Return. (3)
“Let us return now.”
Premien spoke. I raised my wrist to check the time.
Three in the morning.
After half a day of waiting, Sophien had left word that it was too late.
“……”
In truth, I hadn’t expected anything.
If it were truly Sophien’s decision, it wouldn’t end today or tomorrow. Even steeped in sloth and ennui, she holds firm to her stubbornness.
“Premien.”
I turned. She was peering intently at a fragment of Rohakan’s robe.
“Can you track him?”
Rohakan. One of the key named characters, a major piece of the main quest. For him to seek Sophien out personally was a grave event.
At the same time, the task of pursuing him falling to me was equally significant. I could choose not to kill him.
Premien glanced my way and murmured.
“This robe is quite the masterpiece. Every stitch bears the craftsman’s touch. I wonder how much—”
“Answer the question.”
“It is possible.”
Whirr—
Premien channeled mana into the robe fragment. Particles of residual mana rose like smoke, forming a distinct shape.
A pair of wings and curving antennae.
A butterfly.
“Follow this butterfly first, and the detailed path will reveal itself in time.”
One of Vice Police Chief Premien’s traits—Printer.
The ability to manifest intangible things like thoughts, emotions, mana, traces, or plans into form. A treasure for the Security Bureau, specialized for espionage and interrogation.
“However.”
Premien knelt on one knee and examined a mark on the ground.
“Rohakan has made uncharacteristic mistakes. Even footprints remain.”
“They’re visible? It’s been quite some time.”
“They are to my eyes.”
She stood with a pat-pat on her knees and produced some documents.
“Unrelated, but these are files on Sylvia. Compiled by the Intelligence Bureau, monitoring her movements and traces in chronological order. Read them when you have time.”
“……”
I gazed wordlessly at the Imperial Palace’s outer walls, its gates firmly shut. Premien tucked the papers away.
“Will you continue these visits?”
Sophien. Master of this world.
She is a vital figure, but visiting daily like this ill suits my nature. Nor is it proper etiquette.
Yet the tutoring is not complete.
Sophien has much left to learn. Having spent ages amid death and suffering—and now with even Kairon absent—she is a walking bundle of fatal variables.
“Tutoring is an Imperial tradition. It lasts one year after ascension.”
Originally once every two weeks, but accounting for the northern expedition’s interruptions…
“I cannot defy that tradition. Once a week, as scheduled, will suffice.”
“You seem reluctant.”
“It matters not.”
One fortunate point.
Sophien despises falsehoods. She abhors excuses. That discipline applies to herself equally, so even if spoken as an excuse, she fulfills it personally.
In other words, her claim of being occupied with duties is truth.
“Hm… Professor. May I ask one thing?”
I turned to Premien. Her expression was rigid as plaster.
“Is it true loyalty? Or ambition?”
“What do you mean?”
“You speak of tradition, which piques my curiosity. Everyone knows the Yukline family has never been ‘traditionally’ close to the Imperial House.”
Not wrong. The throne naturally guards against provincial nobles gaining power, and Yukline is among the greatest of great houses.
“……”
I stared silently at the palace.
The predawn palace lay dark, but lights flickered to life from the lower levels. Early-rising palace servants igniting lanterns.
“……Neither.”
Lifting my gaze to the pinnacle, a hazy room shimmered.
The emperor’s bedchamber, sealed by magic, impenetrable from outside.
“Then?”
Premien pressed. Irritating, but ultimately, Sophien was our collective duty.
“Duty……”
Thus, having become Deculein.
At least while living on this continent.
“A greater fate.”
Sophien must not be abandoned.
Nor allowed to abandon me.
“She is such an existence to me.”
“……”
Premien swallowed, cleared her throat, then chattered in surprise.
“You believe in fate, Professor?”
“I do not.”
“What is that?”
“One cannot say one does not. It is the basic stance of a mage—and a scholar.”
Premien seemed to mull my words, then nodded without retort.
“……Yes. Let us return now.”
The emperor’s bedchamber. Leaning at the window, Sophien gazes into the distance. Watching Deculein depart.
“……”
She sinks into silence. One hand clutching a fountain pen, the other documents.
Quietly reciting his murmured words.
That arrogant voice claiming her as his fate. For some reason, a hollow laugh escapes.
“……Fate.”
Does such a thing even exist in this world?
In this precarious realm where my death restarts everything, crumbling anew—unchanging fate…
“How peculiar.”
Sophien senses doubt toward unknowns. Over a century of life—no, of dying—she never pondered such things. Suddenly, they unfold.
Sophien had no such experience. Only tormenting illness and agonizing death.
She once deemed that death her fated curse. A damned loop.
But now, having overgrown, Sophien grasps a ‘truth’ with eerie certainty.
“……I see.”
She peers into her mind.
Recalling a man from memories before and after regressions.
“Deculein. You……”
The man who shared all her deaths, ultimately perishing.
“Even in those regressions.”
That one extra regression to save him.
He forgot every memory shared with her.
“You have not changed in the slightest.”
The Deculein of then and now are one. Ever constant, immutable.
Like a metronome marking rhythm, a clock telling time.
Thus, one day, he will reclaim those ancient memories. Share the regressions with her.
Sophien is certain.
“……”
She presses her forehead to the glass. Spring warmth seeps in. Amid it, realization dawns.
Rohakan’s words might prove true.
“……What an idiot.”
Muttering curses, she turns from the window. Sits at her desk, pen in hand.
—Sophien. If you truly cherish Deculein.
In the quiet darkness, Rohakan’s voice echoes in her ear.
—Or come to love him, I beg you. Keep him away, please.
Sophien exhales softly. The breath scatters Rohakan’s voice.
