This was starkly different from past experiences of returning to reality from an Echo of History.

If the River of Time before was like a river flowing in a fixed direction, ceaselessly following predetermined history from one fixed node to another, then at this moment, the River of Time seemed as if someone of immense power had forcibly carved a brand-new tributary into the main channel of history.

Thus, the River of Time, which had flowed since antiquity, tranquil and undisturbed, now began to roar with raging waves.

The Power of Historical Correction was taking effect, striving to forcibly erase the newly born tributary, to constrict the River of Time's flow back to the correct nodes.

But another formidable force stood amidst the River of Time's turbulent currents, like a great sword thrust into the riverbed, resisting the incessant waves with its singular strength.

Shiayar felt like a lone skiff on a vast sea, drifting with the surging torrents, at constant risk of losing his way.

If I were to truly lose my way here, he thought, I would indeed be submerged in lost history, becoming one 'forgotten by the years.'

However, soon, Shiayar noticed that deep within his spiritual sea, the previously dim "Sands of Time" suddenly began to twinkle, transforming into bright, shining stars that lit up like lanterns. In the tumultuous River of Time, they illuminated his path back. Thus, guided by the Sands of Time, Shiayar swiftly flowed downstream along the River of Time, crossing the chaotic turbulence, and returned to the node of the current timeline.

Yet, the new tributary carved into the River of Time did not vanish with Shiayar's disappearance.

「Escarnia.」

「The Royal City.」

Within the ruins composed of corpses and rubble, in the decaying Throne Room, the golden brilliance of the Sacred Sword pierced through the Despicable King Vortigern, who was clad in black armor that seemed to devour light.

Vortigern coughed out a mouthful of pitch-black blood. Looking at the large hole pierced by golden light in the black armor on his chest, a miserable, ghastly sneer appeared on his face.

Too fast. Unbelievably fast. I had thought that even after the battle with Cain in the Valley of the End, even if I were to fall into a disadvantageous position, it would be a gradual process. A constant struggle, an ongoing battle, until the territories my Abyss Demons Alliance Forces and I occupied were gradually eroded, and I finally faced defeat. This process, I'd imagined, might take years, perhaps even more than a decade. But I never expected that in less than a year, the rebel army led by the Knight King would unify the entire realm without any hindrance, subjugating all monsters, along with bandits and outlaws, completely pacifying the turbulent times. And finally, they would storm the Royal City.

With his defeat, at this moment, there was no longer anything in all of Escarnia to prevent his opponents from claiming the throne.

"Knight King... Artorigus," Vortigern rasped, a mournful, maniacal laugh escaping him. "You will regret this."

"Today, you seem to stand on the side of righteousness, about to establish a nation of perfect order... But with your passing, as the feudal lords and allies who once cooperated develop their own ambitions... your seemingly prosperous kingdom will one day also disintegrate. Just like how you lost Cain!"

CRACK.

Vortigern's words came to an abrupt end. In the next moment, his chest was impaled by the golden Sacred Sword, and he collapsed, devoid of all life.

From both inside and outside the Royal City, the deafening cheers of the Rebel Alliance echoed. The fall of the Despicable King Vortigern also meant that the last obstacle in all of Escarnia had been eliminated.

What followed was the time to build a brand-new Empire upon the ruins and savor the fruits of victory.

However, Isadella, the focus of tens of thousands of cheering soldiers, showed no sign of elation. She merely silently undid the hairband used for her male disguise, wiped the disguise from her face, and let her long Cangyin hair cascade down like quicksilver.

Isadella could clearly feel that the moment the Despicable King Vortigern died in battle, the Sacred Sword in her hand sent clear feedback. The final seal on the Sacred Sword was now unlocked. At this moment, she had truly ascended to the Throne Level.

All her initial goals in this special spacetime had been accomplished; logically, there was nothing left here worthy of Isadella's attachment. The Power of Historical Correction from the River of Time was already pressing down relentlessly, urging her to return to her destined trajectory.

But—Isadella was still unwilling to leave.

