Rest was not particularly necessary, but Aslan had a tendency to be unable to refuse kindness when it was offered.
Aslan sat silently without a word and watched the small back of No. 13 as they left the spot again. It seemed No. 13 turned back quickly to reassure Aslan.
When No. 13 returned, they were carrying food.
It was a pie that looked like steam could rise from it at any moment.
The faint sweetness rising in the air made Aslan genuinely surprised to see actual steam rising from the pie.
It was as if it had just been baked and brought over, a fresh pie.
After all, wasn’t this a world where everything had perished, where not even crops or a single tree could be seen?
Aslan couldn’t understand how one could bring a pie in such a devastated world, and No. 13 had no way to explain.
However, the mystery of why and how No. 13 brought the pie didn’t remain unsolved forever.
Aslan was one of the greatest magicians in history, possessing mana equivalent to 20, and an expert in magical artifacts who could understand them by sight alone.
After observing for a long time, Aslan figured out the origin of the pie No. 13 had brought.
It was Lumel’s pie.
An apple pie made with apples and spices that emitted a mysterious fragrance.
Since the deceased Lumel couldn’t possibly make food anymore, Aslan could easily infer the pie’s origin.
“Did you… stop time? With magic?”
No. 13 smiled awkwardly and shyly.
Aslan blinked in surprise after seeing the vertically slit pupils of their heterochromatic eyes disappear.
A shy smile.
Far from being an intimidating expression.
Even though it was something that neither ancient deities nor some evil deities could achieve, Aslan instead appeared somewhat awkwardly pleased with the mediocre skill.
“How?”
No. 13 opened their mouth to answer but closed it again, and Aslan sighed regretfully upon remembering something.
Though spared from harm due to the woman’s consideration where words themselves became magic, the loss of clear mysteries was still regrettable.
Despite Aslan’s sense of regret, No. 13 remained silent, and Aslan, knowing it was unavoidable, couldn’t help but feel the regret while looking at the pie.
Apple pie. It wasn’t something Aslan disliked.
Perhaps because there were memories of his mother making it a few times.
Though the taste had faded over the twelve years, the sight of it made his mouth water.
The pie, best eaten warm, was maintained at the perfect temperature.
Stopped in time, waiting to be eaten, it remained delicious.
Aslan decided not to ask how it was brought here.
“Did you bring this for me to eat?”
No. 13 shook their head with a chuckle.
Before Aslan could feel regretful, her finger drew a straight line.
The pie split into halves. Accurately divided on the metal tray, she scooped half onto a plate that seemed to have appeared from nowhere and handed it to Aslan.
“You mean we’re sharing it?”
Only then did No. 13 nod brightly.
Aslan took the pie while looking at her warm smile.
The greatest magician in history who used his masterpiece merely to share a pie with a companion.
And the warrior who crossed time, facing their own failure, reaching the ruined future.
The two sat at a shabby table.
The distance between them was awkwardly close.
Leaning against the dusty chair, the two ate the pie frozen in time.
With a crunch, the layers of the pie collapsed, and the mild sourness mixed with a sweet seasoning swirled around the tongue.
The carefully stewed new apples made the apple pie so delicate that Aslan could only think it was crafted with the meticulous care typical of Lumel’s cooking.
It was a delicious pie.
The texture was rich, and it contained a variety of flavors that never grew tiresome, its sweetness was not excessive, and the apples inside were crisp without any trace of failure.
It was a delicious pie.
It couldn’t compare to the bread he had hastily eaten earlier.
Recalling his expression when eating that bread, Aslan understood why No. 13 had brought the pie.
No. 13’s expression had softened not just gently but even carried a blush of happiness.
Aslan remembered then.
Elves were a species that didn’t need meals.
Thus, the pursuit of dining for elves was more about leisure than necessity.
Not eating to survive, they pursued gourmet experiences.
Especially gourmet experiences shared with friends.
