Chapter 63
Chapter 63
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 63
Chapter Title: Ghosts of the Past (1)
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My hazy mind, pushed back by memories, sharpened once more.
Time felt distorted.
Where was this? How much time had passed?
As confusion made my eyes dart around, Irena seized my cheeks.
"Since when?"
Since when? What was she asking about?
I let the incomprehensible question slide and tried to sit up.
Irena climbed on top of me, pinning me down as she asked,
"Since when have you been like this?"
I couldn't say it had been from the start.
Irena's gaze upon me was filled with sorrow.
Hearing that it'd been from the beginning would make her cry, so I swallowed my answer.
Besides, it wasn't an everyday occurrence.
Back then, I could endure it, and it didn't happen that often anyway.
Just nightmares that came when I slept. That was all it was.
Though lately, they were coming too frequently to call them mere nightmares.
"Just… not long ago."
"No lies. Answer me properly."
"It's true. Really. This doesn't happen often…"
Even as I said it, Irena didn't look convinced.
My current state must have been too wrecked to hide.
I stared quietly into Irena's eyes.
With her sprawled atop me, I couldn't see her pupils clearly.
The room was dark.
Even though it was daytime, the windows were fully covered, blocking out the light.
Or was it daytime?
My sense of time was off, so I had no idea how much had passed.
"Ian."
"Ian."
The voices overlapped.
I was on a sickbed, and I was back in the south.
Different fields of vision merged indiscriminately, then split apart, over and over.
Tangled threads unraveled, only to tangle again, distorting reality.
I reached out a hand.
But what I touched wasn't the hospital's worn sheets—it was the damp blanket of reality.
Consciousness flipped, boundaries shifting with every instant.
Freyja, who had been boiling stew, vanished, and Irena's face overlapped in her place.
Their eyes were different, yet the texture of their expressions oddly matched.
Both were worried about me.
"Ian… just when did it start?"
Irena's voice rang clear once more.
I used it as an anchor to fix myself in the present.
Firmly, so it wouldn't unravel again.
"It's just… a dream. A dream. The kind you only have when you're asleep."
"…How is talking to thin air a dream?"
"Then, then… what is it? Something like this."
Was I not just recalling memories but speaking them aloud?
Had it always been this way, or was it only today?
Too many clues and non-clues swirled, leaving me clueless.
I tried to answer, but my vision tilted again.
Soldiers' screams pierced my ears as they were carried on stretchers, drenched in blood.
I was among them.
My ribs were broken, and every breath felt like it split my flesh.
It was after subjugating Razhel.
I'd pierced its heart by offering up my own flesh.
The wound was severe; I'd barely survived.
"Ian, you need to pull yourself together."
Freya gripped my hand, her voice choked with tears.
Her hand was warm.
No, cold?
Even holding it, I couldn't quite feel the sensation—
"Ian! Ian!"
A sharp heat snapped my mind back.
No body warmth lingered at my fingertips.
Only Irena was before me.
At her call, I gasped out the breath I'd been holding.
My head spun. Nausea rose, but I forced it down.
Irena stared straight into my eyes.
They seemed clearer than when I'd last seen her.
Now I realized it wasn't clarity—something glistened at the corners.
"I'll ask again. Since when?"
The excuse that had risen to my throat slid back down.
In this state, claiming I was fine wouldn't convince her or get through.
I let my forcibly raised head flop back.
"…From the beginning."
Irena said nothing for a long while.
Her head bowed deeply, lips pressed tight.
Motivation was gone.
The responsibility and duty weighing me down had been replaced by ennui and exhaustion.
The intense lethargy became apathy, which in turn twisted into suicidal urges.
Not that I intended to actually die.
I wouldn't choose suicide.
Separate from wanting to die, that one thing I wouldn't let go.
So, I wished someone would kill me.
"Don't die. Don't die, Ian."
A faint voice whispered in my ear.
