Pain.

It was something Clay knew more intimately than anyone.

During his time as a Hero, he’d suffered every imaginable injury, and on his path to execution, he’d endured the worst tortures.

Falling from Hero to criminal, he even came to understand what it meant to have one’s mind utterly shattered. At this point, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that pain and he were old friends.

“This pain will be unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.”

But even so, Athanasia gave him a grave warning.

“You’re going to feel like your body isn’t your own.”

“So it’s a kind of pain that feels… unfamiliar?”

“Something like that, but also different.”

With a sigh, Athanasia continued.

“I don’t remember every detail clearly, but... there was someone who created a Balance Heart in their body once.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“Yeah. It was the Demon King of that time,” Athanasia quickly added, “But don’t ask me about that Demon King. I barely remember anything else.”

“Did you forget because it happened too long ago?”

“I don’t think it’s just that.”

“That’s… troubling.” Clay’s voice dropped, “If you only remember fragments, someone may have restricted your memory.”

“I think that might be the case too…”

“Elhaen?”

“Right now, that’s the most likely explanation.”

It was a deeply unsettling idea, but Clay chose not to dig deeper. After all, there was no way to extract answers from Elhaen at the moment.

“I understand. Then continue, please.”

At his urging, Athanasia nodded.

“Anyway, that Demon King back then said this—he had no way of defeating Elhaen, so he had no choice but to experiment on himself. The divine power he used wasn’t granted by Elhaen either. He had gathered it from somewhere else.”

“So it was an incomplete experiment?”

“Definitely incomplete. But here’s the thing—it still worked.”

That led to another question from Clay.

“What happened to that Demon King after the experiment succeeded?”

“No idea.” Athanasia frowned, “It’s ridiculous, but everything I’m telling you now… it’s all stuff I’m remembering as I talk. I want to tell you more, but the memories are scattered—like broken fragments.”

“I see.”

Looking at her troubled face, Clay asked no more.

She’s in pain.

It was clear something inside Athanasia’s mind was tangled. The more she tried to recall, the more she seemed to suffer.

If I push too hard, she might end up dragging out memories that were sealed for a reason.

Divine memory couldn’t be like that of mortals. Who knew what was buried in the fragmented pieces left behind? For now, it was better to focus only on what they needed.

“Still, I can make one for you.” Athanasia shook her head, as if trying to scatter the unneeded memories, “But to do that, I’ll need a blueprint.”

“A blueprint?”

“Yeah. I can’t make it from memory alone.”

“Do you know where we could find one?”

“It’s not really a place... or maybe it is?” After tilting her head in thought, Athanasia finally answered, “It’s in the Akashic Record.”

“The Akashic Record…!”

Syltanaro, who had been quietly listening until now, widened her eyes in shock.

“You mean that legendary archive said to record everything in the world?”

“I’m not sure if ‘archive’ is the right word. It’s more like… a component of the world itself. It duplicates and stores everything that happens.”

If the world were a body, then the Akashic Record would be the part of the brain responsible for memory. Everything that happened in the world was naturally imprinted into it.

“But isn’t it nearly impossible to access the Akashic Record?” Syltanaro looked incredulous.

“You’re not wrong.”

To access the Akashic Record, one first had to materialize it. Since the Akashic Record had no form, the only way to do this was by conceptualizing a form that could represent it—essentially creating a space around the idea.

And the easiest way to do that was to tie it to something conceptually similar—like a library.

That’s why many tried to manifest it as a library, giving it structure and making it accessible.

“The hard part is getting it to appear in the first place. It takes a ridiculous amount of mana. But once you do manifest it, you can interact with it for a limited time.”

And so, the journey to create the Balance Heart… would begin with summoning the Akashic Record.

The problem was, even if one succeeded in materializing the Akashic Record, they would still need to spatialize the specific section where the desired information was stored.

“You know this already, and so does the Demon King—it’s impossible to materialize the entire Akashic Record. You can only spatialize the portion you want access to, but even that isn’t easy.”

The only practical way was to use coordinates left behind by countless mages who’d attempted to access it before. But if those coordinates didn’t contain the desired data, then one could only try their luck—spatializing a random section like blindly digging into bedrock.

“But there’s one other way.” Athanasia lifted her index finger, “There’s a section where the most important records are stored—and it should still be intact. It’s what they call the Main Hall of the Akashic Record. If we can just get the coordinates for that…”

“There’s a section that’s still intact?” Clay raised an eyebrow, “How long has it been intact? And how do you even know that?”

“It’s existed since I wandered the earth as an ancient god. As for how I know it’s still there…” She hesitated for a moment, then confessed, “Because the one who made it was another ancient god—like me. A god of records.”

