Randolph's Most Precious Thing

Heavenly Demon gripped the Cheonmado tight.

At last. It has returned to me.

It felt as though a severed limb had regenerated. How long had he waited for this reunion?

Truly, the days of humiliation had been endless.

On the first day he had lost his starlight duel against the Dreadful Omen. When he went looking to reclaim what was his, he ran straight into the Sunken Emperor.

If only I had held the Cheonmado then, that wretch would have been nothing.

Yet even against the Sunken Emperor he had suffered a defeat that bordered on utter disgrace. Had the saber been in his hand, he never would have endured such humiliation.

…The Night Spirit.

In that moment of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mortal peril—on the brink of death—he had seized upon a desperate gambit, lunged at the Night Spirit, and been transferred into the Star's Prison.

And there he had lost yet another of his "most precious things."

I still don't know what the Spirit took from me. A memory, most likely.

The problem was that he could not tell what had been stolen. His inner power remained intact. His martial arts were unchanged. That left only one possibility: memory. And one cannot recognize what one no longer remembers.

Still—lose one thing, gain another. Or so the saying went.

"Dreadful Omen… to think you would come looking for me."

Heavenly Demon cast his mind back to the night before.

Not long after his release from the prison, the Dreadful Omen had appeared astride Baal. Startling, yes—but Heavenly Demon had not fled. With the Cheonmado right before his eyes, how could he possibly turn away?

And when he faced the Dreadful Omen head-on, he could only stare in bewilderment.

—Let us trade. The Sunken Emperor's trinket for the Cheonmado.

The creature had, out of nowhere, proposed a deal.

From Heavenly Demon's perspective, it was not a bad offer. The Dreadful Omen seemed to have a Night Spirit's aid, and more importantly, his own inner power had yet to recover.

I had no use for the thing anyway.

A tiny water bottle of utterly unclear purpose. Trading that for the Cheonmado—for a moment he wondered if the creature had simply gone mad.

I planned to attack the instant I got the saber back.

He had no intention of honoring the trade in good faith, either. Once the Cheonmado was his again, he was confident he could crush anyone on this island.

But Heavenly Demon never achieved his goal.

He exchanged the saber for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that tiny, unidentifiable bottle—and then could only watch as the Dreadful Omen simply walked away.

…My inner power won't flow into it. What is this?

Gripping the Cheonmado should have made his power surge explosively. Instead, the energy would not even enter the blade.

Then he understood why.

Is the Cheonmado… afraid of that thing?

The moment the Dreadful Omen vanished from sight, his inner power flooded into the saber in a violent rush—as though the blade itself had been cowering in terror. He had never seen anything like it. Far from being consumed, the Dreadful Omen had done something to the Cheonmado. What, exactly, he could not say.

"…When next we meet, you will not leave this place alive."

Regardless—he had reclaimed the Cheonmado. That was enough. Once his body recovered, there would be nothing left to fear. Not the Sunken Emperor. Not the Dreadful Omen. Should either of them face him again, they would not walk away breathing.

God's Island? The Star Expedition?

Those things could wait. The deaths of those two came first.

Heavenly Demon's expression hardened as he steeled his resolve.

A cold wind cut straight through me.

As if I were meeting him for the first time. No—it truly was the first time.

That old man…

At our first encounter, the old man had claimed to be a fragment of the Sunken Emperor—nothing more than a projection of his distant past self. That would explain why his appearance and temperament were completely different.

Could he have been a Night Spirit?

Perhaps the Night Spirit had simply taken that form. The Night Spirits were nothing like ordinary NPCs prepared for this game. The one that had stood guard before the cave had clearly possessed a will of its own. Most likely, real people had been brought in to fill those roles—and when morning came, the Night Spirits simply imitated other participants and continued the game…

One of this game's hidden elements is the Night Spirits themselves. Participants beyond the participants.

Looked at that way, everything fit. If they were mere rule-bound NPCs, it would have been strange for one of them to refuse to intervene when a battle broke out at the cave mouth.

Therefore, they too were participants. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠To us, they were Night Spirits. To them, we were the Spirits of Morning.

"…I asked what you want."

The Sunken Emperor had no patience. His posture said he would attack the moment I failed to produce an answer. And it was morning now—a time when both Star Expedition duels and ordinary combat were possible.

But the Sunken Emperor had once mistaken me for Ruin and withdrawn. So this would not be a contest of raw force. He seemed quite confident in a starlight duel.

I finished arranging my thoughts and spoke briefly.

"Strange."

"…?"

My doubts about the old man's identity applied equally to the Sunken Emperor standing before me now. So I tested him.

"If this bottle is your 'most precious thing,' you should have at least checked whether it was real or fake."

I drew the bottle from my coat again and gave it a shake. At the same time, its form shifted—into a goat mask.

I had used one of the options applied to the Archetypal Armor: Shape Transformation. Of course, I had only copied the appearance. No matter how precise the imitation, its true owner should have known at a glance whether it was genuine.

And yet the man showed not the slightest suspicion. The proof: he had asked me twice what I wanted in exchange.

Was that not truly strange?

I thought the old man was the fake.

At first I had assumed the old man who spent the night with me was the real Night Spirit. Apparently not.

