"Right?"
The Lord's rebuke softened on his final sentence, even becoming somewhat neurotically melancholic.
Faced with his question, Old Edward couldn't hold it together anymore.
A distorted expression crossed his somber face, seemingly lost in ancient memories that twisted his brow in anguish.
After several seconds, he spoke softly:
"Yes, I know, those memories... about the fog of the era before our time, those forever forgotten memories, about our origin, about the original sin of our blood race!"
"Even now, I can occasionally see some disjointed and fragmentary images. In those images, I can see you, Salockdale, Oksana, and Charlemagne.
I can even see myself.
But I cannot comprehend what we were doing in those images!
I can't even confirm whether those memories truly existed in our eternal, cursed life without origin or end, without coming or going!
It might just be illusions, eccentric illusions formed from the keen perception of our golden life towards subspace.
