Oh.
If this world really was created by Jessica, maybe she just wanted to make her novel more interesting.
And 'Klein'…was rely a piece in her play.
Klein shook his head to clear his thoughts.
Ti to reconsider those three phrases.
He had always assud the three were separate instructions.
But what if the second phrase was an extension of the first?
"Whatever you do, don't die!"—"Don't trust anyone—including yourself!"
If you combine them:
Don't trust the phrase "Don't die."
In other words—
"I'm supposed to die?!"
But…was that theory really reliable?
Death ant mory loss.
Eventually, you'd beco a puppet like the others.
But aside from that…
Klein pondered for a long ti before whispering uncertainly:
"There's also…rebirth?"
Yes.
Every death led to a new life.
All previous injuries would be fully healed upon revival.
That was true for him, Fors, the townspeople, and even the monsters.
It was like a ga—where monsters respawned after being defeated.
But oddly enough—the writing on his hand never disappeared, even after he "respawned."
Wait a second—
Then where do people go after they die, before they revive?
"Hey!"
Klein quickly called out to the girl who was about to leave.
"Did you say earlier that I left to find the source of the monsters?"
"Yeah, that's what you told ."
So…
Could death be the only way to reach this so-called source?
But based on his last experience of dying, the period between death and revival the next day was completely blank. It was highly likely that he entered a state of unconsciousness after death.
If that's the case, then no matter how many tis he died, it would be aningless.
Klein looked again at the third sentence on the back of his hand:
"You'll need soone else's help."
So—
There must be a thod by which others can help him stay conscious after death, allowing him to explore the world beyond death with a clear mind!
But what kind of thod would that be?
He stood still for a long ti.
Then, Klein pressed his right hand to his chest and whispered silently:
"Praise…The Fool."
———
Outside Backlund, in the Nofel Church.
Ace Snake, one of the cardinal bishops of the Church of Storms, renowned as the "Spellsinger of God."
Though he was also a demigod-level powerhouse, his personality and temperant were completely different from others of his status, like Anthony.
He was hot-tempered and impatient—entirely in line with the traits of his pathway.
The mont he landed, he ignored both Edward and Akasha and directly addressed Anthony:
"You've got ti to chat, but not ti to get rid of that monster inside? Why haven't you killed it already?"
The mont he opened his mouth, Edward deeply regretted it.
He should never have reported this to the Church of Storms!
Anthony, too, was clearly getting a headache.
He knew far too well how this "Spellsinger of God" handled matters, but right now, he had no choice but to patiently explain the situation.
"Hmph! That's nothing but unnecessary rcy! A hundred lives are nothing compared to the safety of an entire city!"
Anthony nodded slightly and stepped aside.
"Fair enough. Then I'll ask the 'Spellsinger of God' to take action."
"…"
Ace Snake might be hot-headed, but he wasn't stupid.
If they all acted together, they could coordinate their stories afterwards.
They could say it was all done for the safety of Backlund's innocent citizens.
But if he went in alone—
It would be an entirely different matter.
"Hmph!"
He snorted and glanced at Edward and Akasha.
"Who are they?"
"Nighthawks from the Church."
"Oh? I didn't know the Church of the Evernight Goddess had a vampire among their Nighthawks."
He was obviously referring to Akasha.
Akasha cheerfully waved at him.
Anthony chuckled.
"Actually, I was once a Nighthawk myself. And strictly speaking, I've never fully left the team. Aren't you also a Punisher?"
"Hmph."
At that mont, Edward asked, "Bishop Anthony, do we still have a chance of retrieving the book?"
"Yes. But it would take at least two demigods to restrain her. Only then can soone else seize the novel and the quill. However, because the book world was created by her will,
they can't be taken too far from her, at least not for a short while."
Before Edward could celebrate, Anthony added, "However, the person who gets the book and quill will be hunted down by certain parties."
"Certain parties" clearly referred to MI9—the Military Intelligence 9th Bureau.
Now the situation was clear:
There were three demigods present.
Two were needed to restrain the rampaging abomination.
The third…would be hunted by MI9.
Anthony would never oppose MI9 (and thus King George III).
Ace Snake wouldn't either.
So if the three were to cooperate, their roles were obvious.
Ace Snake paused, a thoughtful expression on his face.
A mont later, lightning suddenly surged from his body, and he shot up into the air.
"I just rembered—I have so matters to deal with at the Church. I'll be heading back first."
"…"
Oh, so now you're not impatient anymore, huh?
Anthony said calmly, "If I were 'certain parties' and saw you co here only to suddenly leave again…what do you think I'd assu?"
Ace Snake barked out a few sharp words in Feysac.
Edward didn't catch the exact words, but he was pretty sure they were curses.
Grumbling, Ace Snake dropped back to the ground, then walked into the church, plopped down on the bench near the door, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes in silence.
A few minutes later, an elderly man slowly approached, dressed in a white priest's robe and wearing a soft ceremonial hat.
He was the head bishop of the Backlund diocese under the Church of the God of Steam and Machinery—
Horamick Haydn.
"Oh? You two are both here?"
Anthony greeted him with a smile.
Ace Snake casually gestured at the empty seat next to him:
"You're here? Have a seat."
"???"
———
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