The Rebirth of Humanity

“Now that this great one has honored you with his presence…”

Fafnir’s fingers stopped tapping against the armrest of his throne.

He raised his head slightly.

His pitch-black eyes swept across the entire summit, passing over the six rulers before moving toward the representatives of the lower races seated in the stands.

There was no haste in his gaze.

Nor did he seem remotely concerned with whether anyone was prepared to begin the meeting.

He looked like a man who had simply decided that the conversation would begin—and everyone else was expected to listen.

“Let the meeting begin.”

The words fell over the arena.

Yet…

no one answered.

A heavy silence descended.

The six rulers exchanged occasional glances, each seemingly waiting for one of the others to take responsibility for speaking first.

But no one moved.

The moment Fafnir had appeared, the very nature of the gathering had changed.

Before his arrival, these six rulers had been the ones who held authority.

Now…

one man sat upon a throne made of skulls, while everyone else waited for him to speak.

Even Isabelle, who had officially convened the gathering as one of the leaders of the Superior Races, did not dare address him directly.

Fafnir watched them.

And their silence seemed to be growing tiresome.

Then…

his eyes shifted.

They settled upon Isabelle.

The elven queen felt his gaze fall upon her, and her back instinctively straightened.

Then he spoke.

“Young girl.”

Isabelle froze.

So did a great many others.

Several representatives of the lower races stared in disbelief.

“Girl?”

“He called her a girl!”

“She is the Queen of the Elves…”

“And yet, to Fafnir, she really is a child.”

It was a strange sight.

Isabelle was no ordinary woman.

She was one of the most powerful beings in Gandalia.

She was the queen of an entire race.

Yet before a man who had lived thousands of years before her birth…

her title meant very little.

Fafnir looked at her indifferently.

Then he asked:

“Why did that old hag Griselda abdicate the throne of your elven race?”

The expressions of several people changed instantly.

As for Isabelle…

she felt a chill run down her spine.

Griselda.

Just the mention of that name was enough to drag ancient memories back to the surface.

The Iron Maiden.

The Fourth Queen of the Elves.

The legendary warrior who had lived during the Primordial War.

The woman who had personally fought Fafnir.

One of the most renowned figures in the history of Gandalia.

Yet Fafnir did not address her by her title.

He did not call her…

“The Fourth Queen.”

Nor did he call her…

“The Iron Maiden.”

He simply called her—

“That old hag.”

Whispers immediately spread throughout the stands.

“He mentioned Griselda…”

“Did he actually know her?”

“He didn't merely know her. He fought her.”

“Is there some grudge between them?”

“Most likely.”

“But how could that grudge still exist after five thousand years?”

One representative of the lower races muttered:

“With Fafnir?”

He swallowed hard.

“I don't think five thousand years is long enough.”

The whispers abruptly stopped when Fafnir heard some of the voices.

But he did not care.

His eyes remained fixed upon Isabelle.

“Did she die, or what?”

Isabelle felt deeply embarrassed by the way he was speaking to her.

She was a queen.

Yet before him, she felt like a young student being questioned about one of her ancestors.

Still, she did not dare object.

She had not forgotten who stood before her.

Fafnir.

The Supreme Emperor of Humanity.

The Greatest Human.

The man who had once stood before the strongest beings in the world without ever bowing his head.

Isabelle took a deep breath.

Then she answered:

“If you mean the Iron Maiden, Griselda, the Fourth Queen of the Elves…”

She paused briefly.

Then continued:

“She did not die.”

Silence.

“She voluntarily abdicated the throne.”

Fafnir raised an eyebrow slightly.

Then nodded.

“Good.”

For a brief moment, Isabelle felt a small sense of relief.

But it did not last long.

Fafnir continued:

“It is good that she did not die.”

A faint smile appeared on his face.

“Because I have an old debt to settle with her.”

Isabelle froze.

The temperature around her seemed to drop.

“I have yet to make her pay for it.”

She could not speak.

Fafnir continued:

“When you see her…”

He looked directly at Isabelle.

“…tell her, in my own words, to wash her neck.”

Silence.

Then he continued:

“And wait for this great one to come and cut it off.”

Boom!

There was no explosion.

Yet those words seemed to explode inside everyone's mind.

Isabelle's eyes widened.

Her face turned pale.

As for the representatives of the lower races…

they did not even know how to react.

“He…”

One of them stopped.

Then swallowed hard.

