It was the most… peculiar smile Felix had ever seen.
In his previous life, he had never once met Lady Theresa. Back then, around this very time, he had only just slipped into Laterano, grinding away for points in hopes of unlocking blueprints for firearms one day. As for Kazdel? A land of endless civil war—clashing day after day, overrun by PvP players who ruled unchecked. He had been nothing more than a weak, pitiful, and helpless support character. If he had stepped onto that battlefield, he would have been nothing but target practice.
All he had ever known of Theresa came from scraps of player gossip and fragmented NPC dialogue—stories of her past, her actions, her words. Until the end, when Babel was dismantled, and Theresa fell. That was the sum of everything Felix had ever learned about her.
But now, the veil was finally lifting. The mysterious NPC stood before him at last.
Theresa was smiling. Yet her smile always carried something deeper: a clarity, a translucence, laced with faint sorrow. It was like a single ray of afternoon sunlight—soft, never blinding, but suffused with a warmth that made one want to hold it gently, protect it.
Her smile was tinged with sadness.
Her smile was gentle. She didn't seem to care what race stood across from her. What radiated from her was a strange, boundless acceptance. No—what Felix felt from her was love.
Not the love between man and woman. But love for all things before her.
Such an NPC could only have been written for the main story. And yet… she had died?
Felix looked at the hands Theresa extended toward him. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. Was this… some Sarkaz form of greeting?
But he did not overthink it. He raised his own hands and clasped hers.
Theresa's smile deepened, soft yet sorrowful.
"Pioneer… Felix. I have long wished to meet you."
"That is what I wished to say as well, Lady Theresa."
"Then let us sit and speak."
Her expression warmed slightly. She nodded toward ACE. He bowed to her, then quietly left, closing the door behind him.
Now it was just the two of them—the Sarkaz princess seated upon the sofa, and the Sankta pioneer before her. Their races were enemies. The blood-feud between them was endless. And yet, in this room, there was no hostility, no tension. Felix found himself gazing into Theresa's incredible eyes, and she, in turn, gazed back.
"I had long hoped for another chance to negotiate with Babel," Felix said. "But the situation in Kazdel only worsened, the fractures deepening by the day. As a Sankta, even surviving here is difficult. This time, though, I finally found the chance to speak with you face-to-face. I consider myself fortunate."
Theresa shook her head gently, her sad smile never fading.
"It was a pity we could not meet the last time. I, too, have awaited this day."
She tilted her head slightly, her tone soft.
"Life is strange… To see a Sankta within Babel's halls. You are the first outsider to do so."
Her voice was low, melodic. "To see someone willing to tread the soil of Kazdel—it gladdens me."
"I do not mind setting foot on any land," Felix replied calmly, fingers interlacing. "To me, race makes no difference. I won't lecture others on their beliefs, but this is how I choose to live."
"That must be why you saved those two children."
Theresa clasped her hands to her chest, her smile gentle as ever.
Felix blinked, then realized she was speaking of the two siblings, Dawn and Nightfall, whom he had rescued from Kazdel's desolate wastes. He gave a small shake of his head.
"I have always admired you."
"Oh?" Her eyes brightened, curious. "And why is that?"
"Because I believe General Theresis—your brother—chose the fastest path to make the Sarkaz strong. But you, Lady Theresa, chose the harder one. A path filled with thorns."
"Ara? For a Sankta to say he agrees with my brother?" Theresa's voice held a note of wonder.
Felix nodded steadily.
"I care nothing for race. Only results. In the short term, General Theresis' methods truly could carve a place for the Sarkaz—force Terra to remember their name."
He paused, his tone firm.
"But, Lady Theresa, the fact that I recognize your brother's path… does not mean I reject yours."
Theresa laughed softly, as though amused. It was the laugh of someone who had just been both praised and criticized, only to be praised again in the next breath.
"The road you've chosen is paved with thorns. You walk it bloodied, hoping to create a brighter future for the Sarkaz—one where they might live as the other peoples of Terra do. Yet many of your own kin cannot understand your path. To them, your choices look like weakness, like retreat. Even when they see it, they cannot comprehend it. Your dream is to write a fairytale ending for the Sarkaz. But… is that truly the ending most Sarkaz long for?"
"Mr. Felix…"
Theresa's smile deepened, luminous and gentle.
"Will you tell me more? About the Kazdel you see."
"With pleasure," Felix replied, smiling in turn. "But before we chat, I've brought a bit of business to Babel."
He leaned forward slightly.
"In Kazdel, drones are no longer a secret. I'm sure you've already seen them deployed in General Theresis' army. What I bring you today is the same technology—only outfitted with medical modules."
Felix had no intention of fueling the war. He believed, too, that the gentle woman before him had no wish to escalate it. So what he offered was a tool of healing—modules that could greatly reduce the crushing burden on Babel's medical operators.
Theresa did not hesitate. She accepted the proposal gladly.
Yet what Felix asked in return was neither money nor supplies—resources Babel itself was stretched thin on. No, what he sought was entry into Babel's library.
In his previous life, gaining access to Rhodes Island's archives had cost him weeks of grinding loyalty. This time, he was more measured. He asked not for the whole vault, only a handful of job manuals and skill books.
Rhodes Island's vessel was ancient, its archives containing tomes that dated back to eras lost to history. Some could only be read with the highest clearance. Felix's target was precisely one of these.
The sub-class manual for [Magic Swordsman].
It was the advancement path of the bygone-era sub-class [Enchanter], which Felix had acquired in Iberia.
Most players assumed rare sub-classes were dead ends—valuable only for their unique skills, but with no further evolution. Few imagined such professions could even have an advanced form.
Felix knew better. In his last life, he had stumbled across that hidden truth while combing Babel's highest-tier archives. Now, living it a second time, he was treading familiar ground.
