For the fourth blink, he stood with a pale face before countless people, forcing himself to inspire morale.
For the fifth blink, he kneeled on one knee beside the Forget Language Saintess, lightly kissing her pale hand.
The brain trembles...
For the sixth blink, he stood with his hands behind his back, watching the snow flying outside the window, a cold anger flickering in his eyes.
For the seventh blink, he gave himself a slight smile, transforming into a mirror with a flick.
Reflected in the mirror was not Foster Ward, but the girl named Theresa Tarosa.
He knew very well that all of this was an illusion, existing only in his imagination and mental fabrication. But he also understood that it was not an ethereal illusion, but something more essential.
