Chapter 124, Side Story: A Mysterious Guidance

Translator: Barnnn

 

Perspective: Museum Director

 

Slowly, I walk through the museum’s exhibits, letting my gaze linger on each of the rare and precious artifacts on display.

Visitors pore through the descriptions beside the items or pause to read the plaques posted throughout the hall. Some smile, others weep openly. Watching their reactions, I realize something.

 

Those siblings were right.

 

◆

 

It had happened during a stretch of sweltering summer days. A young pair of siblings, accompanied by their father, stepped through the museum’s main entrance. The moment they laid eyes on the records of the Heroes’ deeds, they fell to their knees in tears.

The sight struck me deeply. I understood that feeling all too well. How could we, so small and unworthy, walk past the artifacts left behind by Heroes and Sages with our heads held high?

Though still young, those children had shown reverence beyond their years. Especially the older brother — my eyes were drawn to him again and again. He trembled with emotion, wept openly, at times sobbing uncontrollably as he covered his face or pressed trembling lips together.

How I longed to speak with him about Heroes and Sages, to share thoughts, even if just once.

But I was only the director of this place. One such as I had no right to intrude on the silent conversation between these souls and the legends they revered.

That day, I resolved not to disturb them. I watched from a respectful distance, content to bear witness.

 

◆

 

They returned several times over the course of the summer. Each visit, they walked the entire exhibit, carefully inspecting each relic, occasionally pausing for the three of them to speak in hushed, impassioned voices.

Just seeing them moved me to tears. More than once, I found myself discreetly pressing the corner of my eyes with my sleeve, grateful beyond words that I worked here.

I had tried to keep my distance. But one day, while making my rounds through the gallery, I happened upon them once again.

That encounter would become a turning point for me.

 

“Looks like this belonged to the Sage of Tranquility,” said the boy, observing a display. “Were they a woman, I wonder?”

“It’s a cute little mascot,” his sister replied. “Looks handmade — maybe from felt?”

 

Their conversation, as gentle and quiet as birdsong, drifted to my ears in the stillness of the hall. I was struck again by their sincerity. That particular Sage was virtually unknown — and yet these two treated her relic with the same reverence as any of the more renowned figures. Their curiosity, their respect… it was beautiful.

Then the girl looked up — and our eyes met.

After a brief hesitation, she offered me a small, polite bow. Such manners, at her age. My heart swelled with warmth. I did my best to keep my excitement in check as I approached them.

 

“Thank you for visiting our museum so often,” I said gently.

“Are you the Director?” the girl asked.

“Yes,” I said with a bow. “It’s my humble honor to serve in that role.”

 

Their eyes lit up, and I couldn’t help smiling. Taking a step forward, I offered them a bit of the sparse lore we had regarding the Sage they’d been admiring.

That one insignificant gesture — just a few bits of trivial knowledge — changed everything.

 

“She’s the subject of some debate,” I explained. “Whether she should be considered a Sage at all, or if she even merits a title.”

“Why?” the boy asked.

 

A frown formed between his brows — one I, in my blindness, failed to notice.

 

“Unlike the other Sages, who accomplished great feats, this woman… did very little, if anything,” I said.

“What do you mean, did very little?” he asked, his voice tightening.

 

It was then that I realized that the boy was angry. At what, I didn’t know. My own ignorance, perhaps. Or something deeper.

 

“After the Dungeon was conquered,” I continued uncertainly, “she returned to civilian life. She married into an ordinary family, never engaged with the logistics of Sage lineage, and made no efforts to share her knowledge. There was no lasting legacy of her wisdom–”

 

I stopped. The look on his face seared itself into my memory.

He glared at me with open fury. His expression held no mere frustration — it was as if he hated me.

The pressure that radiated from him was overwhelming. I could only describe it as the presence of an A-rank adventurer, or worse. My body trembled in fear.

 

“Hal,” the girl said softly, placing a hand on his arm. “Calm down.”

 

Her voice was a healing light. The boy let out a long breath and shook his head, trying to rein in his emotions.

I stood frozen, unable to look away.

Then the girl turned to me.

 

“Mister Director,” she said.

“Y-yes?” I replied, still shaken, too quick to answer a child’s voice.

 

She didn’t mock me. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, curious and kind.

 

“How many adults live in this city?”

“The… population of the Capital?” I asked, startled.

“Yes. I mean the number of adults,” she clarified.

 

I didn’t understand the point of the question.

Even now, I remember how confused I felt. But I was the museum’s director. It was my duty to answer.

 

“I believe… roughly five hundred thousand.”

“I see. That’s quite a lot,” she said thoughtfully.

“It IS the Royal Capital of Tajellia, after all,” I added in a moment of misplaced confidence.

“And among them, how many are specialists or experts in a particular field?”

“Experts…?” I faltered, mind racing to imagine the number.

“Do you mean nobles, clergy, Guild officers, scholars… anyone you would consider an authority?” I asked for clarification.