Theresa rose gracefully to her feet. She wanted to continue the discussion in her chambers. This cold, businesslike conference room had served its purpose, but the atmosphere here felt more like haggling across a negotiating table. To her, Felix had already extended goodwill to Babel twice now.
And with his words just moments ago, her warmth toward him only deepened.
As they walked down the corridor together, Felix caught sight of a familiar figure.
"Kal'tsit. Hard at work as always. Do you have surgeries this afternoon?"
The white-haired feline gave the faintest trace of a smile, then her expression settled back into its usual cold severity.
"Shining has returned. I need to brief her and pass on my workload."
A moment later, her gaze shifted to the man walking beside Theresa, smiling with effortless calm.
"…Pioneer. To find you here—it is… unexpected."
Her voice was even, but there was no surprise in her eyes.
"Doctor Kal'tsit, it's been too long. You remain unchanged, as unyielding as this land itself—still as youthful as ever."
"..."
Kal'tsit only nodded coolly. She accepted the trade contract from Theresa's hands, scanning it briefly, then lifted her eyes back to Felix.
"For Babel, this is a timely gift. Thank you, Pioneer."
Felix blinked inwardly. Wait… not a single sharp remark? No biting sarcasm? This feels wrong. Don't tell me you're just playing nice because Theresa's here watching…
"I've always held a fondness for Babel, that's all."
He smiled easily.
Theresa clapped her hands softly, drawing their attention.
"Now then, I'll be taking Mr. Felix with me to continue our conversation in my chambers. Kal'tsit—we'll speak again later."
"Alright."
Kal'tsit gave a curt nod, cast Felix one last glance, and departed with brisk steps.
Theresa turned to him with a gentle smile.
"Shall we?"
"Mm."
The phrasing just now might have carried a hint of ambiguity, but none of the three present had thought anything untoward of it. In his previous life as a player, Felix would have jokingly called every beautiful NPC "wife," but the feeling he held toward Theresa was not frivolous desire—it was respect.
That emotion shaped his demeanor now, as cool and restrained as the conversation to come.
Theresa's quarters were slightly smaller than the reception room. Despite being private, they resembled an ordinary apartment more than a royal chamber. Felix's gaze drifted over the modest living room and the balcony. Impressive, he thought wryly. In his previous life, even after earning a room as an operator, a balcony was a luxury far out of reach.
"Noticing that, are you?" Theresa chuckled softly. "It's only a projection. Building a real balcony on the outer hull of a ship would be far too dangerous."
Felix nodded. True enough—if a Catastrophe tore through, anyone living behind a shattered balcony would be doomed.
"Would you like something to drink?"
She set aside the knitting needles and half-finished garment resting on the sofa, then turned toward him with that same quiet grace.
"Though, to be honest, all I can offer is water or energy drinks."
"Water will do."
He wasn't expecting luxuries. With Babel's strained state—and Kazdel's isolation from trade—there was no chance of stumbling across soda or other indulgences here.
After a sip, his golden eyes met the soft pink of hers. His voice was calm, deliberate.
"Economic foundations determine the superstructure."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Strip away that foundation, and the structure above is destined to collapse. And if the foundation itself does not change, no matter how you renovate the building atop it, the end remains the same—failure."
"What the Sarkaz desire is not your gentle idealism, Your Highness. What they crave is strength—an escape from Kazdel's broken state."
"When I entered Babel, ACE told me that your vision—the very purpose of this Babel—is to bring medicine, education, and technology to your people. But these three cannot, in the short term, solve the most basic problem of all: production."
He paused briefly, his tone firm.
"The Sarkaz court, standing with your brother, has already shown its attitude. In the face of your reformist momentum, they remain passive—clinging to tradition, refusing to move. And if the elite hesitate, how many ordinary folk can truly throw themselves into change?"
Theresa lowered her gaze, her smile touched with sorrow.
Felix pressed on.
"When it comes to basic production, may I ask—what work do ordinary Sarkaz usually turn to?"
"…Mercenary work."
Her voice was little more than a murmur.
"Exactly. The mercenary trade is the beating heart of Kazdel's economy. Yes, life here has changed in small ways—but the lifestyles of the common people? They remain largely untouched. To survive, they still take up arms. For many, dangerous mercenary work is one of their few options."
"Your reforms may improve living conditions, easing survival itself. But how your people earn a livelihood, how they aspire to a higher standard of living—those questions remain unanswered."
He exhaled softly, the words cutting sharper now.
"To most Sarkaz, all they can see is a distant, shining dream… but their hands hold no bread."
"Let us speak also of hatred."
His gaze locked onto Theresa's eyes, shadowed by sorrow. For a fleeting moment he wondered, Am I breaking her defenses? Then again, every player he once knew had seen the same problem.
"I believe you've witnessed firsthand the power of hatred. A harmonious and beautiful vision may heal it—yes—but that process is achingly slow, fragile beyond measure."
"Your approach, Your Highness, is one of compromise. You pin your hopes on education—on chiseling away the poison one fragment at a time, starting with the next generation. But children need time to grow before they can shoulder society's burdens. And right now, the true voice of the Sarkaz belongs not to them, but to the common folk—their lives steeped in rain and blood, their hearts steeped in both old and new hatreds."
"What they need is not some distant dreamscape, but a real, tangible way to live. Babel's focus on medicine, education, and technology cannot, for the majority, create immediate resources for survival. Material poverty breeds spiritual poverty—and spiritual poverty is the most fertile soil in which hatred thrives."
Felix took another sip of water, steadying his breath.
Theresa blinked slowly, her eyes glistening with quiet grief. Her voice, though soft, carried a plea.
"…Please. Continue."
"Mr. Felix… I want to hear more from you."