Chapter 7
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 7
Chapter Title: Thirst
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The expression "stomach sticking to one's back" was literally physical pain.
An empty stomach repeatedly contracting and relaxing, squeezing out gastric acid with every twist, sending a wrenching agony straight to the pit of my stomach.
The chill from the cold stone floor seeped through my buttocks, crawling up my spine with the intent to freeze my brain solid.
I drew my knees up and buried my face between them. Each breath I took came out as a white puff.
After Soldier Lucas was carried out, the prison cell returned to a state of perfect isolation once more.
No one approached. The only sound measuring time was the drip of water falling from cracks in the walls.
'On the brink of death.'
That phrase circled in my mind. What would happen if I died here? Would I return to my room chair, playing Atria Continent Chronicles, with a "Game Over" screen? Or vanish into eternal darkness?
My 98 deaths might have just been data resets, but if I exhausted the remaining ten chances, I couldn't be sure what waited at the end.
This world felt too real for a mere virtual reality of code—the rough texture of the stone floor, the sharp pangs of hunger.
'I don't want to die...'
[Notification: Another Twist.]
[You have prevented the scheduled death of another person.]
[Target: Soldier Lucas (Imperial Palace Guard)]
[Reward: Save Points 10 times → 11 times]
"Hah."
A sigh slipped out. A scheduled death?
In the original course of events, Lucas would have fed me that poisoned porridge, and once I died, he'd be framed for poisoning and executed later.
Or maybe I'd refuse the porridge, leading to a forced feeding accident, or he'd die while playing the role of a palace maid.
Either way, that ordinary soldier's thread of life had been extended thanks to my meddling and survival instincts.
One life for one Save Point. A fair trade.
Whether the flap of Lucas's butterfly wings would spark a typhoon or just a breeze in a teacup, at least I had one more coin in my pocket.
So, saving someone's life grants a Save Point? What if I tried to kill a rat and failed—would that count?
It probably didn't work that way.
Clank. Clank.
A heavy, rhythmic metallic sound echoed from the end of the corridor. It wasn't the light footsteps of regular soldiers.
The noise of thick plate armor grinding at the joints, paired with the thud of heavy boots crushing the floor. That rhythm alone told me who it was.
I lifted my head and stared into the darkness. The orange torchlight glinted off silver armor.
Duke Karls.
He stopped right in front of the iron bars, helmet off. Sweat-dampened blond hair clung to his forehead, and his blue eyes were as calm and unreadable as ever.
He looked down at me, huddled on the other side of the bars. No contempt, no anger, no pity—just the gaze of an administrator eyeing a task to handle.
I rattled my chains as I pushed myself up to sit.
"What? Come for some news?"
My voice was hoarse. I hadn't had a sip of water all day.
Duke Karls didn't answer. He jerked his chin toward his shadow. A servant lurking there stepped forward hesitantly, holding a silver tray.
Clink.
The tray slid through the food slot under the bars. This time, it wasn't watery gruel in a wooden bowl. Steam rose from pumpkin soup, alongside thick slices of rye bread and a beaded water jug.
The aroma of butter and sautéed onions teased my nose. Just the smell set my stomach rumbling fiercely. Worlds apart from the foul stench Lucas had brought earlier. Saliva flooded my mouth.
But I didn't reach for it right away. Instead, I narrowed my eyes and looked up at Duke Karls.
"What's this now? Another trick? Slow-acting poison this time, instead of fast?"
It was sarcastic, but with bite. I'd nearly fallen for it once. In this situation, no one could be trusted.
Not even this rigid knight and great noble before me, who might resort to dirty means for the "greater good."
Duke Karls's face didn't change, as if he'd expected the suspicion. He spoke slowly.
"No poison."
His low, firm voice echoed off the prison walls.
"I tasted it first."
The servant flinched and bowed his head at the words. I stared blankly at Duke Karls's face.
The empire's duke, leader of the rebels, heir to supreme power—he'd tasted the food for a deposed emperor locked in prison? Voluntarily played palace maid?
Duke Karls turned away, cloak swirling, as if my reaction meant nothing.
Step, step.
He offered no more explanation or fanfare. Just walked off without lingering, like a job done. His silver cloak rippled behind his receding back.
The capital of the Roselia Kingdom dawned with cold, sharp air. On the massive oak table in the strategy room of the palace's western annex sprawled a chaotic map of the continent's southern reaches.
Faint dawn light filtered through the stained glass, casting blood-red shadows like stains across the map.
Queen Helena gripped the table's edge. Her pale fingers dug into the hard wood.
Her breathing seemed calm on the surface, but deep in her chest, a heat like molten lava surged up her throat. Unconsciously, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand.
