The resurrection of the fragment of the God of Time.

It was a truly astonishing experience.

The senses were the first to disappear.

The breath that caught in his throat, the light flooding everything, the pain of his wounds, even the silhouettes of the fallen gods—all of it faded and vanished one after another.

His consciousness drifted somewhere outward.

Past... Present, future?

Moments that had not yet been born.

Dozens of lives in which he had already died.

Moments he had never lived, and choices he had forgotten.

All of time surged over him at once.

A torrent of information.

Only then did Gunther truly understand the meaning of what Ellen Beyra had said.

Time does not flow.

It unfolds.

Like one enormous chronicle.

Layered narratives and completed outcomes crashed down upon him.

It was a “view” no human could endure.

And yet, Gunther’s sense of self did not collapse.

...On the contrary, it was being reborn, becoming clearer and clearer.

[Attribute: ◈]

Rank: Primordial

— As a bearer of a higher-order essence, you cannot form contracts with other gods from a subordinate position. However, “acceptance of contracts” is possible on your own terms.

— You may obtain and use Karma — proof that fate has been rewritten.

— Within a certain number of times, “Return After Death” is possible.

— Authority: “Partial Co-Regression” unlocked.

— Signature of the “One-Eyed King” acquired.

— Authority: “Reading” unlocked.

— Authority: “Compass” unlocked.

— Authority: “Co-Regression” unlocked.

※ At the end of a long repetition, you have finally realized the true name hidden within fate. As a Savior bearing a fragment of the God of Time, your temporal authorities are redefined and strengthened.

(Update)

Gunther slowly opened his eyes.

Within the vast chronicle, the story of El—the Child of Miracles—unfolded.

El’s talent had been a blessing to the entire village. A kind girl who eased the suffering of frequently injured herbalists and farmers. But in the eyes of Luthien, it was not a miracle—only another form of heresy. And so her home was set ablaze, and those she loved turned to ash.

From that day on, El stopped loving alchemy.

The hands that once preserved life learned to destroy it. Drugs, poisons, concoctions capable of breaking a person completely. In the deepest darkness of the city, people whispered her name with bated breath.

Queen of Poisons.

Then she met her companions. Those who allowed her to use alchemy once more in the way she had loved. Imperfect, scarred, but people she could trust with her back.

Of course, that path was not smooth either. She had to place lives on the scales and send those she saved back to the battlefield. Someone’s tomorrow was built upon another’s sacrifice.

Even so, she did not stop. Accepting everything—pain, guilt, regret. She turned her life into one grand alchemical process and refined it into this final moment.

To the place and time where one could reach the God of Time.

Dietrich’s origin was noble.

The second son of a family of renowned swordsmen.

A respected knight for a father.

A compassionate mother.

An admirable older brother who always led the way.

A childhood loved by their people.

His youth flowed without flaw. If there was any imperfection, it was in his talent. The hands that held the sword were diligent, but he was no genius.

Thus, his only hobby was sparring with fellow aristocrats to hone his skill. Pleasant company, light battles.

His smooth life was trampled by a single small decision made by another.

It was an era when the Cult of Repose deeply interfered with the affairs of the continent. Amid chaos, the lord his family had sworn loyalty to rose in rebellion to seize power.

It was the end. The war was lost, the family fell.

On the battlefield lay his father’s headless body, never buried.

From a beam in their once warm estate—his mother’s body.

His brother and the servants were captured, either killed or sold into slavery.

Only Dietrich survived, having managed to escape.

Under the moonlight, in a desolate wasteland where no one remained, the boy realized for the first time: a human life could be distorted against one’s will. A single decision from those above could erase the dignity of countless people.

The kind-hearted youth did not see this tragedy as his alone.

Dietrich desired. He desired a world where people could at least choose the form of their own lives.

For that to happen, one entity had to vanish from the continent.

Luthien.

The moment he recognized his enemy, the sword ceased to be a game, and the talent that had slept within him awakened.

After countless defeats and victories, Dietrich reached the endpoint of the path of the sword, and finally set out to find companions to fulfill his goal.

Through endless hardships, he arrived here.

And Kalos.

His story followed—the son of a courtesan.

His father had called for him. Said he would take him in as a bearer of noble blood.

But the boy shook his head. He chose to remain in the back alleys, beside his mother and the courtesans who had protected him under the red lantern light.

People live by inertia. That choice he made in youth determined much of Kalos’s life.

The weak. The abandoned. Those whose suffering was treated as natural. Kalos became someone who could not turn away from them.

And as a result, he understood: to protect, you need power.

Fortunately, he had weapons. His appearance. A face that drew people in. And the instincts sharpened on the streets—sociability that allowed him to blend in anywhere.

