Beneath the Alps, in the ruins of the Giant God.
"My likeness… they even carved me into it?"
Returning from the Moon, Avia stood before the mural. Where once there had only been the three Shooting Star siblings, now another figure had joined them—himself.
And at the center, embedded within, the colossal eye still lingered. Just as before, it stared upon everything, alive, unblinking.
At that moment, Avia felt something. If he reached out and took the Alien Key now, it would be his. Unlike Charlemagne or Attila, who could merely wield it, he could claim it wholly.
Was it possible… that it would naturally resonate with him?
The thought surfaced in his mind.
Resonance with Heaven—that was the power of the Alien Key. It had transformed Charlemagne's "innate charisma" into a formidable ability, assimilating others directly. By forgiving and accepting them, it could overwrite attributes and faith, altering even the Saint Graph's corruption, binding others to Charlemagne's cause. Yet unlike crude "brainwashing," it did not erase values or selfhood.
But Avia judged it unnecessary. Better to let things unfold as they had in history. Let Charlemagne stumble upon this place during his journeys, touch the Alien Key, and awaken to the destiny of unifying Europe. Let him struggle, labor, and achieve peace with his companions.
After a moment's thought, Avia smiled faintly. Standing before the Alien Key, he reached out his hand to gently touch it.
"You'll succeed. I don't doubt it. Not because of some so-called destiny, but because of your tireless effort to bring peace. You, and your friends. Yes… I think those who strive sincerely are always admirable."
The words of the Hun King were engraved into the Alien Key.
Even if the years rolled on and seas turned to fields, even if the deeds of countless heroes were buried beneath the dust of time…
Even if civilizations that once bloomed like brilliant flowers vanished without a trace…
These words—this entrusted hope—so long as the Alien Key endured, would remain forever beneath the Alps.
What nonsense are you rambling about…
After retrieving the Holy Sword from Avalon, Merlin had immediately followed the trail of "dreams" toward the brightest point.
To her eyes, Avia's soul shone far too brilliantly. Blessed by the Rhinegold, he was dazzling—like a solitary blue star, burning pure and bright in the distance.
Thus, when Merlin followed the trail, she found him standing alone in a cavern. No voices of people, no cries of beasts. Exploring?
So she thought. After all, in her experience, men were always fond of exploration—hidden chambers, secret ruins, that sort of thing.
Her nearly soundless footsteps grew strangely light, a quiet spring in her step. Just as she thought to greet him, the darkness of the cavern thinned, fading into dim clarity, until she could no longer see his expression at all.
But Merlin knew Avia well enough. No matter the hardship, he always brushed it off lightly, ending matters with that faint, easy smile.
And yet… destiny?
Did that mean this man, like her, was born with clairvoyance?
The white-haired girl's curiosity stirred. She too had the gift of True Clairvoyance, though immature, incomplete, still awaiting its time to fully awaken.
Silently, she watched as Avia's words shaped the vision before them.
Countless gears turned at his voice. The giant eye blazed forth with radiant, piercing light, as though the Milky Way itself and the abyss of the cosmos were reflected within it.
And faintly—barely perceptible—tiny phantasmal creatures glimmered, drifting deeper into the cave.
For an instant, the cavern was drowned in rippling blue, filling Merlin's vision endlessly. Then, as swiftly as it came, it vanished.
"W-wow… That sight just now wasn't bad at all. Who knew that bizarre eye could do something like that?"
Merlin's lips curled with intrigued amusement.
"How about you take it with you? Then I could look at it whenever I wanted. Come on, big brother, won't you give it to me?~"
The familiar, affected tone rang out. But Avia, long accustomed to Merlin's antics, wasn't moved in the least.
"...Since when am I your brother?"
"So you really won't take it? It feels like some kind of incredible weapon."
When he noticed Merlin's presence, Avia turned to her. He paused briefly. Centuries from now, one of Charlemagne's Twelve Paladins—Bradamante—would become a devoted admirer of the Magus of Flowers, following her suggestion.
Merlin's clairvoyance could only truly see the "present," extrapolating past and future from its elements. To her, the world was a painting. Was he, in this moment, sketching a hidden stroke upon her yet-unseen canvas?
Smiling like the girl herself, he feigned interest and replied:
"No, Merlin. This is my gift to you—but only in the future will it bear fruit."
A sudden, baffling shift of topic, and an oddly roundabout attempt to earn favor. Merlin inwardly scoffed—such a clumsy method!—but outwardly, she changed her expression to one of pleased contentment.
Feigning casualness, she teased:
"Then I'll be waiting for it in the future."
"I think you won't be disappointed."
Avia chuckled softly. Of course he knew she didn't believe him. But that was fine. Let things take their course.
"Well, I'll look forward to this gift from the past when it finally arrives~"
Merlin handed him the Holy Sword. Calmly, her violet eyes regarded him.
"This is the blade you asked me to find. Beneath the lake, there was only this one. I doubt it's the wrong one."
"So soon? That's a real favor."
To her surprise, Avia didn't even examine it closely. He accepted it and stored it away without hesitation, as if he didn't fear it being a fake.
That made Merlin frown. All her effort, wasted? Had he just sent her away on a pointless errand?
But soon enough, the white-haired girl stopped caring. She returned to the Rhinegold. After all, she only wanted to see the side of Avia he promised—the twisted face of his suffering.
Two months later, after they returned from the Alps to the Hunnic Empire, the event Avia had been awaiting came to pass.
That was—
The lifeline of the Western Roman Empire—its grain supply from North Africa—was seized by the Vandals, who had crossed the Strait of Gibraltar.
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