Logically, it's not a full moon, and this Abraham, not yet an Beyonder, shouldn't be able to hear Mr. Door's voice.
But I'm different. My true form, the High-Dimensional Observer, lingers beyond the barrier, acting as a "cosmic antenna." From the starry expanse, I can channel Mr. Door's ravings in real time, tainted as they are by corruption.
Don't save me!
Please save me!
Don't save me!
Mr. Door's anguished roars echo in my mind. I shift my colossal form, and the other outer gods tense, wary of what this unpredictable kin might do. But I merely reposition myself, floating above Mr. Door, silently observing as he, under the Fallen Mother Goddess's control, refuses to return to Earth.
Tragic, pitiable, yet admirable, I muse. If Mr. Door hadn't willingly sealed himself in that lost darkness, Earth might have crumbled before the apocalypse, and the divine war—the grand drama I so relish—would have ended far too soon, its curtain falling with a flourish.
"Extra! Extra! Major burglary in Tingen! Two dead, and the killer remains free!"
A child's voice, bright and piercing, cuts through the air, brimming with youthful energy. The sound grows closer as a newsboy darts past pedestrians, his small frame weaving through the crowd.
His sharp eyes scan the faces around him, greedy for any hint of interest. Spotting even a flicker of curiosity, he pounces to make a sale.
He's about to dash onward when he catches the faint curiosity in my expression as I stand at the alley's mouth, dressed in my tailored suit. He skids to a halt, then scurries over to me.
"Sir! Would you like a newspaper? One for two pence, or two for just three!"
Sharp observation, polished salesmanship. In this boy, I see echoes of his childhood—hardship tempered by resilience, a reflection of this world's poor. Unlike the monotonous lives of factory workers, his story holds a spark of intrigue.
As the High-Dimensional Overseer, I indulge my habit of dissecting mortal lives like a cosmic critic. But outwardly, I offer a gentlemanly smile befitting my guise and say to the boy, "Of course, I'll take one. News like this is rare—definitely worth a read."
I reach into my suit pocket, pulling out a small, elegant wallet. Bypassing the thick stack of gold pounds, I fish out two pence. The newsboy, seizing the moment, carefully extracts a fresh newspaper from the bulging satchel slung over his shoulder and hands it to me with both hands. "Here's your paper, sir. Please take care."
"Are you the local newsboy? Sold many papers today?" I ask, a glint in my eye, feigning casual curiosity. I can see the heavy satchel brimming with unsold papers. It's market hour, yet his stock remains high—he's likely facing a loss today.
Sure enough, the boy's face falls. Reluctant to discuss his struggles, he's wary of offending a well-dressed gentleman like me. "Not yet… still got a lot left, sir," he mumbles.
"My apologies," I say with a warm, apologetic smile. I tap my crystal-inlaid cane lightly on the ground, holding my still-open wallet. "Do you know where the nearest Storm Church is? I need a messenger to deliver a letter. A friend of mine wants it sent to the bishop here—though I can't go to the Storm Church myself. I'm a follower of the Goddess, you see."
I produce a letter from my coat, sealed with an ornate wax stamp.
It's a lie. The letter claims "a rampant monster is loose," crafted to frame the Aurora Order's Secret Supplicant as a victim of the Lord of Storms' Punishers. I'm posing as an Abraham who, inspired by the "Lord's glory," coincidentally gathered the ingredients for a family potion recipe—a "traitorous Abraham."
To conceal a sinister identity, the best disguise is a less sinister one. My High-Dimensional Overseer pathway shares similarities with the "Reader" pathway early on, allowing me to layer another guise: a "wild Extraordinary." With luck, I might even become an informant for Tingen's Nighthawks.
The Aurora Order's divine envoys won't dare verify with the Storm Church, and the Evernight Goddess isn't likely to descend in a backwater like this.
