It was exactly because he'd worried about altering the course of history that Edward had deliberately refrained from interfering with Roselle's expedition to the Primitive Island—
so why had everything still turned out different?
"You," he asked gravely, "when you explored that island—other than those strange extraordinary creatures—did you encounter anything else?"
Roselle shook his head. "No. When I realised the ritual there might involve something dangerous, I immediately ordered a retreat. We never explored the island at all."
"No exploration, yet a ritual appeared ahead of schedule…and Grimm didn't die…"
Different.
Completely different from the original.
Edward's heart lurched. He quickly drew a gold coin and flicked it into the air, silently divining:
"Roselle has already been tainted by the Mother Goddess of Depravity."
If Roselle had been corrupted, the result would show either a head or a failed divination.
But when Edward opened his palm—
He saw a number.
Roselle wasn't corrupted.
That was bad.
Very bad.
A chill crept up Edward's spine.
If Roselle hadn't been tainted by the Mother Goddess of Depravity, it meant he would never be influenced to contact Mr. Door, never go to the Moon, never fall deeper into the Mother Goddess's corruption, and never build his final mausoleum on the Primitive Island.
Then when he was assassinated at White Maple Palace, he would revive smoothly as planned—ascend as the Black Emperor, and become Intis's eternal monarch.
Wouldn't that completely shatter the future?!
For a moment Edward's mind tangled in chaos; it felt like standing on the brink of a cliff, one more step away from plunging into an endless abyss.
No…wait. Not necessarily.
Roselle's eventual downfall hadn't come only from his first trip to the island and the Mother Goddess of Depravity's mark.
Another crucial factor was his later membership in the Twilight Hermit Order.
There, he had "accidentally" heard about Mr. Door from Hermes, then made contact—
giving Mother Goddess of Depravity the perfect chance to deepen her corruption.
Later, with the Twilight Hermit Order's help, he switched to the Hermit Pathway, reached the Moon, discovered the truth of this world—and was utterly consumed by the Mother Goddess.
In his final years, learning that truth drove him to despair. He attempted to forcibly ascend to Sequence 0 as the Black Emperor—and the ease with which he acquired three Sequence 1 characteristics made it impossible not to suspect how much the Twilight Hermit Order—or rather, that Russian Priest—had manipulated events.
In the end, Roselle was assassinated at White Maple Palace and "revived" within the mausoleum on the Primitive Island—
Only to find the corruption irreversible, making resurrection impossible.
Looking back, every step of that tragedy bore the shadow of the Russian Priest.
Of course, it was possible Edward was just being cynical—maybe the Russian Priest had genuinely helped Roselle out of goodwill toward a fellow "Remnant of the Old Days."
Maybe Roselle had simply been too reckless and self-destructive.
But Adam's actions in the future—everything he later did to Klein—had already proven he was never that benevolent.
So the tragedy he'd scripted for Roselle…
Was it really only for the sake of his so-called "Tide of Time"?
Edward stared at Roselle for a long while, his expression a swirl of emotion—then his figure blurred and vanished, leaving a bewildered Roselle behind.
"Why," Roselle muttered, frowning, "did it feel like his last look at me…had pity in it?"
He couldn't make sense of it, but quickly shook off the thought and barked an order:
"All hands—prepare for immediate retreat! Full speed ahead!"
"Yes, sir!"
———
The Primitive Island—Fog Sea.
Edward stepped out of thin air, emerging directly at the island's centre.
What greeted him was a carpet of scarlet bloodstains, mixed with the shredded flesh and fur of unknown creatures—and, at the centre, a thin sheet of quivering flesh-skin.
"What in the world happened here?"
His body split into a blur of afterimages—countless phantoms spreading across the terrain, sweeping every inch of the island in seconds.
No signs of life. Not one.
According to Roselle's account, the extraordinary creatures had gathered here, circling in ritual worship.
But the flesh and hair left behind didn't match the numbers. Something was off.
He walked slowly toward the centre. The mysterious glyphs of Deconstruction flickered once more in his eyes, reconstructing visions of what had occurred—
Beyonder creatures kneeling in worship…
Blood and flesh melting and merging…
A grotesque "meat egg" taking form…
A blood-red moon shining down upon it as it "hatched"…
And finally—
A heart tearing open space and vanishing into the void.
"So Deconstruction can reproduce past events…" he murmured. "Right—it was said it could 'reproduce' them."
The thought flashed through his mind and was gone.
He bent down again, analysing the remains further.
"That heart clearly carried the Mother Goddess's aura…but what was it? And where did it go after disappearing?"
Edward dug both hands into his hair in frustration.
"Seven Gods! What the hell are you lot even doing? The Seven has become so unreliable lately—and at this rate, we won't need to wait for the apocalypse. It'll arrive early at this pace!"
Did the Seven Gods know about this?
Did the Russian Priest know?
If they did…had they already handled it in secret?
And if they didn't—then they might as well wash their necks clean and wait for the Outer Gods to slaughter them!
Come to think of it, if Roselle's entire tragedy was part of the Russian Priest's trend of times—a scheme meticulously woven by Him—then now that this version of Roselle had deviated from that path, wasn't he already beyond His control?
If so…would that being really just sit back and watch the "trend" go off course?
Or would He take other measures—laying groundwork in advance—to force the derailed flow of times back on track?