“Yes, anyone you think fits the bill.”

“Ah… Well, perhaps around thirty thousand? No, less — maybe twenty thousand. Or fewer. I’m sorry, I can’t say precisely.”

“No, that’s very helpful,” she said with a warm smile.

 

Relieved to have answered her question, I missed entirely the depth of what she had just asked.

 

“So that means,” she murmured, “more than four hundred seventy thousand are just ‘ordinary’ people.”

 

Her words seemed idle. But something unsettling stirred beneath them.

Then the boy spoke again, his voice quiet but heavy.

 

“Director, I assume you’re aware that there are no Mystic Beasts in the other world — and that people there rarely have to fight?”

“Of course,” I nodded. “That much I know.”

“And yet, those people come here and become Heroes.”

“Yes. Brave and noble souls,” I answered without hesitation.

 

To me, speaking of Heroes and Sages had become second nature, a kind of faith.

But his next words struck me like a blow to the chest.

 

“In this Capital, how many ordinary people — who’ve never fought, never pursued high-end education, never held authority — do you think could suddenly be transported to a completely different world, forced to fight for the lives of tens of thousands… and then, when the quest is over, be expected to spend the rest of their lives sharing that experience, squeezed dry of every drop of knowledge like a fruit pressed for juice?”

 

His eyes narrowed, sharply, coldly, and the chill in his voice rooted me in place.

I opened and closed my mouth, gasping like a fish stranded on land, fumbling desperately for words. But it was futile. He wasn’t looking for an answer — not from me, nor from anyone.

 

“It wouldn’t be strange for someone to resent a world that forced such a burden on them. And if that person had the power of a Hero… it wouldn’t be unthinkable for them to turn that power against the people of this world.”

 

His gaze slipped away from me, the intensity of his eyes hidden now behind lowered eyelids. I could only stare, stunned, unable to comprehend the weight of his words. My mind went blank. My lips trembled in silence. What did the two of them see, I wonder, when they looked at me then?

Even now, just remembering it makes my body burn with shame.

 

“It’s just my own selfish thought,” the boy continued. “I’m not blaming you, Director. I only want people to understand — those who were summoned to this world were never obligated to save it. Forcing someone to live their whole life being drained, treated like a resource just because they became a Hero or a Sage… it’s wrong. I only wanted to say that to someone — anyone.”

 

His voice dropped, and he bowed his head.

The girl beside him stepped closer, gently pressing her shoulder to his. Her long, almond-shaped eyes — eyes that reminded me faintly of a certain black-haired Hero’s lineage — turned toward me.

 

“Director,” she said, her voice soft, “I believe the Sage of Tranquility would have been happy with that name. I don’t think she ever sought battle, or fame, or to be revered as nobility. She just wanted to live out her days peacefully, with the person she loved and the family they built together.” Then, with a shy smile, she added, “At least… that’s what I like to imagine.”

 

I could only stare at her — this delicate girl, still so young, yet so full of empathy. And in the end, the only thing I could offer these two siblings, so rich in insight and boundless imagination, was a deep, silent bow of respect.

 

◆

 

From that day on, I walked the museum halls over and over again, reviewing every corner of every exhibit.

It was something I’d done every single day. But now… now I saw how blind I had truly been.

When I looked at the displays through the eyes of those two, I saw how shallow it all was. How paper-thin. The exhibits that were meant to honor Heroes and Sages had become hollow tributes. I blushed with shame. And one by one, I apologized — tearfully — to every relic on display.

It no longer mattered what my staff thought of me. I couldn’t sleep, haunted by the thought that my ignorance had dulled the radiance of their legacies.

 

◆

 

And now, the day has finally come.

With renewed exhibits, the Museum of Heroes and Sages takes its first step into a new future.

 

We now tell not only the story of this world, but of the other one — the world in which Heroes and Sages were born. Who they had been before they were summoned. The lives they led, the people they loved, the futures they dreamed of. Only by knowing those truths can we truly appreciate what they accomplished here.

 

The despair of a mother, torn from her child and thrust into this foreign land.

The sorrow of a young scholar forced to give up on his dreams, built on his parents’ support and years of dedication.

The devastation of a craftsman, who realized everything he had spent a lifetime mastering was far too advanced to hold any relevance in this world.

The pain, the grief, and the rage that each of the Sages had to endure before rising to their roles.

 

It is only when we understand that, that we can begin to give thanks.

 

We must thank the Heroes and Sages — not only for saving this world, but for choosing not to destroy it.

We must honor them — not only for protecting us, but for loving this world, even as strangers, until the very end.

We must never forget that our lives, peaceful and free, are built upon their sacrifices.

 

And so today, once again, I offer my thanks to the Goddess.

For sending those siblings to me.

For showing me my mission — not simply to manage this place, but to carry the memory of Heroes and Sages forward, to speak their names with reverence and truth.

That day, when I met them… that was the day I vowed to live by that purpose, for as long as I draw breath.