The fully liberated Sacred Sword of the Stars released an ancient, magnificent, and immense mystery. Its mysterious protection enveloped Isadella, allowing her to stand apart from the erosion of the River of Time and the Power of Historical Correction.

She became an anomaly within the original history.

"Merlin," she said, her voice soft. Clutching the Sacred Sword, she channeled its power with the might of a Throne Level Beastmaster, forcibly resisting the scouring of the Corrective Force. "How goes the collection of intelligence I tasked you with, concerning reincarnation and the resurrection of the dead within the Black Magic Domain?"

"It has all been collected, Your Majesty," an elderly man garbed in a court mage's attire spoke via voice transmission. "The notion of the afterlife... believe in it, and it exists; don't believe, and it doesn't. Time flows endlessly; this world will eventually blossom two similar flowers... A look back across millennia reveals one flower withered, the other in full bloom. Yet whether it is the same flower can only be judged by posterity..."

"I don't want such an ambiguous answer." Isadella cut Merlin off mercilessly. "Cain is Cain, unique. There cannot be another like him in this world."

"Indeed, Your Majesty. This old servant has never believed in reincarnation either." Merlin wiped his sweat before speaking respectfully again. "The domains of Necromancers and undead creatures do indeed possess Magic similar to resurrecting the dead. But they all have their flaws, none meeting Your Majesty's demands."

He glanced cautiously at Isadella. "The vast majority of necromantic Spells and Black Magic require the deceased's complete corpse to be performed. But Cain, His Excellency, died a martyr's death for his country, and not even the smallest fragment of his remains was left. Furthermore, the flaws of necromantic Spells are significant. Using a corpse as the foundation, those resurrected are all members of the Undead Races. Though the newly risen undead might retain some of the original's memories, these are mostly incomplete, and their intelligence is often impaired. If that's the case, then even if resurrection were possible, it would only be a desecration of his memory."

Isadella rejected the suggestion.

She stood thus upon the shattered throne, silently gazing at the short letter in her hand, her gaze downcast.

"So," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, "am I still... unable to see him again?"

At this moment, Isadella did not resemble the Knight King who had just unified the realm and was on the verge of establishing an immortal legacy. Instead, she seemed more like a chastened cat that had misbehaved.

Merlin slowly began, "Not necessarily... While perusing Vortigern's collection of texts, this old servant discovered a lost arcane art in a mystical tome from an Ancient Era. That ancient tome stated that each person, upon birth, leaves behind a unique signature in the Spirit Realm, one that does not disappear even after death. Normally, it is merely a mark with a trace of Spirituality. But if the deceased's renown is great enough... then there is a slim chance that the collective unconscious of the Spirit Realm, stimulated by the thoughts of countless people and living beings, could continuously reinforce and complete that unique imprint. Ultimately, one who left no physical remains, whose fame alone endures, can become a heroic spirit and then be resurrected within the Hall of Heroic Spirits."

Merlin hesitated for a moment. "However, the difficulty of birthing a heroic spirit is exceedingly high; it requires extremely widespread renown. Moreover, only after their fame has matured through long ages of remembrance, becoming a figure etched into history, can a heroic spirit be born." He glanced at Isadella beside him. "The time for a heroic spirit to be born might be hundreds of years, or perhaps... a millennium."

He was keenly aware that the queen he served was Human. And Humans, unlike the long-lived Races, even those at the Throne Level, do not have lifespans of a thousand years. Therefore, this was destined to be nothing more than an elusive, intangible dream.

Perhaps in a millennium, Black Knight Cain might indeed return as a heroic spirit, but no one within the Empire who had seen Cain as he truly was would be alive to witness it.

However—in response to Merlin's expression, tinged with regret and sorrow, Isadella simply lifted her head slightly.

"To become... a heroic spirit, you say?"

Her gaze shifted towards the distant expanse of the sky. There, a crimson moon hung high in the night sky.

"I will find you... no matter what the cost."

A single, clear teardrop fell upon the ruins.

"A thousand years..." she breathed. "Or perhaps, the Deities?"