What should I do if the hero is resurrected in the Monster Girl Encyclopedia?

Chapter 138 All That Is Eternal

Mirad walked through the streets of Cretia, and everything indeed remained as it was.

He certainly remembered that party.

After defeating all the known Demon Kings, the entire city could finally breathe a sigh of relief. The various sects within the city united in an unprecedented way, even those that were usually at odds with each other, and held an unprecedentedly grand celebration.

The smiles captured on film along the streets remain vivid, as if they might erupt into thunderous cheers at any moment.

The followers of Dionysus, holding earthenware jars, offered the finest wines to passersby whose eyes caught their eye. Aphrodite's dancers raised their arms in the square, their skirts frozen in a moment of twirling. The fish summoned by the priests of the sea leaped from their baskets, their drooping droplets lingering in mid-air. In the arena, the warriors favored by the god of war remained locked in a fierce struggle, their faces still wet with tears.

Food is all-you-can-eat in the city, and the theaters are open all night.

"It's over, it's finally over!"

...The messenger who ran around spreading the news was forever frozen in time at the moment he opened his mouth to shout.

The heroes will receive the king's reward at the palace today!

This promise, which everyone eagerly awaited but never fulfilled, became the prelude to eternity.

The city remained frozen in that moment of revelry.

"...I'm starting to regret letting the two of you stick together like this."

Hiolitta followed closely behind Mirad, her voice listless.

The reason is simple. From the moment he stepped into this petrified city, Mirad's hand had been gently resting on Obola's ram's horn the entire way, a gesture so natural it seemed he had repeated it a thousand times.

Given their significant height difference, they looked like a weary traveler casually using his companion Baphomet's head as some kind of unique cane or armrest.

Baphomet, on the other hand, seemed completely resigned to its fate.

She even straightened her back to accommodate his height, so that Mirand's arm could be at a more comfortable angle. His golden eyes were slightly narrowed, like a pet goat drowsily stroked by its owner in the afternoon sun.

Occasionally, when Mirad's fingers unconsciously traced the lines on her horn, she would tremble slightly uncontrollably and let out a satisfied groan.

"Teacher Obora...you must have a way to undo this little spell, right? It's a piece of cake for me to do it myself...Ugh, you sullen old goat woman, don't turn your head away! You're probably secretly enjoying being used as a chair armrest, aren't you! Lord Mirad, you should say something to her, don't look so self-satisfied, boohoo..."

“The magic has long been dispelled…” Obora’s voice was very soft.

At first, Obora did consider pretending to be stupid and letting Mirad have more time to work on his horn.

But in reality, halfway there she couldn't bear the torment of mixed joy and guilt and quietly broke the little spell that held them together.

Now, Mirad still has his hand on his horn... This can only mean two things. Either he really just likes the feel of his horn, or he's completely oblivious to the fact that the magic has been dispelled, and Mirad's mind has already drifted to faraway places.

"Gwah! I have horns too, and they feel really nice to touch... Is it because I'm a few centimeters taller than you, Professor Opola, that Lord Mirad finds it uncomfortable to stand on them? Let me switch places with you! Lord Mirad has been lost in thought for ages. Let's secretly switch places, he definitely won't notice!"

Obora carefully raised her head without disturbing Mirad, and sure enough, he seemed oblivious to their commotion. His deep blue eyes were blankly scanning the frozen faces on both sides of the street.

Mirad was fortunate that, even after a thousand years, he could still clearly call out the names of the residents.

That was Copper Shield, the blacksmith's owner. He was a dwarf who never liked being called by his real name, so everyone addressed him by his clan name. Loran was one of his biggest customers; he had piled up countless failed magic spears. A kind, honest smile graced his face, always blackened by the furnace fire. His wife, carrying a bottle of wine, tried to squeeze through the crowd to give it to him, but she remained forever three steps away.

That was Aske, the youngest apprentice in the academy, who had been recommended by Mirard to study there. He was clumsily casting a firework spell, and the magical orb was already taking shape in his palm. Mirard could imagine the ever-changing light illuminating Aske's expectant and nervous, still-childish face.

Il, the waitress of the tavern, was surrounded by a group of drunken soldiers. She smiled helplessly and happily as she tossed a coin into the air, which hovered less than an inch from her fingertips, unable to fall.

He remembers each and every one of them.

Remember their stories, their dreams.

I remember that they once existed in this city, real and vibrant.

...But now all that remains here is paleness.

The arguing between Hiolitta and Obola had stopped at some point.

Mirad's fingers unconsciously tightened, gently squeezing the warm, smooth ram's horns beneath his palm. The warm touch, warmed by the flow of magic, acted as an anchor, pulling his consciousness back to reality.

He looked down at Baphomet, who was trying to straighten his back and even his breathing was becoming soft.

“Thank you,” Mirad said.

Obora's body stiffened abruptly, and her usually docile, droopy, furry ears instantly perked up.

