Weave of Fates
Thunderous cheers and applause erupted like lightning. Amid the glittering gold dust scattering like stardust from the ultra-luxurious dome ceiling that soared to the heavens.
Bella de Carbon. The princess of the kingdom called the heart of the Eastern Continent tossed a casual glance downward from the podium.
The ballroom was so vast it seemed endless, filled with countless guests gathered from every corner of the Eastern Continent. She smiled gracefully at them welcoming the royalty, descending the stairs with elegant yet resolute poise. Her ingrained formality lent her an air of refinement, but in truth, her mind was elsewhere.
'It's been active since yesterday—.'
This opulent palace ball itself held no interest for Bella. This grand event, prepared on a scale rivaling the greatest in history, was in fact the stage she and the great mage Philip had meticulously built over the past year and more.
Even now, with Philip maintaining the barrier in the secret archive, and with the king's aid to spread it across the entire palace—this was no mere wide-area spell.
Loom of Connections
It was impossible to even detect without reaching the realm of a great mage, and even then, only someone deeply immersed in similar fields of study would notice it easily. To dispel it across any reasonable range, one would have to delicately peel away each individual strand of mana used in the spell.
Like sand slipping through a coarse net. This delicate, thread-like mana aura, spread so finely and subtly, seeped gradually into every guest at the event.
Steadily throughout the proceedings... slowly... like threads winding onto a loom.
Harmless as a gentle breeze on its own, this mystical energy would naturally dissipate into the world after a long time. But whenever people bearing the same aura formed connections and met frequently, it resonated more intensely.
The more their bonds overlapped, the more it transformed into a detectable signal.
Why infuse this aura into the ball's guests? Simple.
The threads of connection were woven from the auras of those the Carbon Kingdom had barely managed to acquire in the past.
Those on the verge of Ascension.
And every guest here shared some form of connection with those scattered across the continent.
The chemical reaction among those linked to Ascension candidates. The more their bonds overlapped, the stronger the reaction grew, drawing closer to the Ascension candidate's own aura.
The more threads infused with the aura of those nearing Ascension overlapped, the easier it became to sense them.
The more the movements of those connected to Ascension candidates intersected, the higher the chance of pinpointing the intersection—that is, the Ascension candidate's location.
In summary: Wrap threads around those connected to pre-Ascension beings, then trace the most intense resonance from their encounters to reverse-track the Ascension candidate!
In that sense.
Click, clack.
Princess Bella's slow descent down the stairs wasn't to bask in the admiring gazes from the floor below.
This process of subtly infusing the threads across the palace couldn't be rushed.
And that wasn't all. Philip's Loom of Connections required not just time to cast, but also painstaking selection of targets.
For connections to Ascension, they'd scoured family trees of famous houses, records of major incidents across the continent, wanted posters from the kingdom, guilds, and magic towers—nothing was overlooked.
Like confirming each one personally, Bella sent her gaze over them one by one as she descended. Passing those who bowed fussily wherever her eyes lingered, her gaze suddenly paused on one side.
'...Hm?'
A man with such a striking build he stood out even among the crowd. Bigger than Cron? The thought flickered, but her eyes didn't linger long.
Her gaze flowed onward, fixing on the Northern Duke. The man holding the northern frontlines against the monsters, whose love for this kingdom rivaled her own.
A nod.
It was brief, but in that shared glance, the Carbon Kingdom's princess and the Northern Duke exchanged this sentiment.
'Everything... for the kingdom—.'
Afterward, arrivals continued.
Until the very last.
The king of this Carbon Kingdom took the stage.
Thud, thud.
As massive gonfalons emblazoned with the kingdom's crest unfurled vertically on either side of the podium where the Golden King ascended.
"People of the Eastern Continent—! Let this moment fill our night with grace in place of swords—!"
His cry, raising a golden goblet high, signaled the true start of the ball.
Darkness fell for a moment.
Then, with sharp percussion, bright lights dotted the floor—tat-tat-tat—and the orchestra shifted to a lively tune.
The opening dance followed. Bathed in spotlights, the royals traced circles on the floor with demonstration dances, heating up the atmosphere proper.
"Did you see...? That turn just now!"
"Whoaaa!"
"Even the hand gestures ooze class."
"Royalty's on another level."
"Totally worth coming—."
"Over there—look at the princess's poise."
"Elegance overflowing......"
