Klein nodded to the Sage.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. A queue of questions lined up in his mind, but not a single one could make its way to the front.
Ophelia wasn't faring much better.
She stood to Klein's right, her gaze fixed on the Sage's face, her lips pressed thin.
Silence hung over the garden for about five or six seconds.
The Sage watched them.
She looked at Klein, then at Ophelia, and finally back at Klein.
At some point, her expression cracked.
She simply couldn't hold it in anymore.
The cold exterior she had maintained throughout the wedding began to crumble, starting from the corners of her mouth. First, the corners curved, then her eyes crinkled, and finally, a laugh she couldn't suppress escaped her.
The laugh wasn't loud, but it was clear and bright.
She was a completely different person from the black-robed Sage Klein had met before.
She reached out and pinched her own cheek—not lightly, either. The skin was pulled taut before snapping back, leaving a small red mark.
The gesture held none of the demeanor of a master, let alone the dignity of a Sage. It was purely something a young girl would do.
“You two,” the Sage began, her voice still trailing with the remnants of laughter. “The way you’re standing there, it’s really—”
She paused, but she didn't finish the sentence.
Her golden eyes met Klein’s gaze and brightened.
“Father.”
The voice wasn't heavy. It was just a normal, casual way of addressing someone.
But Klein’s brain stalled.
Completely, utterly, and without warning, it stalled.
He didn't even have time to react—not even time to blink—before the Sage turned her gaze to the right.
“Mother.”
The same tone. The same natural ease.
Ophelia’s breath hitched.
She took half a step back. It wasn't a retreat out of fear, but a physical instinct to find her footing again.
Klein’s mouth worked soundlessly.
“...What?”
His voice was at least an octave higher than he had intended.
The Sage tilted her head.
“I said, Father,” she repeated, her tone carrying a hint of it being a matter of course. “Which word didn't you hear clearly?”
Klein turned to look at Ophelia.
Ophelia was looking at him too.
They locked eyes for a second. He read the exact same expression in her eyes: they hadn't been entirely without suspicion, but they were absolutely not prepared to face this answer within five minutes of the wedding ending.
“Wait, wait a minute—” Klein raised a hand in a stop gesture. “What did you just call me?”
“I’ve said it twice now,” the Sage said.
“I know you said it twice!”
“Then why are you asking?”
Klein was at a loss for words.
He took a deep—no, he let out a long breath, emptying his lungs completely.
Then he took another breath.
In truth, it wasn't as if he had no suspicions.
He had indeed hypothesized some blood relation between this Sage and himself, but he hadn't expected it to be this kind of relation.
There was a massive difference.
Klein looked at the Sage again.
Those golden eyes. The curve of the brow and the bridge of the nose.
He glanced at Ophelia.
Golden eyes.
“...”
He fell silent.
Ophelia recovered faster than Klein.
“...How old are you?” she asked.
The Sage blinked, clearly not expecting Ophelia to ask such a question.
“...That’s a bit hard to calculate,” the Sage answered honestly.
“To be honest... I should be a bit older than the two of you are right now.”
The Sage spoke with a very casual tone.
Klein chose to accept it—if his daughter could come from the future to the present, then being older than his current self wasn't a big issue anymore.
“Then how did you get here?” Klein asked.
“Space-time magic.”
Clean and concise.
Space-time magic... Klein had only seen records of it in the documents left by Astrid. It belonged to the category of being theoretically possible but practically impossible.
In those documents, the summary of space-time magic was just one sentence—the mana and precision required were far beyond the limits of humanity.
But his future daughter had learned it... Did that mean he would eventually master it too?
“Why did you come?” Ophelia followed up.
The Sage was quiet for a moment.
“I can't say for now.”
Klein frowned.
The Sage saw his expression and added, “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that saying it might lead to a bad outcome.”
“The more you know about a certain event, the more likely the future will converge toward it.”
“That’s what the future you told me.”