"You are not the Sunken Emperor."

"What are you—"

Crack!

In the same instant, fissures raced across his entire body and his form began to change. Like a shell shattering, something entirely different emerged from within—not the Sunken Emperor, but a gaunt man with white hair.

"Ah…! Heavenly Venerable!"

And with those final words, the man crumbled into ash and vanished.

For a moment I was speechless. He truly had not been the Sunken Emperor.

Just as I thought—a Night Spirit. A being that, come morning, disguised itself as a participant and sowed chaos.

But mere suspicion was not enough to destroy one. Proper grounds were required. Exactly as I had just provided.

Heavenly Venerable, was it?

Moreover, the words the man left behind before vanishing stuck strangely in my ear. There was only one participant who could be called Heavenly Venerable.

Heavenly Demon.

The man who led countless fanatics and reigned like a god over Heavenly Mountain. According to the Evil God's memories, his disciples called him Heavenly Venerable.

It seems reasonable to conclude that the Night Spirits have ties to the participants as well.

Deep ties, at that. But eliminating the Spirits was indispensable for victory. A boost of fifty Attack and fifty HP was something even a five-star starlight struggled to provide. And if every Spirit was destroyed, Night would never come again—meaning victory and defeat would be decided solely through starlight duels.

I liked that. I liked all of it. There was just one thing that nagged at me.

The Spirit that protected me.

The identity of the one that had stood guard before the cave. Without that Spirit, I would have met my end inside. Which made me all the more curious—who on earth would protect me?

Surely not…

One name came to mind.

…Isabella?

No. I shook my head. Impossible. Isabella could not be a Night Spirit. She had promised me—no matter what happened, she would wait outside.

And yet, if by some chance she truly had opened that door and stepped through…

I have to end this game as fast as possible.

I had to finish this damned game as quickly as I could. The longer the clear time stretched, the higher the chance Isabella would be extinguished.

"Raiga. What are your Attack and HP?"

I turned and asked. Raiga answered,

"Why do you need to know that?"

I shrugged as if it were nothing.

"The Night Spirit we just saw was imitating the Sunken Emperor. This is in case one appears imitating you. We should share information about each other in advance."

We were on the same side. Knowing each other beforehand mattered. He did not like it, but it was true enough, so Raiga replied with a sour look.

"…Sixty and fifty-eight. What about you?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

"…?"

Fwoooosh!

Wide eyes of pure shock. Quivering cheeks. Betrayed, Raiga trembled with rage and roared,

"You…!!"

Shwoom!

But the shout never finished. Raiga's form vanished in an instant, as if evaporating.

He'll survive a few days, at least.

A betrayal, if one insisted on calling it that—but I had no choice. Not if I meant to end this game quickly.

That made three victories. And as promised, I intended to improve Raiga's condition from within as well.

I was also curious.

A book?

What was Raiga's most precious possession? An old volume of indeterminate age, with no title written anywhere on it.

Rustle.

I opened it and began to read. The contents were nothing special—an ordinary child-rearing diary.

A growth journal of Raiga, written by the previous master of the Palga.

Someone had watched Raiga grow and recorded it. Nine-tenths of the entries concerned taking in an orphaned child and putting him through grueling training.

The book's contents and the memories don't match.

But the memories bound to the book told a different story. The previous master of the Palga, captivated by Raiga's talent, had murdered his parents, forcibly abducted the young child, and then killed everyone involved. He had erased every trace and distorted Raiga's memories as well.

…Not a master. A mortal enemy.

Insane. To think he had treasured a growth journal written by his own worst enemy as his "most precious thing."

Raiga. The reality of his life was more horrific than anything I could have imagined.

"…"

I closed the book and let out a short breath. Thanks to it, my lingering doubts had hardened ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into certainty.

Nothing but memories one would rather not know.

The Cheonmado. The copper coin the Owner of the Tomb held so dear. This diary as well. All of them held only memories better left unknown—memories that forced one to confront a painful truth.

If Heavenly Demon learned that the Evil God intended to seize his body, could he break free of that cycle? If the Owner of the Tomb discovered that the golem-master who created him was already long dead, how deep would his despair run? And if Raiga learned that his master was his bitterest foe, he would never climb out of it.

"Owner of the Tomb."

Goooooh.

The creature had been watching me for some time. But on the first day on the island, the Owner of the Tomb had already won a starlight duel once. There was no reason to duel again.

Even so, I released every starlight I held.

And then—

"I need to know what my most precious thing is."

Memories one would rather not know. And yet, memories one absolutely must know. I, too, would have a contradictory memory bound to my "most precious thing"—something that cut to the very core of my existence.

So I had to know.

I had hesitated, it was true. But with the possibility that Isabella might be a Spirit, I could no longer afford to wait.

Goooooh.

Grasping my intent, the Owner of the Tomb embroidered its own starlight across the empty air.

A scene I could never allow Raiga to witness. I could not let him learn what my precious thing was. But the Owner of the Tomb was different. I trusted the pure heart of a being that had wandered the Abyss for eons in search of its master. Just as I had returned what was his, he would return what was mine—along with the memories bound to it.

Shwooom!