———
By the time Edward returned to No. 28 Emerald Street, the sun was already setting.
The soft, melodious sound of the piano drifted from within the villa. Following the music, he found Bernadette seated at the piano by the window, the warm orange glow of dusk falling across her pale hair as she played with practised grace.
Hearing the faint sound of footsteps at the door, Bernadette turned, immediately hopping down from the bench.
"You're back, Mr. Sparrow! You didn't run into any danger, did you?"
"I'm fine."
"Phew, that's good!"
"That's great!" She beamed, her eyes bright with pride. "The piece I was just playing is called 'A Maiden's Prayer.' It's one of Daddy's compositions. Isn't it amazing?"
"It is."
It really was.
Compared to Klein, Roselle really was a multi-talented prodigy.
Not only had he invented so many things, but he could also write poems, compose music…
A perfect template for a "cheat-wielding transmigrator protagonist."
If the world of mysticism hadn't been so absurdly complicated, Klein would never have stood a chance against a man like that.
"Bernie," Edward asked after a pause, watching her. "What kind of person do you think your father is?"
She blinked, frowning slightly at the odd question.
After a brief moment of thought, she replied, "I can't really say. I know lots of people like him, and lots of people don't. But to me, he'll always be the best and most amazing father in the world."
"And what if, one day, he did something…that you thought was really wrong?"
Bernadette's voice was firm. "Then there must be a reason. Something that made him do it."
"...You're right," Edward said softly.
She tilted her head. "Why are you asking such weird questions all of a sudden?"
"Oh, nothing. Just curious." He reached out and patted her head. "Come on, let's go eat."
"Okay."
She didn't press further—but as they headed toward the dining room, she suddenly turned serious.
"Mr. Sparrow, you're not allowed to pat my head anymore until you're back to being an adult!"
"Huh? Why not?"
"Well, if you're grown-up, it feels normal—Daddy does that too. But now you're about my height, so when you pat me, it just makes me feel like a little kid again!"
"Alright, alright."
"I mean it!"
"Yes, yes."
"Ahhh! You're so annoying!"
———
Over the next two days, Edward either lounged in the courtyard basking in the sunlight or continued experimenting with Deconstruction—both for combat applications and for insights into his future acting.
From his current research, Deconstruction had two primary uses in battle:
it analysed the target's Pathway, Sequence, and abilities to locate exploitable flaws, and when paired with Regression, it produced devastating results—essentially functioning as Regression's "specialised support skill."
But that wasn't all.
Deconstruction could also reproduce phenomena, as he'd seen on the Primitive Island. At the time, it had only shown its "scene recreation" aspect, but more importantly, it could help him analyse and understand the principles behind a mystery—and then replicate them.
In simpler terms, it was a more advanced version of Record.
Ordinary Apprentice-path Beyonders relied on wide social networks to "record" different supernatural powers from other Beyonders.
But Deconstruction went a step beyond: unlike a Scribe, who had to observe an ability beforehand, a Deconstruction Scholar could analyse an opponent or ally on the spot—and reconstruct that ability in real time.
It was, in a sense, the Mysticism world's equivalent of "Sharingan." But on steroids.
The advantage:you could learn and fight simultaneously.
The drawback:you couldn't stockpile abilities in advance to unleash overwhelming barrages like a true Scribe.
Each had its own merits.
Still, as Edward drew his conclusions, his thoughts inevitably returned to that wooden door he had seen in "Old Shanghai"—the one that seemed to lead into the future.
If he could deconstruct that door's underlying principle…
Could he recreate it—and travel forward through time?
Unfortunately, that door had been formed by the Mother Goddess of Depravity, manipulating Mr. Door's powers to pierce the barrier.
It had already shattered; to study it now, he would need those entities to repeat the process—and that kind of experiment would be both impossible and suicidal.
Worse yet, his recent experiments revealed something disheartening: simply using Deconstruction to analyse Beyonders or supernatural abilities advanced his potion digestion painfully slowly—even when he targeted Amon himself.
Recalling Klein's experience when acting as the Scholar of Yore, Edward began to suspect that the Deconstruction Scholar's acting required something similar.
The Scholar of Yore sought to uncover and study ancient mystical knowledge; then perhaps the Deconstruction Scholar needed to dissect mysterious truths, uncovering the underlying essence of the unknown.
That would explain why his potion had partially digested ahead of schedule.
After all, back when he'd read Lord of the Mysteries in his original world, he, like many readers, had analysed the clues and deduced part of the truth behind the Ancient Sun God's death.
That might have counted as a form of "Deconstruction," too.
If that were true…then what should he deconstruct next?
Edward grabbed a pen and paper, jotting down his thoughts as he muttered to himself:
The reason for my transmigration into the Mystical World.
The secret transaction between the Russian Priest (True Creator) and Mr. Door.
Why the Door Pathway's uniqueness exists within my body.
…Lilith's death and resurrection.
The true principle behind the wooden door that traverses time.
He bit the pen's end thoughtfully.
"By this logic…When I learned of Intis's conspiracy from the 'Queen,' why didn't that count as digestion?"
"Was it because I only heard it, without actually deconstructing it?"
"Or was it because what she told me…wasn't the real truth?"
He wrote that one down too—and added a small five-pointed star beside it.
"Alright. I'll visit Little Snake again. He probably knows more about this than anyone."
———
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