Looking at No. 13’s happy expression, Aslan empathized with how lonely she must have been to remain alone.
Empathizing with her loneliness was painful.
The thought that this small, delicate woman would have to remain alone once again was extremely painful.
Aslan had to return.
He couldn’t stay in this ruined world.
Moreover, he knew that No. 13’s time magic would be the key to his return.
But would No. 13 allow him to leave her behind in this desolate future?
Would she agree to be abandoned alone while he went back?
If she agreed, Aslan would undoubtedly be crushed by guilt; if she refused, he would be weighed down by a sense of duty.
‘It would be good if she could come along.’
A bitter smile arose involuntarily.
Aslan couldn’t coldly tell the solitary magician who had endured for so long to remain alone.
Similarly, he couldn’t offer false hope by inviting her to come along either.
There was no way the Dark Ram would let that happen, and the outcome was entirely uncertain anyway.
False hope is sometimes more bitter than despair.
Aslan sighed unconsciously.
Aslan was someone who lived by reading others’ expressions, and such people are naturally uncomfortable with others’ suffering.
Seeking mental peace through self-justification, he couldn’t be happy alone.
That too was easier said than done.
Because No. 13’s suffering wasn’t entirely unrelated to Aslan.
It was a pain he could empathize with.
Just as Aslan’s past twelve years had been filled with loss, pain, and loneliness.
He couldn’t ignore the time No. 13 had spent alone.
Rather, his situation was likely no better, if not worse.
Aslan felt guilt.
Ultimately, there was something he had to do.
Aslan intended to save Geladridion.
To kill all the evil deities and rescue Geladridion from the clutches of the Dark Ram.
He had to return to those who awaited him.
He had to abandon the sole survivor of this ruined future.
Deep guilt and shame gripped his heart, and Aslan gasped quietly, feeling No. 13’s body heat next to him.
It would have been easier if she had resented or cursed him.
When Aslan opened his tightly shut eyes, he met No. 13’s gaze.
The woman who was pressed closely beside Aslan.
Unbothered by the strangely close proximity, showing no signs of embarrassment, the wizard looked worriedly at him.
Seeing her flawless eyes, Aslan lost his words.
After pondering for a moment, No. 13 moved the spoon in her hand.
With a “crunch,” she cut off a corner of the pie.
The part sprinkled with sugar, loved by those with a sweet tooth.
Probably No. 13’s favorite part.
She cut it, placed it on the spoon, and offered it to Aslan.
A kind smile accompanied it.
A smile so radiant that it made Aslan momentarily move his lips.
This considerate, kind, and affectionate artificial life form smiled without realizing Aslan’s thoughts.
It was poignant.
Neither the benevolence of humans, the heart of dragons, nor the mana of the green entity had forced such a personality upon her.
Only the blessings of elves and their innate kindness allowed her to smile despite enduring endless pain.
The possibility of returning together was extremely low.
Then.
Aslan felt self-loathing at the fleeting thought of ending this endless pain.
It was a repulsive feeling.
Enough to make his mouth involuntarily close.
No. 13’s expression became anxious as she held the spoon.
The restless magician.
She lowered the spoon and fixed her trembling heterochromatic eyes on Aslan.
Her dragon-like eyes asked Aslan.
What was wrong?
Had she done something wrong?
Realizing No. 13’s concern late, Aslan quickly regained his composure.
“…No, it’s nothing.”
Was Aslan’s feeling accurate? No. 13 smiled similarly while watching Aslan force a smile.
Still an uneasy smile, but better than looking ready to burst into tears.
Aslan thought, seeing No. 13’s face.
Perhaps No. 13 was worried that he might leave or abandon her.
She had misunderstood.
Turning away from the impending pain, Aslan closed his eyes and spoke, and No. 13 finally put the spoon into Aslan’s mouth.
With a “crunch,” the soft texture of the apples and the crispy crust of the pie came through.
