Picture a scene like this.

Picture majestic Bhastifal, the City of Lords, home of heroes, laid out at your feet. It reaches as far as the eye can see, spread open like a vast, finely detailed clam shell, adorned with the immaculate black pearl that is the Imperial Palace, on a great hill overlooking the surrounding districts.

Picture yourself standing on a vantage point up there, atop of the enormous palace complex and take a slow look around. See the numerous tall, elegant minarets around you oozing exotic mysticism, their sharp, copper-plated spires pointed at the heavens, like the defiant lances of soldiers of old.

Look further down, past the towers, past the walls of the inner city, at the countless houses of warm brown stone closely huddled together down the hill, with their gorgeous garden terraces, slanted, red-tiled rooftops, and open air atria. Far, so dizzyingly far below you, at the base of those stately buildings, runs an entangled network of narrow, cobbled streets, and wide, regal boulevards, an endless, bewildering maze. No one strolls those streets at this late hour, not on a godless night like this, save perhaps for a few stray drunkards looking in vain for a way back home.

Yes, picture yourself there, at the height of the modern world, on the glistening, slippery roof of the Imperial Palace, battered by the fiercest of storms. Truly, the mother of all storms, which lights up the dark skies with long, crackling bolts of lightning, which low, resonant booms accompany, their echoes traveling far, far into the distant horizon, where the silent mountain range of Abserym looms.

Let us take a step back and look closer now.

On the lofty rooftop of the great palace with us, even in this hideous weather, stand two figures. Two rather distinct characters, whipped by the ceaseless rain.

All they have in common is surely only their smallness before the forces of nature, yet there they stand, with no one between them, nothing above them, everything below them, a man and a woman.

They have been brought to this place by a strange fate, one laden with irreconcilable differences. No human words—or words of any language known—may even begin to bridge the dispute that divides them.

Watch closely, as the other one, the woman of a somewhat difficult-to-determine age, holds up a gorgeous greatsword in her dominant hand. Held high overhead, pointed forward and down is that weapon, its wielder poised to attack, with the apparent intent to run through the black-clad man defenseless at her feet.

It seems that tonight, we are about to witness a murder.

Now, picture time stopping.

The ferocious gale and downpour all grind to a sudden halt, those myriads of tiny droplets stilling mid-fall. Look closer still. At the water rebounding off of the bright blade in the woman’s grip, at the fingers tightly coiled around the handle, knuckles paled in an expression of fury and determination. All of this simply stops for our convenience.

What do you suppose brought this tragedy about?

What would that man, looking in vain for a way to escape on the precarious floor, say in his predicament, were he given the chance to freely speak in his own defense? With the time stopped like this, we are obviously unable to hear his voice, but his thoughts and feelings remain nevertheless apparent on his frozen face, in his defiant eyes, which reflect a strong spirit even on the verge of a painful demise.

He would probably say something like this:

“Fool! You cannot slay me! I am the Lord of Lords, the master of all Noertia! I am the sole ray of hope that lights the darkness of this world! The future of mankind rests upon my shoulders! Without me to unite them, all the nations and all of the races will drift apart, unable to achieve anything of worth! Our world will be plunged into the endless darkness of the Age of Chaos, whence there’s no return! I and only I have the power and wisdom to keep this from happening! Kill me here and you will have only doomed all those who you love and cherish!”

Yes, he would no doubt boldly argue his case to the bitter end, justifying his existence, his actions to the future generations.

Then, what would his to-be slayer say in turn?

That woman clutching her unreasonably large sword, the desire to kill apparent on her grim countenance, her deep frown, and the lips tightly pressed together—what would she say?

Probably something along these lines:

“Yup, that's me, Itaka Izumi, the summoned hero from planet Earth. You're probably wondering why I'm about to impale this poor bastard in a place like this. No, you think you already know. But you don’t. Not really. You can't even begin to imagine. If you want to find out the real reason, then we’re going to have zip back in time for a bit, about six days or so. It's a bit of a pain, so you don't have to, if you don't want to. But you’ll do it, right? I just know you will.”