Time gradually passed until night turned to dawn. Even those who were drunk from the happiness of their victory began to fall asleep one by one. But there was one person who was lost in thought. He didn’t seem tired from the march that had gone on all day or the drinking party that followed afterward. His eyes were wide awake as he placed his crossed fingers near his lips and stared at the candle in front of him. This person was no one other than Glen Zenard. 

“…Zich.” He muttered Zich’s name once and closed his mouth. He had a splitting headache, and he felt as if he was lost in a maze without an exit. 

‘What is he?’ Glen recalled Zich’s face again—this wasn’t difficult. Even though it was their first meeting in person, Zich’s face was very familiar to Glen. But only his face was familiar; everything else, including Zich’s behavior and personality, was unfamiliar. 

‘He is neither Steelwall nor Moore.’

The two sides of Zich he knew didn’t match the current Zich at all. He suddenly felt a chill crawl up his back. Inside many layers within layers of memories, he remembered one name from long ago. 

‘…Brave.’ Just thinking of this name suffocated him, but Glen shook his head. ‘He’s...