It was so vague, I wondered if it was a hallucination.
Maybe I'd sunk back into the past, hearing someone's dying words.
In that place where I'd died countless times, I'd heard truckloads of last words.
Over twenty had told me to live.
Five times that had begged to live themselves.
I closed my eyes gently amid someone's sobs.
It felt like a funeral.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ The northern wing of the imperial palace.
Faint sunlight filtered through a small lattice window near the ceiling.
A space solely for reports and decisions.
The Empress, seated in a high-backed ebony chair, gestured.
"Speak."
The attendant's report began.
As the Empire's head, matters requiring his decision flowed from the attendant's mouth.
Taxes, territories, imperial projects, and how they were progressing.
The Empress skimmed the reports indifferently, making swift decisions.
The attendant felt doubt at her attitude but soon brushed it off.
No issues had ever arisen from such handling.
This time would be no different.
Besides, how could a mere attendant question the Empress's decisions?
As the report continued, the matter of the Southern Kingdoms arose.
Then the Empress showed her first real reaction.
It seemed like an illusion, but as he mentioned the rebellion in Delgaria Kingdom, a deflating sound followed.
It was unmistakably laughter.
The attendant felt a chill crawl up his spine, like a snake slithering and coiling around his limbs.
As soon as he finished, the Empress posed a question.
"So. What do you think about it?"
Behind the veil, the Empress's eyes narrowed slightly.
Candlelight reflected in his pupils, flashing yellow for an instant.
"The rebellion in the south was started by a figure called the Sword Lord—"
"No. No. I asked your thoughts. For example, hmm… how to put it."
The Empress pondered briefly, then chuckled dryly.
Though her face was veiled, the attendant sensed the smile.
"That the Southern Kingdoms are insolent, or they should be made colonies, or their people turned into third-class subjects to exploit. Things like that."
"…"
"Speak freely. I asked your thoughts, so whatever you say, I won't mind."
In that moment, he regretted not covering his ears.
An alarm rang—he'd heard something he shouldn't have.
Feeling cold sweat trickle down his jaw, he answered cautiously.
"With the Northern Frontline settled, now we should turn our gaze to the south…"
The attendant couldn't continue.
He fainted from the overwhelming pressure.
Gernhardt, watching from beside the Empress, spoke.
"…I'll remove him at once."
"No, leave him be. This time, I wanted your thoughts."
The Empress enjoyed these Zen-like exchanges.
Not particularly for the answers.
Gernhardt sensed she relished the pure act of asking and awaiting a reply.
No evidence, but he paused briefly anyway.
The Southern Kingdoms were the Empress's next target.
Thus, many spies had been planted there.
They'd infiltrated everywhere, feeding info to the Imperial Intelligence Agency.
One even held a seat among the Southern Seven Swords.
He recalled Ian and Irena operating under the name Sword Lord in the south.
Soon after, they'd terrorized Delgaria Kingdom, sparking the rebellion.
Gernhardt pieced together his intel and the Empress's intent for a fitting response.
"…I believe it's the right time to start a war of conquest."
The Empress burst into laughter at his answer.
"Anyone hearing that might think I'm about to launch a conquest. But…"
Drumming the chair's armrest, the Empress soon leaned back languidly.
She continued drowsily.
"Not wrong. Harvest season has come. They've fattened up, so now to slit their bellies."
"…Does that mean incorporating the south into the Empire?"
The Empress shook her head.
"Would livestock live off their master's house? Cows to the fields, pigs to the slaughterhouse, the south to the stables. That's fitting, isn't it? Yes. Soon as we secure the vessel, the playtime begins."
Gernhardt took it as intent to colonize the south.
Thoughts abounded, but he kept them unspoken.
Such matters were the Empress's to decide.
The Empress added belatedly, as if remembering.
"Ah, no need for separate war preparations. One person. Just one should suffice, no? Heh. Those livestock bugs loved to dance from the start."