Even knowing she hadn't asked, the vision of that white, sticky fluid spilling from the screen last night clung to her viscously.
"Your Majesty, the vanguard formation is complete."
A deep bass voice shattered the silence. A man in silver armor cloaked with the red rose emblem of Roselia entered through the meeting room door—the Supreme Commander of the Roselia Kingdom Army, Marquis Dukran.
Tension and fatigue mingled on his face. Dark circles under his eyes from mustering troops all night on sudden full mobilization orders.
"Report."
Queen Helena didn't turn her head, eyes fixed on the empire's border on the map. Her voice trembled low like a cello string.
"3,000 medium cavalry from the 1st Knight Division 'Red Thorn Knights,' 500 combat mages from the 2nd Magic Battalion, and supply transport units—for a total of 5,000 troops. They're assembling in the training grounds outside the gates now and can depart at sunrise."
Marquis Dukran pulled a parchment report from his breast and placed it on the table. The scent of ink and leather wafted up.
"Distance to the imperial capital is about 600 km. At standard marching pace, it'd take two weeks, but combining the magic battalion's 'Path of Wind' spell with the knights' forced march, we can cover it in ten days or less."
"The horses' fatigue is the issue. Without swapping them at the midpoint stop in Argent territory, we risk losing mobility before reaching the capital."
Queen Helena's gaze halted on "Argent" on the map. Duke Karls's territory. The heart of the rebellion, base of the man now holding the emperor captive.
"Have you sent a messenger to Duke Karls?"
"Yes. We dispatched our fastest griffon courier at dawn with the pretext: 'The Roselia army crosses the border to judge the tyrant who threatens continental stability and grievously insulted Roselia.' However..."
Marquis Dukran trailed off.
"However?"
"Whether Duke Karls will open the path willingly is uncertain. Though he deposed the emperor, allowing a foreign army to charge through his territory—toward the capital no less—is a heavy military and political burden. If Argent fortress closes its gates, we'll face a siege or a long detour."
Queen Helena bit her lip. The salty taste of blood lingered on her tongue. She closed her eyes. The scene replayed in the darkness.
The emperor slouched crookedly on the Oath Room throne, pants down. That arrogant, languid gaze. And the vulgar, explicit dirty talk he'd spat at her.
'Helena, just show me once...'
Humiliation spread through her veins. An insult before nobles, even foreign kings.
Even if he was rumored a lecher, to do that to her? Her body trembled.
It wasn't just outrage. An inexplicable, subtle shiver.
Like a beast wallowing in mud, raw desire pouring out—it wouldn't fade from her mind. Revolting. Nauseating.
Yet that intense image cracked her perfectly controlled reason.
"We'll make him open the way."
Queen Helena's eyes snapped open. Her emerald irises gleamed coldly.
"Karls values honor. He witnessed the 'diplomatic discourtesy' the emperor committed against me and indirectly agreed to spare him by acknowledging my request to capture and kill him. He has no grounds to block me from going myself to exact retribution. If he does..."
She pressed hard on the pin marking Argent territory on the map with her finger.
"Tell him we'll regard him as the emperor's accomplice and crush him too."
Marquis Dukran swallowed dryly. The queen's demeanor was different from usual. Unlike her typical cool calculation, emotion's blade now edged sharp.
Facing Argent might mean facing the entire empire. Duke Karls controlled the capital, after all.
"Understood. I'll issue the full army mobilization order."
Marquis Dukran saluted and turned to leave. Then Queen Helena called him back.
"Marquis. Prepare a prisoner transport carriage."
"A prisoner transport... for the emperor, Your Majesty?"
"Yes. The sturdiest one—impenetrable from inside, unopenable from outside. And..."
She hesitated, then spat it out.
"A gag too. A sturdy leather one. To silence that filthy tongue."
Marquis Dukran looked puzzled but didn't argue.
"I'll see to it."
The door closed, silence settling over the room again. Queen Helena slumped into her chair. The breastplate of her armor constricted her chest, making breathing hard.
With trembling hands, she picked up her water glass. Her face, reflected on the clear surface, was flushed red.
She imagined the underground prison where the emperor was held.
Cold stone floor, rotten stench, iron chains. What was he doing there now? Trembling in fear? Or still smirking with that shameless face?
'Wait, Batanias.'
She gripped the glass tight. It cracked with a sharp snap.
'I'll come tear that arrogant mouth with my own hands. Don't die until then. Stay alive. You don't even deserve death without my permission.'
From outside, boot steps and horse whinnies began to echo.
The grand vibration of thousands of soldiers mobilizing thrummed through her soles. Queen Helena rose, cloak billowing, and strode toward the door.
"Time to march."