Feeling the texture of finely chewed sugar, Aslan smiled.
“It’s delicious. Is this your favorite part, No. 13?”
Nodding repeatedly, the woman giggled. Determined not to lose, Aslan moved his spoon.
With another “crunch,” the corner of the pie rose, and No. 13, without hesitation, took Aslan’s spoon into her mouth.
The thought of an indirect kiss briefly crossed Aslan’s mind, but No. 13 seemed unfazed.
Thinking that she was comfortable this way, Aslan watched No. 13 happily enjoying the sweetness.
Her expression was colorful.
Despite being robbed of vocabulary due to overflowing mana.
Or rather, as if trying to compensate for that.
Instinctively, Aslan wished for someone’s happiness and hoped that this peculiarly born companion would be happy.
Even for a short while, he pondered ways for No. 13 to be happy more than considering his return path.
After much thought, Aslan fed No. 13 and received bites in return.
When the plate of pie was empty, No. 13 had already leaned her head on Aslan’s shoulder, acting childishly.
Her happy face was flushed, and her softly closed eyes were framed by long lashes.
Just as Aslan’s hand reached to stroke No. 13’s shoulder, she suddenly opened her eyes wide.
Startlingly large dragon-like eyes, No. 13 hurriedly stood up.
She was looking upwards.
It was a gesture that transmitted an indescribable foreboding to Aslan.
Aslan also stood up, and No. 13, twitching her pointed ears, turned to look at Aslan.
A determined expression.
In that determination, No. 13 thought.
No. 13, the woman who had continued a miserable and lonely life for hundreds of years after losing her entire traveling party.
What kept her sane was ironically the blessing of the elves that pushed her into this suffering.
Specifically, the optimistic personality provided by that blessing.
And her magic of peering into time.
Thanks to the image of her lover who would someday come looking for her, she managed to endure.
But she couldn’t let it be taken away meaninglessly.
Her staff pointed at the ceiling, and mana erupted.
An immense amount of mana that stiffened Aslan’s face.
Amidst the distortion of space itself, No. 13 attempted to use spatial leap again to create distance.
Something struck before she could.
A soundless projectile shot forth. The bomb’s name, unknown even to the current Aslan, was Bunker Buster.
A bomb designed to penetrate bunkers hidden in underground tunnels and explode within.
However, unlike ordinary ones, this bomb was created to completely destroy the surface.
The missile shattered the table where No. 13 and Aslan had been sitting moments ago and crumbled the dust-covered chairs.
Realizing it was too late to use spatial leap, she quickly changed the spell.
The diverted magic was spatial refraction.
A means to prepare against intense shock.
The world was altered by mana, and the space outside, wrapping around No. 13 and Aslan, greatly bent.
For the purpose of defending against some overwhelming explosion.
The magic was successful.
The air heated up and dispersed with a roar.
Suddenly, a flash erupted in front of the distorted space before Aslan and No. 13.
Flames surged upward, and the shockwave hit all directions before the flames and sound.
The powerful impact. Together with the flash, the shockwave that erupted destroyed the place where No. 13 had lived for hundreds of years.
The graves of the traveling party were shattered, turning the place where No. 13 waited for her lover into dust.
There was no time to feel regret.
Already, No. 13’s residence had become a vertical mine shaft connecting to the surface.
Looking up the mine shaft, No. 13 and Aslan were each startled for different reasons.
Aslan because the overwhelming heat and violence were from a nuclear bomb he recognized.
No. 13 because repeated spatial leaps and mana confusion for camouflage had been discovered.
They both looked up.
Above the dizzying height of the mine shaft.
There was a man.
Clad in a worn captain’s cloak, with a steel body arriving at this location, the mechanical deity.
The knight of steel.
The last captain, Aslan.
Above where Aslan stood, countless drones floated, casting bright searchlight beams.
Under the overwhelming light akin to a second sun rising, the gun barrels gleamed coldly.
Escape was meaningless.
