Afternoon had passed, and sunlight sprinkled across the flower fields. Looking towards the horizon, a sea of endless golden flowers stretched out, with a cool breeze brushing gently; it was probably late spring now.

Crowley leaned against the oak tree, gazing at the distant flower field. The air was filled with a sweet fragrance, a scene that had always existed in a secluded corner of his mind. He couldn't recall how long it had been since he last returned to this place.

This was not Oak City, and those people wearing golden masks were no longer here.

After thousands of years, Crowley finally had the chance to rest, no longer needing to serve under the King of Gold's rule or worry about potential betrayers. Instead, he could live as someone named Crowley.

Life flashing before one's eyes.

This phrase surfaced in Crowley's mind.

He had heard some people say that when a person's life nears its end, they see the important images from their memories, confronting their inner self in that moment.

The person who told him these words was already dead, their name and appearance having faded into obscurity, except...

"What kind of person is the King of Gold?"

A voice inquired near his ear.

Crowley paused, not immediately turning around, but remaining silent for a long time until a warm and rough hand clasped his left hand.

"...Pretty good."

He spoke the insincere answer.

Crowley suddenly found himself lacking the courage to turn around, not wanting to mention the King of Gold at this moment, nor let anyone familiar with him know his actions that followed.

All of this was a facade.

He comforted himself with these thoughts.

Yet the voice seemingly refused to let him off easily, "And, have you been well all these years?"

"...Pretty good."

"That's good then."

"I must be leaving."

Crowley took a deep breath and said without turning his head. Hanging at his waist wasn't an obsidian dagger, but a common iron sword. This iron sword was forged by the village blacksmith, a gift as he embarked on his adventure; it was his earliest companion in completing his adventures.

He gradually remembered.

At the end of the flower field stood a wooden cabin, located in the northwest corner of the village. He, like countless other hot-blooded youths yearning for adventure, carried the gift from the blacksmith and declared to his parents he would become the greatest adventurer in the world.

At these moments, Crowley remembered his mother, dressed in a floral dress, standing under the grapevine smilingly saying to him, "Go ahead, but don't forget, if life in the big city isn't smooth, you're always welcome to come back."

Speaking of it, how did he become the greatest adventurer?

Was it by hunting monsters that endangered the town, or by warding off a dragon invasion? Or perhaps assisting the royalty in quelling rebellions and leading the Royal Knight Order to conquer place after place?

All the figures he once fought alongside fused together at this moment, indistinguishable from one another. Perhaps, just as those people said, when he confronted his inner self, each victory was truly insignificant.

Crowley finally recalled the reason he appeared here.

When he eventually one day returned to this small village, what welcomed him was a tombstone and his mother lying on the sickbed, constantly coughing.

This village never experienced powerful foes worthy of being recorded in history. What caused all this was merely an outbreak of infectious disease that appeared in the village not long ago, claiming many lives, and his father couldn't endure it.

One morning he left home in distress, arriving under this oak tree. He habitually used sword and courage to solve problems, which rendered him invincible in adventure. However, now he faced the most daunting enemy—death.

Perhaps he should seek other methods, but his time was running out; Crowley could already sense death approaching.

The scenes in his mind gradually became clear. That day under this tree, he met not his mother but a stranger wearing a golden mask.

"What you need is a miracle."

The person wearing the golden mask said, "I can offer you a miracle. I'm curious, what price are you willing to pay for it?"

...

Indeed, as long as the King of Gold's reign continued another day, the miracles he created would persist.

Crowley clenched his fist.

The world before his eyes was engulfed in darkness. Awareness returned to his body, torn pain awakened his consciousness, and it took him about ten seconds from blur to clarity to discern the scene in the room.

The memory of the previous second was still at the moment he held an obsidian dagger, about to slit Ethan's throat.

But now, he lay on the cold ground, and not far away was a familiar figure.

Charman, wearing a sorrowful mask, leaned against the wall, sitting limply on the floor, with blood flowing down his sleeve.

The intervening memory had disappeared; Crowley couldn't recall what had happened in between, nor could he imagine how terrible a spell must have been to instantly batter two ministers granted a divine artifact by the King of Gold.

In these long years, he couldn't remember what it felt like to be wounded.

Had they failed?

No, it didn't seem that simple.

The house was largely demolished by a heavy blow, with the entire roof blasted off. Golden light poured down here, and Crowley noticed Ethan's condition seemed equally dire, though Ethan bore no visible wounds, he was gray-faced, slumped in the corner of the room.