Ferzen von Schweig Brutein
It was cold. If I kept standing around like this, I might even end up with frostbite, so I retraced Ferzen's memories as they melted into me and headed for the study he'd originally been making for.
"How shabby."
The desk was made of poor material. A musty smell wafted faintly through the air. Looking at the stacked documents, I saw they were parchment, not paper.
For now, warming up took priority, so I walked to the refined fireplace—which didn't match the dingy interior at all—lit a fire, and added some logs.
Then I sat in a chair, gazing at the crackling flames as they drove away the bitter chill.
What should I do now?
"Ah..."
I murmured quietly to myself and frowned. Without realizing it, Ferzen's manner of speech emerged so naturally that it felt disconcerting.
Twenty-four years of time had melted into me, so it was only natural, but the sense of dissonance was unavoidable.
But that wasn't the main issue, so I leaned back comfortably in the chair and closed my eyes.
I'll survive no matter what. The series was on hiatus at chapter 57. And the defeated protagonist had escaped the territory with the heroine Euphemia's help.
Starting not at the beginning but at a point where the water was already spilled was utterly unfortunate, but if I forced some optimism, at least it wasn't a completed ending.
Even if the protagonist harbored vengeful thoughts toward Ferzen with a kamikaze mindset, there was no guarantee that revenge would succeed.
It was a novel world, but still reality. Killing the protagonist wasn't impossible.
If I dragged him into a perfect trap, no contrived protagonist buff would let him survive, I figured.
"Or..."
I could fake Euphemia's death and set her free.
Kwaduk!
"Eup!"
I bit my lip almost reflexively, wiping the blood from the surging pain with my hand.
Without time to panic, thoughts flooded in: Euphemia is deeply attached to this territory, so she'd never accept it, and so on. I was dismantling my own idea with logic I'd created.
In that process, intense possessiveness, obsession, lust, and affection toward Euphemia surged up, forcing me to press my forehead against the sudden vertigo.
What the hell...
I pressed my throbbing temples hard, then turned back to the status window, thinking I could probably read Ernes fully by now.
Talents
▶ Corpse Affinity
▶ Corpse Comprehension
▶ Calligraphy
▶ Neat Appearance
Personality
▶ OCD
▶ Stubbornness
▶ Lone Wolf
Special Abilities
▶ ???
▶ Quantification
Corpse. The dead body of a person or animal. Why would there be talents for high affinity with corpses and greater comprehension of them? But it wasn't hard to recall that Ferzen was an Euclid-rank black mage, so I accepted it.
"What a mess of a personality..."
OCD, stubbornness, lone wolf. None of them could be seen positively.
Especially regarding OCD, I reached out to learn what it fixated on, but no detailed explanation appeared—unhelpful as ever.
"..."
OCD, simply put, a mental disorder where one compulsively resolves specific anxieties or irritations. Cleanliness obsession is a classic example.
The triggers vary by person, so I needed to figure out Ferzen's. Clearly, it would synergize negatively with his lone wolf stubbornness.
The novel doesn't describe it in detail, so inferring from the story has limits.
Tasting the faint metallic tang of blood in my mouth, I waited for the moment when everything about Ferzen fully dissolved into me.
Soon enough, I was certain his ego had fully permeated, and I naturally knew the OCD trigger.
Possession and symmetry.
Until I obtained what I wanted, it endlessly haunted my mind, breeding anxiety and irritation.
The moment I sensed asymmetry in something, I couldn't let go unless I was convinced it formed perfect equilibrium in my eyes.
"..."
The listed talents Calligraphy and Neat Appearance were acquired postnatally due to symmetry OCD, so no need to mention how severe it was.
Kkiiik!
"Insane."
Lost in thought about the life Ferzen had lived due to this OCD, I snapped to and realized I was moving the asymmetrical desk around, trying to balance it.
Now I understood why personality listed it as OCD, not mere obsession. This went beyond severe.
"Still off."
I didn't know how many times I'd alternated pushing left and right to balance the desk, but a subtle misalignment persisted.
Hallucination from severe OCD? Just shove it against the window—perfect balance, no stress.
As I decided that, numbers floated in my vision.
L: 1.4°
Angles...?
Right, there was Quantification under special abilities. Probably that.
I nudged the desk until both left and right angles read 0°, and the nagging unease vanished cleanly.
"..."
With symptoms this bad, lone wolf and stubbornness fit perfectly in personality. Straightening up, I surveyed the room—and reflexively cursed.
"What the fuck..."
Crude words unfit for nobility, but viewing the study through fully integrated Ferzen's ego, it teemed with asymmetrical objects.