“A god of records?”

“Yeah. Omnipresent.”

The god said to exist everywhere.

“That weirdo used to be everywhere at once. Didn’t care for fighting—just loved recording things and leaving behind archives. He’s the one who told me about that place.”

“But didn’t he get sealed away by Elhaen?”

“He’s the type of being for whom a seal doesn’t really matter. He’s probably just lying low.”

Yet even as she said that, Athanasia looked uncertain.

“So… is there a way to find him?”

“…”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“W-Wait! There is a way.”

Clearly not wanting to disappoint Clay, Athanasia quickly spoke up.

“It’s just that the summoning method is, well… a bit weird.”

“What is it?”

“Well…” She let out another deep sigh, “Do I have to?”

“You’ve come this far explaining it all. Surely you’re going to see it through.”

With Clay’s gaze pressing on her, Athanasia puffed her cheeks.

“You could at least thank me. I’ve done a lot for you already, you know.”

“Thank you.”

“Sigh…”

Athanasia groaned, but after a moment, she dropped to the floor.

As Clay and Syltanaro stared at her with odd expressions, Athanasia shouted—

“He exists everywhere, remember?! Of course he can be summoned anywhere!”

“Then why are you lying on the floor?”

“Because this is the way he told me to summon him!”

According to her, gods preferred to be summoned in ways aligned with how they were worshipped. The method had to match the nature of the divine being.

“I really didn’t want to do this…”

She grumbled loudly, glancing at Clay with an air of indignation.

“I’m doing something I hate here. Only because it’s you. You owe me for this—remember that.”

“Athanasia, you shouldn’t speak that way to the Demon King—”

“It’s fine, Syltanaro.” Clay raised a hand, stopping her, “If she’s doing this for my sake, then I have no intention of pretending otherwise.”

Materializing even a fragment of the Akashic Record took the combined effort of multiple high-level mages. And even then, maintaining the space was difficult.

Calling forth the god who maintained a space filled with such vital knowledge wasn’t something just anyone could do.

“Athanasia… I’m asking you.” Clay, still sickly, reached a hand toward her from where he sat on the edge of the bed, “If you consider yourself part of my crew… then I entrust this to you.”

“Don’t worry.”

Still prone on the floor, Athanasia flipped her palms toward the ceiling.

“I know now that your success is tied to me securing my own place. That’s reason enough.”

Then—

Whoosh!

Air gathered like a thin veil over her palms.

“O Raven who dwells in every place that ought not exist, O fragment of the abyss that divides life and death—I offer you reverence. I, Athanasia, bow in prostration and supplicate you in accordance with the mercy once granted by you to me, a lesser god.”

Her forehead touched the ground.

“If you honor our covenant, step upon my head and show yourself. Let this earnest prayer reach your path.”

She went on, uttering praise and lowering herself further, invoking the god Omnipresent in words and gesture.

“This prayer comes not from words alone but from the sincerity of my spirit—”

“I see why you didn’t want to do this,” Syltanaro murmured.

Clay simply stood watching her in silence.

…Nothing’s happening?

Despite all the ritual and time spent, there was no response. Clay tilted his head in confusion.

“Huff… huff…”

Athanasia’s face looked fatigued—she’d spent both spiritual and divine energy on the rite.

“Why isn’t he showing up?!”

Still, she repeated the invocation. Her voice rang through the silence.

“…This is strange.”

Eventually, she admitted something felt wrong.

“He should’ve appeared by now.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t want to come?”

“No way. He promised to come if I did this. He doesn’t break promises.”

“Then maybe… he’s in a state where he can’t fulfill the promise.”

Considering how many other gods had been sealed, it wouldn’t be surprising if Omnipresent wasn’t entirely intact either.

“A state where he can’t fulfill the promise…?”

Athanasia swallowed hard.

“Let me try one more time.”

With the air growing heavier, she chanted the words once more.

Boom.

Suddenly, the space trembled with a deep thud.

Boom. Boom-boom.

A presence trying to break through. Clay instinctively turned his head toward it.

Sure enough, something began to appear in midair—like the shimmer of an aurora from the northern sky.

Waves of color twisted and shimmered like a mirage. Athanasia hastened her chant.

And then—

Splosh!

Something pierced through the rippling light and fell to the floor.

“…Huh?”

Athanasia blinked, wide-eyed.

Clay looked too—and his breath caught.

“Omnipresent”

A crow lay on the ground, unconscious, its eyes rolled back.

It had collapsed from the sky—just like that.

(End of Chapter)

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