Bread Growing Cold
Bread Growing Cold
The next morning.
Canaria noticed an unfamiliar pendant around Zeke's neck—the same pendant she had seen on Isabella.
She knew imperial customs well enough to roughly infer what had transpired.
-...Jik Seikrid.
So Canaria called his name.
Zeke flinched at the sound.
He felt as though a cold blade were pressing against his throat.
It was like ice scraped against his skin.
-...Answer while acting as naturally as possible.
Isabella might worry.
So Canaria told him to mind his behavior as he replied.
A brief close of his right eye meant affirmation. A brief close of his left meant negation.
-...Do you consider yourself happy right now?
Lies meant nothing before her.
Zeke closed his right eye with difficulty and affirmed it.
And at that affirmation, Canaria's brow furrowed.
-...You haven't forgotten the sins you committed, have you?
As if he could ever forget.
He affirmed that too.
-...Then, is Isabella happy?
Canaria asked with a sigh.
She felt the same guilt. She now loved someone she had loathed with all her heart before losing her memories. Even if it had been Isabella's choice, she regretted it—had it truly been right to go along with it?
But despite all that, the Isabella of now liked it.
She looked utterly happy.
She smiled and laughed, unlike before.
It was even a lovely sight—the way she wore the gift from the person she had resented so much, treasuring it so dearly.
And so she feared the aftermath that would follow.
The wider the gap between happiness and misery, the harder the fall—she feared that the coming impact would shatter Isabella entirely.
And Zeke affirmed her question.
It was Isabella who had approached first.
It was Isabella who had asked first.
And it was Isabella who was happy first.
-...Do not overstep your bounds. And associate with her only to the extent that you can take responsibility. Remember your place as you live.
Canaria reminded him, in case he had forgotten.
In a sense, the moment she had resolved to go along with Isabella's choice, Canaria too had become an accomplice.
But what could she do?
This was the first time Isabella had ever liked someone.
She was living so happily, so joyfully.
She, who had known the Isabella of those days,
Could not bring herself to steal away the happiness of an Isabella who smiled so brightly. Even knowing it would bring a massive shock, she could not stop it. All she could do was cheer her on from behind, and manage the margins.
-...This is not concern for you, you wretched and incompetent fool. It is all concern for Isabella, for when she regains her memories.
Zeke kept affirming.
How could he not know?
He still dreamed of that day.
A snowfield stained crimson with blood,
Filled with pillars of salt.
A dying saint, and a shattered Demon King.
And himself, having cut off his ring finger.
And finally—Isabella, resenting him.
Every night he had nightmares: Isabella strangling him, cursing him. Her face pleading for him to die, to disappear—the sensation of bloody tears falling onto his cheek.
Zeke could never forget.
- So please, keep that line. Even if Isabella herself wishes for it, do not cross it. Because that is what the Isabella of now wishes—not what the real Isabella ever would have wished for.
Zeke kept closing his right eye and affirming.
Then Isabella, who had been watching Zeke, asked:
"Is something in your eye, Kreed?"
He'd been closing his eyes strangely for a while now. She wondered if something had gotten into his eye while loading the luggage.
"...It is nothing, Isabella."
Zeke deflected.
At that moment, as Canaria sent him a final warning, Rosaria, who had already boarded, was settling into the carriage.
-...Continue to live that life—not for your own happiness, but for Isabella's. The sins you committed that day are the kind that can only be atoned for over the whole of your life.
As always, Zeke affirmed by closing his eye.
But to Isabella, it looked strange.
"...Kreed, excuse me for a moment."
So saying, Isabella placed a hand on Zeke's shoulder and peered closely at his right eye, suspecting a bit of dust might have gotten into it.
"Would you mind kneeling for a moment?"
A request given without explanation.
But Zeke could not refuse her request. He did not kneel fully—only bent enough that their eyes were level.
"Hoo..."
With that, Isabella blew gently into Zeke's right eye. Her breath was soft, carefully adjusted so as not to startle him. It felt like an extraordinarily warm puff of air.
"There, that's better now, isn't it?"
Isabella asked with a bright smile.
It was like getting hit by a surprise attack.
Zeke barely managed to keep his expression in check and replied with great difficulty.
"...It is better now. Thank you, Isabella."
So he spoke his thanks.
At the same time, he sensed a dissonance and looked back.
Sure enough, Canaria was watching him with contempt.
-...And if you ever wish to be castrated, do let me know at any time.
A murderous conversation carried through divine power.
For the first time, Zeke closed his left eye.
**
The City of Arts, Fran.
The place was markedly different from other nations.