I tap my chest four times, signaling my piety. The newsboy hesitates, then cautiously says, "Well… I could deliver it for you, but I've still got all these papers to sell…"
I see through his ploy instantly and draw a one-sou coin from my wallet. The boy's eyes light up, his hand reaching eagerly, but I gently block him with my cane, urging him to stay calm.
"This could be your payment," I say, "but you must deliver the letter to the Storm Cathedral properly. Also, I need to visit the South Continent Trading Company. Find me a carriage headed there. Earning money isn't as easy as you think, lad."
The newsboy, quick to read the room, knows a mere delivery wouldn't earn a pound. His father, when alive, slaved at the docks for a grueling day to earn just two pounds.
He takes a deep breath, bows humbly, and accepts the letter with both hands. "You're a generous gentleman, sir. I'll deliver it, I promise. Five minutes—no, three—and I'll be back with a carriage."
"Good. I hope your word holds true. Do well, and this money's yours." I hand him the letter, watching as he sprints down the street.
I gaze at the boy, running as if his life depends on that single pound. There's a pang of pity in me—for the modestly wealthy, a pound buys a slice of cake or a cut of meat after dinner. For the poor here, it's days of meals, perhaps even a matter of life and death.
"What a farce," I mutter, severing my avatar's thoughts as the High-Dimensional Overseer. "Does Adam really think he's God Almighty?" I scoff. That master playwright pens scripts so twisted yet hides behind the curtain, watching everything unfold by his will. Compared to becoming the Ancient Sun God, Adam's better suited to play "God Almighty."
I find myself disliking Adam even more. He's too much like God Almighty.
In my view, the Celestial Worthy is the most entertaining in the cosmos, diligently "watering" his cultivated planets daily. The Celestial Worthy is amusing enough—I enjoy lurking behind my veil, watching his intricate marionette plays, though his blows sting fiercely. God Almighty is the dullest; his pasture hasn't changed since the beginning.
In under three minutes, the newsboy returns, panting. He hurries me to a waiting carriage, wiping sweat from his brow. I nod approvingly and hand him the promised note.
The boy beams. "Thank you, sir! You're truly generous!"
"To the South Continent Trading Company," I say coolly to the driver, dismissing the newsboy.
This carriage, pricier than public ones, is far more presentable. No stains mar its interior, and its design is elegant. I'd rather not be turned away from the South Continent Trading Company for arriving in a shabby cart.
The original Abraham was quite wealthy, even owning a small factory in Backlund. By inheriting his body, I've seamlessly assumed his identity from high-dimensional space. To anyone, I am that Abraham.
Stepping off the carriage, I grip my cane and approach the South Continent Trading Company. Behind the entrance, a staff member sits at a desk, conversing with a slightly balding man. It's early, so the place is nearly empty. The door creaks open, drawing their attention.
"I have business to discuss with your company," I say, tapping my cane lightly on the floor with a playful smile. "Though it seems I'm a bit early—hardly anyone's here?"
The two exchange a glance. The balding man steps forward, extending his right hand. "We always have staff on duty, but our business negotiation team hasn't arrived yet. If you don't mind, you can sit and have tea while you wait. I can answer any questions within my authority. I'm Benson Moretti. And you are?"
"Adrian Abraham," I reply, shaking his hand warmly. We settle onto a nearby sofa, and Benson, ever attentive, has a staff member bring two cups of freshly brewed tea, placing them on the wooden table between us.
"First, Mr. Abraham, we're grateful for your trust in the South Continent Trading Company," Benson says. "May I ask what business brings you here? Are you looking to handle a transaction or perhaps explore a partnership with our company?"
Benson, driven by the prospect of securing a client—and boosting his performance—strives to keep this well-dressed gentleman engaged. His younger brother, Klein, is preparing for an interview, and Benson wants to ensure Klein can focus on his studies without worry.
(End of Chapter)
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Tranlator's Note: First time seeing a Main Character meeting with protagonist brother befor the protagonist.