In its wake, her vow sinks low.
“Simple enough. It will be simple……”
Imperial Palace square.
Winter melts away like snow, spring blooming. Earth and sky vivid and beautiful. Amid deep green lawns, refined voices mingle, classic melodies waft peacefully.
The empire’s worst southern invasion shattered the continent, erased hundreds of villages, and still claims subjects somewhere—but here, it is a world apart.
“……Who offered your bodies against countless beasts, endured bone-chilling pain and unrelenting cold, ultimately defending Recor Dak to safeguard the northern populace and imperial stability……”
Ten days since Deculein and the Recor Dak front returned to the capital. A commendation ceremony honors their feats.
Delik and palace knights, Gwen, Rafel, Syrio—golden medals pinned to their chests.
“Hahaha… Imperial Third-Class Medal… Hahaha… Too precious to carry. I’ll frame it as a keepsake.”
Delik stored his in a prepared luxury wooden box. Adjutant Zerok teased.
“Heh. Captain Delik deserves at least Second-Class. Wear Third till it wears out, frame Second or the Honor Medal!”
“What? Haha, you rascal! Honor Medal? That’s… Ah!”
Spotting someone, Delik dashed off. Adjutants followed.
“Professor!”
Deculein. True hero of Recor Dak, Delik and his men’s golden lifeline.
He greeted them champagne glass in hand. His gaze cold and piercing as ever.
Delik addressed the young mage beside him first.
“……Haha. Our assistant’s here too.”
“Ah, yes. Hello.”
Deculein’s assistant, Ifrin. Bowing, she clutched a large velvet pouch.
“What’s that?”
“Garden pastries are tasty, so I packed some.”
“Pardon? Oh… Haha. So frugal.”
“Delik.”
Deculein called. Delik straightened instantly.
“Yes, Professor.”
“And knights.”
“““Yes!”””
Delik’s ten adjutants responded vigorously. Deculein swept his gaze over them, leaving a low, resonant word.
“Well done.”
“……”
The knights fell silent, throats tight.
Deculein turned away indifferently, but they stared at his back long after.
The professor who subtly threatened family murder in the north—his first words upon return.
──Well done.
Not praise, not commendation—just ordinary words…
Yet throats lump, chests tighten, saliva pools.
“……You like him?”
Gwen shattered the mood. Delik and knights glared fiercely.
“Huh? What’s with you all? That scoundrel ignores his fiancée nearly dying, saves her then acts oblivious—what’s good about him?”
“Hey! Mind your words. And she’s ‘ex’-fiancée. Besides, knights save the Professor as duty. I’d have done it too.”
“Liar.”
“What? Liar? Hmph! Can’t reason with you. Scram!”
Delik growled; Gwen clicked her tongue and left. Knights muttered at her back.
“Who’s the real scoundrel?”
“Right. That woman’s been mouthy lately.”
“Always disliked her since university.”
Mid-gossip with adjutants, Delik spotted reporters. Palace-permitted press.
Ahem—ahem—
Feigning casual coughs, he approached.
—Knight Delik!
“……Who calls me?”
He turned slyly to face them.
Cameras thrust forward with questions.
—Congratulations on safe return from Recor Dak!
“Hm. Well, yes.”
—Heard you shone alongside Professor Deculein. Joining the Rohakan pursuit?
“……”
First question blocked his mouth.
Rohakan’s infiltration, secret during the south—now whispers spread as stability returns.
“Ahem. That is……”
Glancing back, adjutants’ eager eyes swarm.
Ahem—cough—hack—clear—
Four coughs to clear his throat, Delik shook his head firmly.
“Impossible.”
—Why impossible?
“Because… it’s a duel to the death between Professor and Rohakan.”
—Duel to the death……
Reporters scribbled. Adjutants nodded sagely.
Delik, sighing relief, spun tales.
“Indeed. Duel to the death. All-or-nothing. Tiger and dragon clash. Et cetera. Recall Professor Deculein and Rohakan the Black Beast ending in draw? He goes to settle it—who are we knights to interfere? As a knight, I honor single combat……”
“……Shall I deliver this?”
Imperial Palace. I handed a book to Sophien’s attendant.
“She seems burdened with duties again today.”
Probability Magic, written in Recor Dak. And Advanced Go Vital Points.
“Only tough problems in Vital Points—she’ll enjoy it.”
“Yes. I’ll deliver it.”
Sophien refused today too. Holed up since the south, citing post-invasion affairs.
Of course, her pouring policies suggest she works diligently—nay, like an ox. Not wholly bad.
“Handles everything, huh.”
Ifrin munched pastries beside me.
“Then I take my leave.”
The attendant bowed and departed. I watched, then turned to Ifrin.
She chewed squirrel-like.
“Oh right, Professor……”
———Then.
The world flipped.
“……Huh!”
Creak—creak—
Ceiling groans; outside the glass, darkness looms. Location obvious.
Inside the Voice world, my personally renovated hotel room.
“Phew, safe!”
Ifrin shouted. I straightened my clothes.
“What is?”
“Look!”
She proffered the velvet sack. Stuffed with garden delicacies.
“Packed pastries—smart, right? All rations! Knew we’d come here!”
“Quiet.”
I rose, opened the door.
“Come. We go.”
“Ah, yes yes!”
Outside the hotel, first in the hall.
“Karos. This is tasty too. Try some……?”
Lia, skewer in hand. Spotting me, eyes widen; my gaze shifts beside her.
A navy-haired child standing with Lia.
Face paling at sight of me, trembling like aspen—half-human, half-demon blood.
Karos.
As I tilt my head at the unexpected encounter, Lia’s cry booms.
“R-Run—quick──!”