The bard’s first hypothesis was that The Serpent must be a god. Yet none of the deities he interrogated could offer more than the same fragmented whispers priests and tomes had already provided. They spoke of dreams and visions where the enigmatic entity inspired the creation of worlds and races, but none claimed to have seen it directly. He even dismissed the idea of it being a dream god, for with the aid of dreamwalkers, he learned to navigate the dreams of countless universes—and found no trace of it.

  If not a god, perhaps it was a demon. Yet the Demon Kings—consulted after he’d bargained in their service—offered only vague allusions. Some claimed The Serpent had fueled their visions of conquest; others insisted their thirst for absolute power had been stoked by its whispers. One demon, a solitary king who’d survived a cataclysmic war as his world’s last remnant, finally shared insights from ancient demonic scholars:

  “A solitary being,

  Once bound by path or purpose,

  Now drifts directionless.

  Chasing its tail in endless cycle,

  It could arrive at any moment,

  Yet deep within, it fears its destination—

  For reaching it would mean the end.”

  Though this fresh perspective intrigued him after centuries of repetition, the theory raised more questions than answers. It offered no proof beyond the musings of long-dead scholars.

  Thus, the bard took drastic measures: he journeyed to the births and deaths of millions of universes. He witnessed the genesis of gods and the extinction of insignificant lifeforms. He watched worlds rise and collapse. Yet to his frustration, he found no trace of The Serpent—no sound, no vision, no clue. With each reality, he wondered: was the entity mocking him, or was this a test?

  Finally, he reached his last conclusion: if The Serpent was neither god nor demon, perhaps it was a planeswalker like him—a reality-hopping traveler who’d ascended to near-divine influence. If so, its absence might mean it wandered realms beyond his reach. After all, the bard himself had been revered as a god of music in multiple worlds. If he could inspire mortal and immortal hearts, why not another—on a grander scale?

  But this left a crucial question: Where was it? And how could he present his opus magna to such a being?

  Determined, the bard immersed himself in myths, legends, and academic treatises on planeswalkers—reality-weaving travelers gifted with extraordinary power. The literature on them dwarfed any writings about The Serpent. He uncovered tales of planeswalkers born immortal and flawless, forged by gods of arcane seals; those who honed magic by studying primordial creatures like phoenixes or ancient wolves; those who sacrificed their humanity to linger in limbo between reality and void; even an elven patriarch who hung for years, missing an eye, in pursuit of runic knowledge.

  A new hypothesis emerged: many texts described planeswalkers’ ascension as an “awakening”—a subconscious vision revealing the path to unlock multiversal travel. All emphasized that this power couldn’t be earned through study or preparation. Though it often followed years of struggle, the manuscripts agreed: no effort guaranteed it. It was not a replicable technique, but a gift reserved for a chosen few.

  This idea echoed the bard’s own past—or rather, the faint memories he retained. If he had gained his power after visions of The Serpent, could the same be true for other planeswalkers? Was there a direct connection?

  Yet despite the hypothesis’ logic, he found no concrete proof linking The Serpent to these travelers. No records, no treatises—nothing. Despite his immortality, the bard began to buckle under the overwhelming weight of his mission. Even with infinite time, his efforts felt futile. But he refused to surrender. After countless experiences, stories, and souls encountered, he would not let it all be in vain.

  He longed to dedicate a song to the being that had inspired his journey—a ballad worthy of one who showed him infinity’s grandeur. Though despair sometimes threatened to consume him, he never ceased practicing. His melodies echoed ceaselessly, whether before audiences or in the solitude of forgotten universes. At times, these solitary sessions spanned the lifespan of a cosmos, unnoticed by the bard himself. He had abandoned sleep eons ago, certain dreams held no answers—for they, too, had proven a dead end.

  Everything changed with a single sound.

  He dwelled in a universe locked in eternal winter, where the frost of the winter fae had smothered all life, leaving behind a barren, white wasteland. At the edge of this dying world, the bard had built a small cabin—a refuge where he practiced uninterrupted, free from the noise of existence. But today was different.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Someone was at the door.

  The bard stopped playing, perplexed. He knew no living soul remained in this land—not even the fae who had triggered the cataclysm. He considered it might be one of the lingering gods, but his intuition whispered otherwise: destiny itself urged him to answer.

  Finally, he rose and approached the entrance. When he opened the door, he found only the pristine landscape: snow-blanketed plains, a frozen Tarrasque looming motionless in the distance, untouched for centuries. No one was there.

  Then something caught his eye. In the cabin’s mailbox—one he had never installed—lay a letter.