Hiolitta chuckled, "Wow, you're so obviously excited, Opola-sensei~ Your tail's even twitching... It's just a 'thank you' and you're this happy! Lord Mirad said 'thank you' to me twice, you know?"

"Who wants to compare this kind of thing with you..."

Obora looked at Mirad and said, word by word, "Actually, at that time, I knew..."

"Yeah, it's nothing. It's not your fault."

Mirard's answer was as calm as if he had expected it: "Whether you know or not, it doesn't change the outcome."

He didn't let go of her hand on her corner, but patted it reassuringly.

"Here we go again, this feeling... Stop playing dumb! What do you know, Professor Obora? What does Lord Mirad know about you? And why isn't he blaming you? Are you two children?! You like to ostracize me like this... Waaah, I'm really going to cry now?"

Hiolitta shook Mirad's other arm vigorously, shouting incessantly.

"Your Highness, you will understand soon."

Obora lowered her gaze. "But I'm more curious, Your Highness... haven't you noticed all this time?"

"What did you notice?"

"Let's go to the palace."

Mirala grabbed Hiolitta's hand and, before she could ask any questions, led her toward the palace.

The palace gates opened... This investiture ceremony did not require a noble title; anyone who could prove they were a citizen of Creteia was permitted entry to observe. The three ascended the steps and entered the most magnificent hall in the Kingdom of Creteia, the very place where a victory banquet was to be held.

Above the magnificent dome, the paintings depicting the epics of the gods have faded to a pure black, white, and gray. Between the massive columns, sculptures symbolizing the kingdom's past kings stand silently, untouched by a speck of dust. On the banquet tables, plates and glasses are neatly arranged, as if at any moment, the residents of Creteia, who have ascended the steps from the marketplace, will take their seats.

Then, the world died.

It wasn't a loud bang, but a soft hiss.

It was as if, in a very gentle moment, someone had stopped time.

And so the light died, the wind stopped, and the sound was drained away.

The colors on Hiolitta and Obola were instantly stripped away, fading into a lifeless gray-white.

Lilim marveled at the changes in herself, while Baphomet looked at him with concern.

Are you alright? Her lips moved as she asked.

"It's nothing." He shook his head.

There is nothing here.

There was only a vast, maddening silence.

Mirad couldn't even hear his own footsteps, but he could feel his heart pounding wildly in his chest, one beat after another.

It was as if it were the only sound left in this world.

Boom, boom, boom.

No. It's not the only one left.

There's still one heartbeat.

Faint, clear, and incredibly vivid.

The rhythm of that heartbeat was exactly the same as his own. It was as if another heart of his was beating there, a heart he had forgotten for over 1,300 years, yet which still beat for him within this Ruins of Time.

Indeed. You've been waiting for me all along.

It was a huge snake molt.

It was so enormous that its body almost occupied the entire main hall, and its layers of molted skin resembled dry, translucent mountains, winding and spiraling.

Even though it was just a remains, it still contained extremely rich magical power, which affected the surrounding environment.

"Medusa..."

Obora read the name aloud.

However, Mirad's gaze did not linger solely on the remains.

His gaze swept almost greedily over the figures scattered around the snake's molted skin.

Close friend. Relatives and friends. Elders.

They are all still here; they have never left.

Each of them was frozen in that final and most beautiful moment.

Mirad just watched them quietly, motionless, as if he himself had become a sculpture and merged into them.

Hiolitta and Obola did not disturb him, but stood quietly behind him, watching this man face his entire world, which had been gone for thousands of years, all by himself.

After an unknown amount of time, Mirad walked step by step toward the enormous snake molt.

He bypassed the familiar figures frozen in time and finally stopped beneath the enormous hollow of the snake's shed skin.

This is the heart of the entire mausoleum, the end of all colors and life.

And naturally, a king befitting its status should be sleeping there.

Mirad raised his head.

In this petrified world, stripped of all color and reduced to mere gray, a splash of color blossoms.

In the hollow of the remains, a slender figure slowly rose to stand.

As if she had just woken up from a dream, her movements were slow, and her perception of the world was still vague and hazy. However, the snake hair woke up even before she did, eagerly opening its tiny pupils to examine the man below.

It was a serpentine body of equal size, with pure white scales and graceful curves. Her body was so sacred that even her scales radiated a soft glow, as if formed from condensed moonlight.

She lay quietly coiled within the grayish-white snake molt, like a lotus flower blooming anew on withered bones.

She opened her eyes.

It wasn't those indifferent white eyes that seemed frozen in ice, devoid of any emotion.

...Those were the vertical pupils of a snake.

In this deathly grayness, she was the only one with color, though that color was so faint as to be almost nonexistent.

She looked at him.

He was looking at her too.

Mirad drew the holy sword.

Good morning, Orpheus.

Just like that morning more than a thousand years ago.

(End of this chapter)