"Waaah. Wanna be friends."
Even the high nobility craned their necks, eyes full of envy. Among them, much like them, I was staring at the princess.
'Bella...'
Bella de Carbon, dancing on the central floor, her firm body unhidden by the dress.
Thinking about it, she was a peculiar figure. From the early 'Young Blood Poison' arc starting with this palace ball, to the latter half where I'd been leaving comments on the novel.
One of the few whose personal perspective rarely surfaced.
'What's her exact deal?'
I still didn't know. The point when I arrived in this world, Young Blood Poison hadn't concluded yet.
In other words, even up to the novel's latter half I'd read, her precise motives were never explicitly stated—one of those characters.
Yet this princess was always glancingly mentioned in key plot points.
If what Drakan said was true—that she was gathering intel on Ascension—it made sense why her details stayed veiled even in the latter half.
'They hid her on purpose, huh.'
Still, there were limits, damn unpopular novel—.
Gathering my thoughts, I downed the glass on the table.
And crunch, crunch.
Chewing the cookies and the eighth refill of champagne from the passing servant for palate-cleansing, I racked my brain.
'Anyway, gotta get a private word with her—.'
Yesterday had passed. If not for that... ridiculously flashy training ground that dazzled my eyes and thoroughly worked every muscle for conditioning—!
'Ah, no!'
Suppressing the grin creeping back at the memory, I mentally listed spots to meet the princess secretly amid the crowd.
Ideally at dawn when all slept. Shelving worries about Nadia, protected by the inn's barrier for now...
'Hm.'
Glancing at the seat beside me as I pondered, I realized Nadia was a bit late.
She'd gone off on 'business' guided by a servant earlier. This was the palace's safest spot, and tagging along to the nearby ladies' room was awkward, so I'd waited.
'After eating all that... her stomach holding up is weirder.'
Aftermath of yesterday's eating contest. Plenty to 'handle.'
Obviously, she'd be a while. Still, just in case, I stood to check around.
"Huh?"
In my sharply honed vision, Nadia appeared far off. Near the guy whose connection she'd personally severed yesterday.
'Why's she... over there?'
Unlike the guests oohing and aahing at the central floor, a grim-faced giant sat at a table, quietly sipping champagne.
Cron—he was still heartbroken.
The shadow of defeat crushed him.
Losing a fight? Fine. Too many variables.
Unlike him, some were born solely for battle, backed by their houses' full support.
But raw strength? Different.
That was his lifelong pillar of pride and self-esteem. The one edge he had from birth, the very essence of his brute-force life smashing through the world.
Shattered miserably in the one field he trusted against anyone.
'Hans... was it.'
And the guy looked about his age. No excuse—the years they'd lived seemed comparable.
A helplessness he'd never felt before.
Draining another glass, Cron sighed faintly and rose—
His eyes met someone passing behind by chance.
A flinch.
The lady served by that Hans who beat him.
'What was her name?'
Only one memory: At the table far off where Hans sat, she'd been busily greeting other guests.
'Fitting for the girl that monster serves—quite unique.'
Most invited here were refined. He, more rustic than anyone, knew such crude networking wouldn't build ties in high society.
Toward her, who looked dejected after silent rejections while off somewhere.
Cron opened his mouth unbidden. They had a connection, after all.
"Hel...lo?"
"Ah!"
She startled at his greeting. After fumbling a moment, she replied.
"Th-thank you."
"Hm?"
"For greeting me first... thank you."
And stride.
She stepped closer. Cron was puzzled. Famous or not, folks flinched at his bulk and scarred face up close—
"And... yesterday was so much fun."
"Yesterday's fun, you mean—."
Fun?
"The... meat bun eating?"
"First time experiencing that. Wanted to thank you."
"Ah, that."
"Sir Cron, right?"
"N-no need for the 'sir'."
Why this weird feeling? The thanks? No.
Then why—
"Um, could we... be friends?"
That was it. Her words stirred something deep in his chest.
"Truth is, aside from Hans, I have no friends."
"What."
Suddenly, the humiliation Hans carved began healing with an inexplicable emotion. Dull Cron realized its source—'the little lady's courage unbowed by rejections' and 'sincere comfort, plain but heartfelt'—but it took a few more champagnes.
'...Wha, huh?'
Thump!
And so, another piece of the 'idiot duo competing for one woman' fell into place—albeit differently from the original—