As she spoke, the previous mirth and playfulness vanished from her tone. Her golden eyes met theirs calmly and seriously.
Klein and Ophelia shared a look.
Ophelia gave a slight nod.
Klein understood—they wouldn't ask further.
Regarding the future, it was better not to know. On this point, he and Ophelia reached a silent agreement that required no further discussion.
If she said it would have an impact, then they wouldn't ask.
The light in the garden rose a bit higher.
The Sage suddenly looked up at the sky.
Her expression changed—not for the worse, nor did it turn cold, but her relaxation tightened back into her usual composure.
“It’s about time,” she said.
Klein’s smile faded.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
A single word.
Clean and simple.
Ophelia’s fingers twitched.
“When will you return?” she asked.
The Sage didn't answer immediately.
She stood up. The visual difference of her being shorter while sitting vanished—she wasn't very tall, still a bit shorter than Ophelia.
But once she stood straight, that aura belonging to a Sage returned.
“I’m not sure.”
She looked at Ophelia as she said those three words.
Then she turned to Klein.
She hesitated for a moment.
“Start the research on the sirens early.”
Her voice was steady, but Klein heard a weight behind it that didn't belong to a casual suggestion.
She had sifted this sentence out from all the things she couldn't say, carefully packaging it as a subtle reminder.
Klein was about to say something more.
A gust of wind blew into the garden from outside.
It wasn't a natural wind. Its direction was too deliberate, its trajectory too precise—it bypassed the flower trellis, bypassed Ophelia, and bypassed Klein, blowing solely toward the depths of the garden.
Klein saw a black robe fly out from the window of a guest room on the second floor of the manor.
The robe unfurled in the air, caught by the wind, and landed steadily on the Sage’s shoulders.
She casually pulled the collar together.
The black robe covered most of her gray-blue skirt, and the hood flipped up, casting a shadow over her face.
That face, which shared features with both of them, was hidden back in the darkness.
Ophelia suddenly took a step forward.
The Sage tilted her head slightly to look at her. Within the shadow of the hood, those golden eyes flashed.
Ophelia didn't speak.
She raised her right hand, her fingertips touching the edge of the hood.
She adjusted the hood for the Sage, pulling it back slightly so the fabric wouldn't obscure her vision.
Just that one movement.
Then she withdrew her hand.
The Sage’s lips moved. No sound came out.
“Take care.”
A second later, the Sage spoke two words. Her voice was slightly raspy, but she kept it steady.
Light and shadow distorted around her—not a violent distortion, but as if the air was being gently crumpled and then smoothed out. Her silhouette began to fade, her edges blurring like a drop of ink being diluted in clear water.
Klein instinctively took a step forward.
But he stopped.
Because he saw the Sage, just before she disappeared, reach out and give them a wave.
It was a very ordinary wave, the kind a child would make when saying goodbye.
Quick, casual, with five fingers spread wide.
And then she was gone.
Silence returned to the garden.
The wind stopped. The morning light shone on the empty chair, leaving no trace on its surface.
Klein stood where he was.
He looked down at the ring on his ring finger.
Then he looked up at the empty chair.
Ophelia, beside him, didn't move either.
The two of them stood side by side like that, neither speaking.
After a long time—or perhaps it wasn't long, it just felt that way—Ophelia moved first.
She turned to face Klein.
Her gaze was level.
Klein thought she was going to say something, but she just watched him. After a few seconds, her right hand moved, her fingers sliding between Klein’s, interlocking them.
The grip wasn't heavy. But it was firm.
“Let’s go,” Ophelia said.
Her voice was as steady as always.
Klein let her lead him as they turned together.
As they walked out of the garden, he glanced back once.
The chair was still there. Empty.
The sunlight baked the back of the chair, the wood grain becoming clear in the light.
Klein withdrew his gaze.
He did not let go of Ophelia’s hand.
Rate on N.U.