Utterly irritated, I used Quantification to painstakingly balance everything in the study, then slumped in the chair, bone-tired.
Now...
I realized releasing Euphemia was impossible. The obsession and affection tangled in my OCD toward her would keep her by my side, even as a corpse.
Black mages could preserve corpses from eternal decay and control them as servants.
Possession OCD strong enough to twist normal desires into necrophilia left no other choices.
Best was finding and killing protagonist Ciel Midford before he grew, but scouting northern Ernes without summer, with my current forces? Impossible.
He might've frozen to death already, but assumptions must always assume the worst. How often did enemies who deemed him dead after a cliff fall meet grim ends?
But I couldn't find him just by wanting to.
So, by elimination, one stance: strip his sense of purpose.
The novel halted at 57, meeting Euphemia at 32, so their bond as protagonist and heroine spanned just 25 chapters.
His feelings for her were mostly gratitude for her aid and care. Romantic stirrings existed but, aware of their status gap from the start, weren't depicted until chapter 52.
From Euphemia's perspective, she felt more affection, but before it deepened, "I"—Ferzen—appeared.
In short, if Euphemia fell for me, the protagonist would lose his revenge drive, effectively.
A hero storming the demon king's castle to save a kidnapped princess—what if she truly loved the demon king? How could he draw his sword, especially when the king's only crime was the kidnapping?
Good idea, but could she love a man who'd forced marriage and raped her?
Stockholm Syndrome existed, where hostages empathize with captors, but sharing a room? I'd worry about assassination.
"..."
I tilted my head back, staring at the shadowed ceiling for a long while before running a hand over my face.
If plan A failed, do B; if B failed, do A. No need to overthink.
I entrusted my body to the fireplace's warmth and finally sought overdue sleep.
"Ugh..."
Even asleep in my coat, with the fire dead, shivering cold forced my eyes open.
The clock read 6:20 a.m. My breath fogged faintly.
Fitting for the worst northern territory no noblewoman would marry into.
Ruerg's lord was a fine match for a decent merchant's daughter.
"Enough."
I balanced the chair I'd slept in, left the study, and headed to Euphemia's room.
No need to knock, so I entered straightaway. There she sat on the bed, gazing blankly out the window.
"Euphemia."
"Don't speak my name."
"No reason to indulge you. As a courtesy... I'll call you wife."
She bit her lip hard and turned to meet my gaze head-on.
"..."
Undeniably stunning. Green hair like spring's embrace, golden eyes like embedded stars, dainty red lips, pert nose.
But what captivated most: her perfect proportions, flawless golden ratio.
Distance between eyes. Nose and lip placement. Head-to-height balance.
Normally, arm and leg lengths wouldn't match precisely, but hers did.
Pure golden ratio. Face obscured with a mannequin beside her, no third party could tell human from doll.
Activating Quantification, not a single deviation registered.
"Ah..."
Snapping to, I realized I'd seized her hands, thrown off the blanket covering her nakedness, and was appraising every inch.
Her face flushed with shame, eyes brimming with contempt.
"My apologies."
I released her wrists—marked red from my grip—and she dove under the blanket, pulling out a knife to stab my heart.
A practiced motion would threaten, but I sidestepped obliquely and slapped down her knife hand with my right.
"Eut!"
"Sloppy. To pierce a heart shielded by bone and muscle with a woman's strength, use both hands—or reverse grip with one."
Slap!
Taking it as mockery, she lashed my left cheek with venomous eyes.
Stunned more than angry...
Slap!
Facing each other, she'd struck my left cheek from her view—diagonally perfect symmetry.
My left swollen from her palm, hers from mine. The brief discomfort settled like a calm lake.
At this point, certifiable lunatic.
Seeing Euphemia, slapped down on the bed not playing dead but sobbing brokenly, I picked up her scattered clothes and handed them over.
"Dress. You'll catch cold."
"..."
"Refuse, and last night repeats."
She stifled sobs through swollen lips and hastily donned her clothes.
"Stop."
"I'm dressing as you said...!"
"Backwards. Not a dress, but sackcloth for poor commoners—confusing front and back?"
Impatient, I stripped her forcibly and dressed her meticulously, like a three-year-old.
"..."
Half in my arms, she hung her head in resignation, yielding her body.
But once dressed, imperfections nagged—I adjusted her garments again.
Talent—Neat Appearance smoothed wrinkles like an iron.
"You mad bastard..."
Her low curse at this sudden gentleness hit true; I knew it best, so no reply needed.
One plus one equals two—who'd argue?