First of all, supernatural abilities had not widely spread here. It was a city where people capable of wielding magic or holy power were exceedingly rare. Where other nations filled the gap with supernatural abilities, Fran filled it with human technology.
Thus, it was a nation that had developed remarkably in technology, especially in the arts and the commerce of crafts that supported them—a city of beauty and technology.
A nation of artists built by brush and cog—that was Fran.
Buildings woven from steel rebar rose high.
There were streetlamps made of yamyungju stone.
From every direction came the sound of homemade music and the scratching of brushes and pencils—a quiet city of beauty.
"Welcome to Fran."
Before the gates, Isabella welcomed them.
Isabella rejoiced in the nostalgia of returning to her second homeland after so long. And she enthusiastically guided them, explaining the name and history of every street they passed.
Before long, the carriage arrived at their reserved lodgings. A massive clock announced the time in Fran, and the sound of a music box filled the air. It was a high-class hotel, with the fragrant scent of fresh bread and baked goods subtly wafting through the lobby.
"This is the finest hotel in Fran. It has history, its design is beautiful, and above all, it's well-situated for sightseeing. The drawback is that it's expensive... but the tournament organizers have agreed to cover a certain amount of our expenses, so you can relax and enjoy yourselves."
So saying, Isabella proudly produced the tournament tickets. They were travel tickets that had brought them all the way to Fran, and they appeared to come with more benefits than expected.
However, just then, a problem arose with Zeke while he was moving the luggage.
"...No weapons permitted?"
Fran was a city of peace. As such, even outsiders were forbidden from being fully armed, and Zeke had to store his armor and the Holy Sword he wore at his waist in the hotel.
But the problem, if there was one, was his Holy Sword.
"Sir knight, would you be able to release the magic placed on this?"
A guide who had been trying to lift it was sweating profusely. An older-looking guide, finding the sight pathetic, said he would give it a try himself—but it didn't budge an inch.
"...I apologize, but the enchantment cannot be released."
So Zeke found himself briefly having to visit both the storage room and the changing room at once.
"...How utterly unhelpful."
Canaria, displaying her habitual Zeke aversion.
"...Please don't be so angry, Serena."
Rosaria gave an awkward smile and soothed her.
"...Isabella?"
And then Rosaria called Isabella.
"Yes? What is it, Lady Rosaria?"
"It looks like it will be a while before Kreed finishes his business. I thought we might head to the reserved restaurant first—could you let us know its location?"
Canaria had been in a rather poor mood lately, so Rosaria took the initiative to set up a date first to soothe her. At the question, Isabella said, "Ah! Understood!" and handed over a map while explaining the directions.
"...We'll be there first. I'll let the restaurant know in advance, so please come with Kreed once he's ready, Isabella."
With that, Rosaria left the hotel with Canaria. Isabella, suddenly left alone, had to stand there waiting for Zeke to finish changing.
It was a moment that felt a bit lonely for her.
"Huh? Could it be..."
Someone approached Isabella from behind.
"I knew it—Isabella! It really is you, isn't it?"
Someone who knew her called her name.
*
The restaurant they had gone to earlier was quite splendid, but this place was one you could properly call artistic. An antique beauty emanated from its restrained interior, refined to such an extent that the word felt apt.
Though no gold or jewels were used, the beautiful carvings, the paintings, the antique wood, the rhythmic tones of turning cogs, and the tranquil classical music from the piano keys delighted both eye and ear in that high-class restaurant.
And into that place, Rosaria and Canaria entered.
"The world is so very wide."
As a native of the Holy Kingdom,
She was not accustomed to such things.
The beauty of temples adorned in gold and marble was familiar to her, but the beauty of restrained art like this was not. Rosaria looked around the restaurant with sparkling eyes.
"...If you ever wish for it, tell me at any time."
For if she simply set her mind to it, she could give her all of this. If Rosaria truly wanted it, Canaria fully intended to do so.
And Canaria was busy memorizing the sight of Rosaria, her eyes darting about to capture it in her memory.
"It's all right. I already have something better, you know."
So saying, Rosaria lifted her head slightly. It had been a while since she had seen that black hair and golden eyes. The nostalgia of that time felt even stronger—it was a welcome sight.
And then, Canaria whispered into her ear.
"...Shall I stay in this form today?"
It was something she tried to avoid as much as possible, for it felt like the sense of depravity was multiplied.
"...We'll do that later."
But she did not refuse it.
Because the form in which they had first met was this very one.
She too had the desire to be together with Canaria just as she was.
And so Rosaria and Canaria were guided to their seats. It was a table reserved for four, so it was reasonably spacious. But Rosaria explained the circumstances—that the rest of their party was running a little late.
The waiter nodded in understanding, said he would inform the kitchen and bring out the appetizers early, then left the table.
