"Query: Has such a significant duration truly elapsed?"
"Mmhmm."
Frieren's response was a single, non-committal hum. She walked with a leisurely pace, her staff tapping rhythmically against the dirt road.
I processed the data she had provided, constructing a new timeline model in my internal database.
This was indeed the future, specifically, the future resulting from the timeline where my Main Unit had intervened.
According to Frieren, the Demon King's Castle had suffered catastrophic damage a thousand years ago. The "Angel of Judgment" had descended, obliterating a third of the fortress and vaporizing half the demon population in a single night.
The Seven Sages of Destruction? Dust.
The Great Demons? Erased.
Only the Demon King himself and a handful of demons stationed in the far reaches of the continent had survived. And even the King, Frieren claimed, had been left crippled, a shadow of his former self.
Analysis: The survival of the Demon King is statistically improbable.
I knew my Main Unit. She was efficient. If she had attacked the castle, she would not have left the job half-finished. How had he survived?
Hypothesis: Evasive countermeasures or external interference.
It didn't matter. I filed the discrepancy under "Anomalies" to be transmitted to the Main Unit when, or if, we reconnected.
For centuries after the "Day of Judgment," demons had vanished from the world. It was only "recently", a term that, for an elf, could mean anything from yesterday to fifty years ago, that they had begun to resurface. But this new wave was pathetic. Without the Sages to lead them, they were disorganized and weak.
The legendary "Hero's Party" that Frieren had originally traveled with had faced a much easier journey in this timeline.
I glanced back at the two humans trailing behind us.
Fern, the girl with the purple hair and the perpetually serious expression.
Stark, the red-headed warrior who seemed to flinch every time I looked at him.
It was a strange party composition, given how drastically history had changed. Yet, here they were. Fate, it seemed, had a way of correcting itself.
"Query: What is your current destination?" I asked.
"Äußerst," Frieren replied, pointing north with her staff.
"Analysis: The Northern Plateau. A region requiring high-level clearance for entry."
"That's right. We need to take the First-Class Mage Exam to pass through."
"Query: Exam?"
I kept my face impassive, but Frieren glanced at me, a knowing look in her eyes.
"You're wondering why someone like me needs to take a test, aren't you?"
"Affirmative. Your mana capacity and technical skill far exceed the testing parameters."
"It's just a formality," she shrugged. "Rules are rules."
It was fascinating. Without using magic, without any telepathic link, Frieren had accurately read my thought process. It was as if she were speaking to an old friend she had known for decades.
Behind us, Fern and Stark whispered to each other.
"They're doing it again," Stark hissed. "Talking about stuff that happened a thousand years ago like it was yesterday."
"They are 'old hags,' after all," Fern whispered back, her face stoic.
"Fern! She'll hear you!"
"It is the truth."
Despite my appearance, that of a girl roughly Fern's age, and Frieren's youthful features, the two humans clearly categorized us as ancient beings. To them, we were living fossils, walking relics of a mythical age.
I ignored their chatter. My sensors were focused on Frieren.
She stopped walking and turned to face me. The wind caught her twintails, blowing them gently across her face.
"So, Stell," she said, a small, hopeful smile playing on her lips. "Are you going to come with us?"
"Proposal denied."
The answer was immediate.
While the prospect of raiding Serie's library for a thousand years' worth of new spells was tempting, I had a higher priority. I needed to know what had become of my apprentice.
Takson's combat potential rivaled Flamme's magical genius. A human of his caliber must have left a mark on history.
"I see," Frieren said, her expression unchanging. She didn't seem surprised. "You're not the real one, are you?"
She peered closely at my face. "The mana flow is slightly static. You're a clone."
She had seen enough of my duplicates back in the library to recognize the signs. To her, this was just another Tuesday.
"Affirmative. This unit is a remote terminal."
"So, where are you going?"
"Objective: Locate historical records regarding the individual 'Takson.'"
"Takson..." Frieren murmured, tilting her head. The name drifted through her long memory. "Ah. Him."
A millennium was a long time, even for an elf. But Takson hadn't been just anyone. He was the boy who had carried a battle-axe and a holy book, the one who had tried to act like a big brother to her.
"Wait... Takson?"
Fern, who had been listening quietly, suddenly stepped forward. Her usual stoicism cracked, replaced by the intense gleam of a scholar who had just heard a legendary name.
Stark looked at her, confused. "Fern? What's wrong?"
"Lady Stell..." Fern began, her voice trembling with excitement. "Are you referring to Saint Takson? The 'Battle-Crazed Saint' who held the line against the Great Demons during the Siege of the North?"
Battle-Crazed?
My processors paused.
Is that the naming convention of this era? 'Something of Something'?
"Query: Define 'Battle-Crazed Saint.'"
"He is a legend!" Fern explained, clasping her hands together. "The scriptures say he was the First Apostle of the Angel. When the Goddess's Angel descended to purge the Demon King's Castle, Takson stood at the gates. He fought for three days and three nights without rest, slaying countless high-ranking demons to clear the path for his master."
"He is also the founder of the Order of the Angelic Descent," she added. "He preached that the Angel was not a myth, but a living reality who would one day return."
...Takson.
I told you to spread the word to the guards, not start a religion.
I recorded Fern's lecture, encrypting the data for transmission to the Main Unit. It seemed my apprentice had been busy.
….
Past:-
While my future self was receiving a history lesson, my present self was making history.
I floated high above the northern wastes, the hem of my astral dress fluttering in the wind of the shockwaves. Metatron's crown spun slowly above my head, its feathers glowing with blinding white light.
Below me, the Demon King's Castle was burning.
Or rather, what was left of it.
My initial bombardment with Shemesh, the rain of light, had been thorough. The outer walls were gone. The towers were crumbled stumps. The land itself had been plowed into a wasteland of craters and glass.
The weak had perished instantly. The goblins, the lesser monsters, the foot soldiers, they had been vaporized, unworthy of my attention.
Only the strong remained. The Great Demons, the generals, the ones with unique magic I had deemed "valuable", they were alive, though broken, scattered amidst the ruins.
And in the center of the devastation, amidst the rubble of his throne room, knelt the King of Demons.
"..."
"..."
We stared at each other in silence.
He was a massive figure, his power palpable even in defeat. But he was on his knees, not out of reverence, but because his legs had been shattered.
He looked up at me. The light from my wings illuminated his face, casting long shadows across his scars.
"An Angel..." he whispered.
It wasn't a question. It was a realization.
Schlacht the Omniscient had warned him. A calamity is coming. A white disaster from the south. Resistance is illogical. Survival is the only victory.
At the time, the Demon King had scoffed. He was the strongest. He was the pinnacle.
….
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