He used it. Deceived, connected, traded, mixed lies with truth when needed, and wove invisible threads between those in power.

Information.

He gathered it, deployed it, manipulated it.

Someone’s secrets became blades, someone’s past a collar. That was how he built his influence.

A king behind the curtain. A ruler without a face. The one who monopolized the whispers of power.

...But one who controls information inevitably draws wrath. One day, the reckoning came.

The streets Kalos loved were consumed by crimson flames, and everything he had built collapsed overnight.

No people, no name, no position—nothing remained. Only a man wandering in regret.

It was Dietrich who picked him up.

One who opens the path with a sword, and one who designs that path. Kalos became his strategist. The one who reads the battlefield, forces choices, and decides what must be sacrificed first to save as many as possible.

He still wanted to protect the weak. But now he knew: not everyone could be saved.

So sometimes, he abandoned the weak. If it meant saving more, he did not hesitate.

...Even if it was the woman he loved.

Through those endlessly painful choices, he arrived here.

Child of Miracles, El.

Executioner of the Apocalypse, Dietrich.

Blood Oath, Kalos.

Each of their stories was unique. The paths they walked, the burdens they carried, the way they made their choices—everything was different.

But the point they reached in the end was the same. And what they desired was only one thing.

They did not crave “victory.” They did not cling to survival or to leaving their names in history.

If someone’s tomorrow could be built upon the place where they fell—that was enough. If their lives did not simply vanish, spent and gone, but reached something, left a trace, and were carried forward—then their existence had meaning.

Let them not be remembered. Let no one call their names or recognize them—it didn’t matter. Just one single proof that the time they had lived had not been in vain.

For that, they were willing to give everything. Even if their bodies were shattered, their names erased, their very existence gone—it was fine.

“Just once more... give humanity time to rise again.”

“I will stop here. But let humanity go forward.”

“...Make it so that at least this choice... was not in vain.”

...If “God” truly existed, could such a plea be ignored?

The moment Gunther thought that—

He realized he had touched “something.” And at last, he felt the process of contract formation begin.

Darkness. A space where not a single glimmer of light was allowed. And soon, three figures emerged.

El. Dietrich. Kalos.

They stood there with astonished expressions, as if they had realized something. And between them stood Gunther himself.

Gunther’s hand rose.

Beyond his will.

No—becoming will itself.

His fingertips unfolded three intertwined threads.

El’s time.

Dietrich’s time.

Kalos’s time.

Heavy. The weight of narratives layered over and over was not something one could wield carelessly. It was not merely the sum of their lives, but the very symbol of humanity’s resistance.

And yet, they moved first.

El closed her eyes.

Dietrich set down his sword.

Kalos smirked.

There was no hesitation. Their choice had been made long ago.

[...Farewell]

[We’ll meet again]

[It’ll be soon, right?]

Crack!

The three threads shattered into light. The silhouettes of the three gods bound to them lost form, leaving only a faint residual glow swaying in the void. All of it poured into Gunther through his hand.

◈ did not miss it.

It seized it. And began to edit.

Organizing fragmented time. Connecting broken causality. Forcibly aligning impossible conditions.

There is no absolute salvation. No guaranteed victory. But there is one thing.

A condition under which humanity can survive.

That minimum foundation—was created.

Craaaack!

Reality tore apart. A flow that had not existed was forcibly overlaid onto the present.

At that cost, the magnificent stories of the three were completely severed. Not even a trace remained. No names, no memory, no record. From this moment on, they did not exist anywhere in this world—except within a “gap.”

But what they sacrificed did not disappear. Changing form, it became a single worldline.

Gunther looked down upon it from above.

And understood.

This world. This unbroken flow. The place he would one day step into again. The world where he must fight, endure, and ultimately become the Savior.

Cause creates effect.

And effect becomes cause once more.

A closed loop.

In truth, it had all been one connection from the very beginning.

Gunther opened his hand.

Shhh—

The three threads vanished completely.

At the same time, the creation of a single world was complete.

Time began to “flow” again.

And in place of the three who left no trace, the single possibility they created began to quietly guide the world forward.

Gunther watched in silence.

Then closed his eyes.

.

.

.

When he opened them again, he was in a forest.

Sunlight filtered through dense greenery, sliding across the leaves. A slow wind passed by, and the rustling of leaves brushing against one another sounded like breathing. Aside from the light chirping of an unknown bird, everything was steeped in tranquility.

As if all the storms from before had been a lie.

He lay in the middle of the forest.

Meeting the gaze of blue eyes looking down at him.

— Gunther.

— Ellen.

— Did you see it all?

Gunther rose with a short breath.

Yes.

He had seen everything.

And because of that, there was a question he had to ask.