"...I suppose I will have to feed you again today."
"Back when Rosaria was the saint, I did it for you, didn't I?"
"...You know I don't mean 'no.'"
"I know that too. I was just saying it."
So saying, Canaria kissed Rosaria tenderly on the cheek.
"...It has been a long time since we went on a date at a restaurant."
At the question, Canaria hesitated briefly, but soon returned to her usual self.
A memory she forcibly pushed away—
"Back then, it was just the two of us."
At the same time, Canaria stroked Rosaria's thigh.
An impure touch moved tenderly.
"...Even now, it is just the two of us."
"Even so, other people are watching, you know?"
However bold they might be, the two of them still observed propriety. They weren't so shameless as to engage in open displays of affection in a restaurant where barriers were forbidden. So they passed the time wholesomely.
They teased each other and enjoyed their time together.
The sound of scratching pencils began to be heard—first one, then two, then four, then eight.
The sound of sketching filled the restaurant.
For in an artist's neighborhood, the wealthy were artists too.
Fran was a place where, upon seeing something beautiful, the urge to capture it in a picture came before any thought of rudeness.
The moment they had seen Rosaria and Canaria walk in a little earlier, inspiration had welled up in the minds of every artist in the restaurant.
In an instant, awe at a beauty that surpassed love had bloomed in every artist present.
They began to draw the Rose of the Holy Kingdom and the Black Knight.
Those with a good view drew in detail. Those without one drew in abstraction, trying not to lose the feeling.
"...It is a city full of eccentrics."
Canaria, who had noticed, let out a sigh.
Then, inwardly, she thought it had been a good thing she had followed along.
"They don't mean any harm, I'm sure."
"...If that is their intention, I will handle it."
So saying, Canaria drew the curtain.
Many inwardly lamented, for the chance to behold a sculpted image of a god had ended.
"...We should cover our faces when we leave, Rosaria."
The favorable impression was crumbling steadily.
To put it nicely, they were artists—
To put it another way, they were madmen.
From the perspective of Canaria and Rosaria, who had not yet grown accustomed to the mania of a city of maniacs, it was simply a little frightening.
But that was Fran's norm.
When there was something beautiful, they drew it and created it.
For the sake of those who would be born after that beauty had faded—they, who had merely been lucky enough to be born in the same era as that beauty, simply carried out their duty.
...It was a city ruled by that kind of dogshit philosophy.
And at the same time, the two of them thought of Isabella.
- Haha! Don't worry—I'm a genius, after all.
- Beauty is justice. Rosaria, Canaria.
- If you want even half of that pretty sight left for future generations, apologize to the great artist Isabella!
- Inspiration vanishes in a flash, so always keep a notepad and pencil on you, and the moment it strikes, right away... Ah! Wait, something just came to me! Hold on...!
Even during her time in the Holy Kingdom, she had been like that.
Especially when painting murals beside Mikel—even more so.
Right before leaving for Fran, she had hit her absolute peak.
'...I suppose she must have fit in quite well.'
'...She must have fit in quite well indeed, Isabella.'
Thinking about it that way, everyone in Fran looked like Isabella. The way they drew on their notepads the moment inspiration struck, the way they captured things with their eyes and transferred them to paper—it was unmistakably a projection of Isabella.
"...I only hope we do not receive any strange propositions when we leave."
Canaria sighed and voiced her worry.
And her worry was highly likely to become reality.
After a little while, the appetizers arrived. Beautifully cut and decorated pre-meal bread steamed, emphasizing its freshly-baked origins.
"...Ah."
At that, Canaria parted her lips slightly.
"...You're certainly capable of eating bread on your own."
And Rosaria, knowing it was a mischievous little tease, was about to refuse to play along.
"...And what if it's not bread I want to eat?"
So saying, Canaria took hold of Rosaria's hand and lightly kissed the ring on her finger, studying Rosaria's reaction.
"...Please save that sort of mischief for when we are alone."
Rosaria answered, covering her face.
Her cheeks were faintly flushed, as if from embarrassment.
"...I cannot see you if you cover your face."
So saying, Canaria caressed her wrist.
"...It was Rosaria who first said she liked looking into my eyes. Or have you, perhaps, come to dislike looking at me?"
Canaria whispered sweetly.
At her words, Rosaria bowed her head even further.
"...As if I ever could dislike it. And as if I could ever forget."
Those were all words she herself had spoken.
"...So look at me. So that this beautiful time does not lose its value—look into my eyes as you speak, Rosaria."
Canaria, enjoying the long-missed teasing, smiled like a little devil, then lightly kissed the opposite cheek.
The bread cooled, but Rosaria began to grow hot.