Alistair did not move.The alley stretched in silence, steeped in shadows that flickered and curled beneath the dim lamplight. The unconscious dragonkin at his feet remained as he had left it—crumpled, breath shallow, its form bathed in the faint traces of dissipating runes.
But Alistair's attention was no longer on the defeated creature.It was on the presence lingering at the alley's mouth.Something watched.His spirituality stirred, a faint tremor rippling through the fibers of his being. It was not fear. No, the sensation was far colder, deeper—a whisper of recognition, of something that did not belong, something that pressed against the world's fabric with an authority it had not been granted.Not oppressive.
Not hostile.Simply… wrong.Like himself.A step forward. The movement was neither cautious nor bold. It simply was unhurried and precise. The darkness did not cling to the figure so much as yield to it, folding around its form as though unwilling to settle. Even the air seemed reluctant to define it, blurring its features—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in garments that bore the elegance of another era, yet lacked a clear place in time.And then—a smile.
Not wide. Not exaggerated. A simple curl of the lips, deliberate, patient."You do not conceal yourself," the man observed. His voice was smooth, rich with an eerie resonance that did not merely reach the ears but settled—into the stone, into the air, into Alistair's mind itself. "Is it confidence? Or recklessness?"Alistair studied him, his expression betraying nothing.The voice was wrong. Not in tone, but in weight. It did not belong wholly to this world. It carried something else, something greater.
Not a king's command.
Not a scholar's wisdom.
Something older.He did not answer immediately. Instead, his fingers tightened subtly around the parchment in his grasp, the ink-stained runes shimmering once before falling into stillness. The dragonkin would not wake soon.
He had time."I did not expect an audience," Alistair finally said, his voice even, unshaken. "Much less one so… particular."A chuckle. Low, knowing."Particular?" The man tilted his head, considering the word as though tasting it for the first time. "Yes. I suppose you could say that."
Another step forward. The mist swirling at the alley's edges parted for him, revealing more of his form. The garments he wore—dark, refined—seemed untouched by dust or damp, yet bore an archaic quality. The weight of his presence did not press down on the world. No, it was subtler than that. It was contained, restricted, as though what stood before Alistair was but the shadow of something vaster, something folded into the shape of a man."You already know what I am," the man said.
His gaze, though unreadable, was piercing. "Just as I know what you are, in a sense we are the same but entirely different,he continued, his smile growing. How long had it been since your transmission to this world??"Alistair's mind sharpened. The realization did not come as a revelationbut as an inevitability.
He had read of such beings. He had pieced together their existence through fragmented knowledge, whispers carried by pages inked in secrecy.But to stand before one—to speak—Different. Entirely different.His fingers twitched around the parchment. The ink pulsed beneath his touch.He knows.Not entirely. Not yet. But enough.
Enough to ask the right questions.Alistair exhaled softly as he figured out who this person was in front of him from their speech and mannerisms,, which was literally not from this era of the world:: "Grisha,," he thought to himself. "If you already know the answer," he said, "why ask?"A flicker of amusement passed through the man's gaze."Because I wish to hear you speak it."Silence stretched between them. The night pressed close, damp with the scent of rain and stone, with the faint traces of blood left in the wake of battle.Then, finally—"Today," Alistair said.
Not a lie. Not the whole truth.
The man regarded him for a moment longer, as if weighing the words, testing their weight against some unseen scale. Then, with a quiet hum, he nodded."Then we are alike in that matter also."
Alistair did not react outwardly, but his thoughts coiled inward. He too?The man's posture remained relaxed, but his eyes gleamed with something sharper. "Tell me, then. Your Pathway—what is it?"A test. A probe. Or simple trickery in this era: a pathway's name, sequence, or corresponding characteristic is no different than gold.
Alistair's expression did not shift. "I would think someone of your nature understands the value of secrets."A laugh. Not forced. Not mirthless. Genuine, in its own way."True."The man did not press further. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, as if considering something unseen. "
And your Sefirot? Your sequence?"Alistair allowed the corner of his lips to curve slightly. Not a smile. Just enough to acknowledge the game they were playing."You ask rather intimate questions.""Curiosity is a virtue.""Is it?""In the right hands."Alistair let the silence settle before he spoke again. "I trust you," he said, tone light but firm. "But trust does not equate to relinquishing one's advantage. There are things I will not share,, as I am sureure you understand."
A glint of something unreadable flickered through the man's gaze. Then, with a small nod, he relented. "Fair."The air between them shifted, the tension easing—not into comfort, but into understanding. A silent acknowledgment.Then—"I have an offer."Alistair raised a brow."I seek to unmake the gods, gods of a particular pathway group."
The words carried weight. Not mere ambition, not the ramblings of a heretic. Conviction.Alistair's expression did not waver, but inwardly, his mind unraveled the statement, dissecting it, measuring it."And?"The man's lips curled into something neither a smile nor a smirk—an expression too precise to be either."I want you to stand beside me."
A pause. Not long. Just enough for the implications to settle.Alistair did not speak immediately. He considered. Weighed. Measured.Partnership. A simple word. A dangerous one.Finally, his gaze sharpened."If I am to align myself with you, I will require two things."The man gestured for him to continue."First," Alistair said, voice steady, "I need your aid in orchestrating the deaths of four Sequence Threes of different pathways."
Grisha showed a flicker of interest. Not surprised. As if the request had been expected to a certain extent.
"And the second?""A quarter of all those we save," Alistair said smoothly, "shall be mine. As my believers and by extension my anchors."
A pause. A consideration.Then—Laughter. Low, rich, unrestrained."Hehehe, very well, it seems I was wrong about you."
The man lifted a hand. A flick of his wrist, and a parchment appeared between his fingers, dark ink shifting across its surface. He extended it forward."When you are ready to begin," he said, "recite my honorific name."
Alistair took the parchment without hesitation. He did not read it yet. He did not need to.He glanced up—But the man was gone.
The alley was empty once more, save for the unconscious dragonkin and the lingering whisper of something that had already slipped beyond mortal grasp.Alistair exhaled slowly as he read the parchment in his mind.
The lord of the forgotten, unrealized, and the scholar of the forgotten world
The Clock-Hand that Tampers with Time and Shadow that Roams across Fate, The embodiment of errors
Reading Grisha's honorific name,
Alister felt a sense of relief. He knew that since earlier, Grisha had been probing him to see what knowledge he knew; hence the reason he asked for his second request to be anchors, showing he had knowledge at least to the level of an angel or god since he stressed the importance of anchors.
But now he knew that Grisha was at best a god of the sun pathway and at least a king of error pathway via using its authority; as long as Alister could complete his ritual to advance to Sequence four, he had no need to worry about the current Grisha.
With his heart now steady, Alister continued to walk along the streets, looking for other ways to test his abilities.
[END OF CHAPTER]