“He just threatened the Iron Maiden with death.”

Another whispered:

“And he ordered the current Queen to deliver the message herself.”

“After five thousand years!”

“That is insane.”

“No…”

another person replied.

“That is Fafnir.”

Those words were enough to silence him.

Even Vulcan, who was usually quick-tempered, remained silent.

He looked at Fafnir, then at Isabelle.

He knew that Griselda was not someone who could be insulted lightly.

But Fafnir…

simply did not care.

It was obvious that the ancient war was not merely a chapter in a history book to him.

Some of its grudges were still unfinished.

Isabelle felt an enormous pressure weighing upon her.

She did not know what to do.

Should she tell Griselda?

Of course.

But how?

Was she supposed to say:

“The Emperor Fafnir has returned, and he told me to tell you to wash your neck and wait for him to cut it off”?

The mere thought of such a scene gave her a headache.

Griselda was no ordinary woman.

If she learned that Fafnir had returned…

there was no way she would simply ignore it.

She might not even wait for him to come to her.

She might go to him herself.

But…

would that be suicide?

Isabelle did not know.

She had read the ancient records.

She knew that Griselda had been one of the most powerful figures of her era.

But she did not know how she compared to Fafnir.

No one did.

The comparison between the two had remained one of the unresolved mysteries of history.

Yet one thing was obvious.

Fafnir did not fear Griselda.

Nor did he seem to believe that she was capable of threatening him.

On the other side…

Thorinn and Eleanor stood behind the human throne.

They listened to every word.

And when they heard Fafnir's threat against Griselda…

they exchanged a brief glance.

A smile appeared on Thorinn's face.

He leaned slightly toward Eleanor and whispered:

“Five thousand years…”

Eleanor replied:

“And he still keeps a list of old debts.”

Thorinn smiled.

“That is our lord.”

Eleanor did not answer.

She simply looked at Fafnir in silence.

She knew something most of those present did not.

Fafnir never forgot.

Ever.

Whether the world knew it or not…

everyone who had caused him trouble in the past had a place in his memory.

And that…

was what made his return so frightening.

Meanwhile, Elena's expression had grown extremely cold.

She did not intervene.

But she watched Fafnir carefully.

There was only one question running through her mind:

If Fafnir still remembered Griselda after five thousand years…

what about everyone else he had fought?

And what about Vlad?

Her thoughts stopped there.

She looked at Fafnir cautiously.

But she said nothing.

She had learned an important lesson only minutes ago:

Speak only when necessary.

As for Lilith…

she was smiling.

This time, however, her smile was not mocking.

She was fascinated.

“Five thousand years…”

she murmured.

Then she gave a soft laugh.

“And he still holds on to his grudges.”

Her glowing eyes remained fixed upon Fafnir.

“What an interesting man.”

Gabriel glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

“Lilith.”

She turned toward him.

“What?”

He spoke coldly.

“Do not do anything reckless.”

She smiled.

“And who said I would?”

Yet her eyes never left Fafnir.

Silence returned.

Fafnir remained seated upon his throne.

He seemed entirely uninterested in the disturbance he had caused.

Then he looked at Isabelle once more.

“There is something else.”

Isabelle raised her head.

“Yes?”

“You said she voluntarily abdicated the throne.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Isabelle hesitated.

“After the end of the Primordial War, she decided to retire from ruling.”

Fafnir stared at her.

Then said:

“Retire?”

She nodded.

“Yes.”

Fafnir gave a mocking smile.

“Strange.”

He raised his gaze toward the sky.

“In our era…”

His fingers stopped tapping.

“…no one retired.”

No one answered.

“You either ruled…”

His gaze returned to them.

“…or you were killed.”

Several representatives of the lower races shuddered.

That single sentence was enough to remind them of the era in which this man had lived.

An age of war.

An age in which power was not granted.

It was taken.

And when you were weak…

you died.

Then Fafnir said:

“Regardless.”

He returned to his previous posture.

“It does not matter.”

He crossed one leg over the other.

“If she is still alive, I will meet her.”

Then he smiled.

“And it should be an interesting meeting.”

There was no warmth in his smile.

It was the smile of a man who was already completely certain of the outcome of a confrontation that had yet to take place.

As for Isabelle…

a chill ran through her.

She now had to carry Fafnir's message to Griselda.

And she did not know which would be more terrifying:

telling Griselda that Fafnir had returned…

or eventually telling Fafnir what Griselda's response had been.

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