  Calmly, the bard retrieved it and carried it inside, placing it on a table. With deliberate care, he lit the hearth using salamander fire carried in his pouch and brewed a cup of hot chocolate—an unnecessary luxury for one beyond physical needs, yet comforting all the same. He sat by the flames, opened the letter, and read its brief contents, which stirred his very soul:

  Dear Bard,

  We await you at our humble tavern, as far removed from the imperial capital as possible.

  Here, over 200 years ago, the Demon King Behemoth fell to the paladin of light, Darth Galant’h.

  We celebrate the anniversary of this event and would be honored by your presence.

  We have heard tales of your musical genius and the unparalleled beauty of your stories. Above all, we ask that you prepare your ballad about the definitive victory of a demon king—one of our favorites.

  We hope to meet you after your performance, for it would be a privilege to know you in person. We understand you seek inspiration for a masterpiece, and we believe we possess information of interest to you.

  Sincerely,

  Your Devoted Friends of the Planeswalkers’ Guild.

  The bard read the message again and again. The precise recounting of events—the exact names of the demon king and paladin, even the elapsed time since their mythic battle—left no room for doubt. And if their claims held truth, they might know something of The Serpent.

  Though he expected no definitive answers at the tavern, even a sliver of new information would be a miracle in his endless search. Besides, centuries had passed since he last performed in such a setting, and nostalgia for its warmth tugged at him.

  Thus, the bard arrived at the described location: a tavern unmoored from the world, suspended between time and space. His performance lasted ten full days, and as he concluded his ballad of a demon king’s victory—a tale where the antagonist perished alone, watching the last lights of his empire fade—a reverent silence gripped the room.

  Then, like thunder cleaving calm, applause erupted. Cries of awe and tears flooded the tavern; emotions so potent they seemed to engulf the world. Nobles from distant realms and wealthy merchants clamored to offer riches and opportunities, naively hoping to spark his interest. Yet all their treasures paled beside the devotion of his admirers: women of every race gazed at him with starstruck eyes, as though his music had woven peace across continents.

  For three days, the bard moved with the grace of centuries. He entertained nobles and merchants, politely declining offers that held no meaning for him. He sipped house drinks and, above all, indulged his legion of admirers, who vied for every second of his attention. Every laugh, every lingering glance, became part of his mastery—not just of art, but of hearts.

  Yet the world could not pause forever. Though uncertain how the absence of merchants, officials, and workers affected the local economy, none regretted the hiatus. All agreed the moment had been worth it. On the final night, the tavern fell silent, empty save for the bard, his dulcimer, a final drink, and moonlight spilling silver through the windows.

  Then, a timid, unexpected voice shattered the silence.

  “M-Mr. Bard, I… It’s an honor to meet you. My masters, well… my masters, they…”

  The bard turned and found a young, beautiful servant with short black hair, dressed in an immaculate uniform that accentuated her nervousness. Her eyes shyly avoided his, and her posture radiated vulnerability. With the ease of centuries-old charm, he set out to soothe her.

  “Ah, so it was your masters who summoned me. Not only have they granted me the honor of a stage after so long, but they’ve also graced me with the company of such a beautiful lady.”

  The girl’s cheeks flushed crimson, reminiscent of an exotic fruit or the blush of dawn, as she mustered the courage to meet his gaze. With the grace of an ageless dancer, the bard stepped closer without touching her, his mere presence enveloping her in a warmth starkly opposed to the cold outside.

  “Yes, Mr. Bard. My masters are… very kind people. All the time, Mr. Bard… May I call you that?”

  With a soft smile and a slight tilt of his head, he replied:

  “I have been called by countless names, in innumerable tongues. Some are lost to this world’s memory; others remain unwritten, and some never will be. Every new name a lady gifts me becomes a treasured addition to my collection—immortalized in my verses.”

  The words, delivered with a poet’s cadence and an eternal traveler’s certainty, were as sincere as they were unmistakable. The bard’s intimate confession melted the girl’s shyness entirely. Overwhelmed, her body swayed faintly, and the bard gently caught her by the waist. For a fleeting moment, their eyes locked, and he smiled.

  “My heart whispers that I should let your masters wait a little longer…” he murmured with a mischievous glint. “But I also know I might commit true madness if I surrender fully to its whims. Shall we shorten their wait?”

  Blushing yet regaining her composure, the girl retrieved a key hidden within the folds of her uniform. Together, they approached a secret door concealed in the tavern wall. When opened, they stood before a spectacle that defied all logic—even for a traveler of his experience.