A Farewell Sent to You

The heavy wooden doors of the great dining hall swung shut, and a long silence settled over the corridor once more.

My footsteps were the only sound—even, unhurried—echoing across the marble. The killing intent of an S-Rank Knight that Father had been radiating inside, Chris's stunned gaze, the frozen breaths of the maids: all of it receded in an instant, as if it belonged to someone else, the moment that single door closed between ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠us.

...I'm tired.

I closed my eyes, then opened them again.

The body of this tenth regression was still that of a seventeen-year-old boy. The slightest strain and the muscles knotted; fatigue came flooding in. That was what an F-rank magic aptitude meant. The soul had fought for decades. The body found a single cup heavy.

"Y-Young Master...!"

Lia, who had been waiting quietly in a corner of the corridor, startled and came running. Her shoulders were hunched tight—perhaps from the memory of always being the one who caught the backlash whenever a loud noise or a heavy killing intent spilled from the great dining hall.

"...What is it?"

I stopped walking and asked, flat and indifferent. Lia forced the words out as if wringing them from her throat.

"D-Did the meal... go well? His Grace the Duke didn't... lose his temper, did he...?"

"It was fine. I've eaten. I'm going back to my room."

"Pardon? Ah... y-yes, yes! L-Let me assist you!"

Lia hurried ahead of me and opened the bedroom door.

The moment I stepped inside, I shrugged off my outer coat and hung it on the rack. Then I walked to the small study desk by the window.

Magic theory texts and scraps of notepaper lay scattered across the surface. Things the first-cycle me had filled in, dense and desperate, determined to earn the family's recognition. Things he had written down trying to figure out his fiancée's tastes.

What a child I was.

I looked down at those notes in silence. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The kinds of tea Eleanor von Rosenberg preferred. The scents of flowers she favored. The poetry collections of the poets she liked.

In my first life, I had tried so hard—to win her favor, to shed the disgrace of being House Astell's incompetent youngest son. What I got in return was a declaration of annulment, mockery, and isolation.

Without hesitation, I gathered every last scrap of those notes and tucked them deep into a drawer. I didn't want to burn them or tear them. They, too, were a record of who I had been.

Then I took a clean sheet of white paper and a quill from the cabinet.

The quill crossed the paper without pause.

I signed the bottom of the pledge in a neat, even hand: Ethan von Astell. Habits hardened over decades overlaid themselves, dark and dense, upon the clumsy handwriting of a seventeen-year-old.

"Lia."

"Y-Yes! Young Master!"

Lia, who had been watching from the corner of the room, hurried over.

I placed the pledge I had just written into a document envelope, melted sealing wax, and stamped it with House Astell's seal.

"Leave this on the side table in the study. When Lady Rosenberg visits next week, have it delivered to her."

Lia's eyes went wide as she read the words Engagement Annulment Pledge written on the envelope.

"Y-Young Master...! Th-This is an annulment... document, isn't it? Are you truly calling off the engagement? If His Grace finds out, he'll be furious...!"

The political marriage between House Astell and House Rosenberg was a matter so significant even the Imperial Family would not dare interfere lightly. No matter how incompetent the youngest son, actually presenting this annulment document could mean any number of punishments from the family.

But I leaned back deep into the chair and closed my eyes.

"Young Master..."

There was something wet in her voice, as if she were misunderstanding something, but I didn't bother to correct her.

"I'm tired. Don't let anyone in until lunch."

"...Yes. Understood, Young Master."

Lia clutched the document envelope to her chest and left the room with careful steps.

The door clicked shut, and complete silence returned to the room.

I sat still, letting the cold morning wind from beyond the window wash over me, and quietly moved my fingers.

Expulsion from House Astell. Isolation at the Academy. Then a quiet departure to the Empire's hinterlands.

The plan was simple. Sever the tangled threads with House Rosenberg through the annulment. Get branded a perfectly worthless human being within the family, and after graduating from the Academy, get banished to some backwater territory.

And there, holding my breath, find and destroy the Source of Regression that had bound me across the ten lives I had lived.

At the same hour, in the study of the Fourth Ducal House—House Rosenberg—located in the southern Imperial Capital. In a luxurious room where sunlight filtered gently through the windows, a silver-haired girl sat in a composed posture, reviewing documents.

The Empire's greatest magical prodigy, and the heir of House Rosenberg: Eleanor von Rosenberg.

Her eyes swept rapidly down the pages.

Then the study door opened, and House Rosenberg's dedicated butler entered with a respectful bow.

"My lady. A message has arrived from House Astell."

Eleanor asked indifferently, her gaze still fixed on the documents.

"What kind of message? Another letter from Ethan von Astell?"

There was no interest in her voice.

The price of an oath from the border wars, when Duke Astell had saved her father's life. A politically arranged marriage, imperial-sanctioned, bound by that Debt of Life.

Ethan von Astell. Her political fiancé, and the man they called the shame of House Astell. He had always tried so hard to win her favor.

Was it at the winter ball two years ago? Ethan had held out his hand to her, along with a dance so awkward it was obvious he had practiced all night. His fingertips had been trembling.

Eleanor had walked past without taking his hand. Even when she had seen his back later that night, drinking in a corner of the banquet hall, she hadn't particularly felt sorry for him. There were plenty of men who sent her longing looks—she was the eldest daughter of Duke Rosenberg, after all.

"No, my lady. Not a letter... a report that came through an internal informant at House Astell."

"A report?"

Eleanor finally lifted her head. Her blue-tinged eyes turned toward the butler. He looked slightly uncomfortable as he spoke.

"This morning, in House Astell's great dining hall, Young Master Ethan himself... mentioned an annulment, they say."

"...An annulment?"

Eleanor's brow furrowed, just barely.

"He... brought up an annulment? Not His Grace the Duke—he did, first?"

"Yes. From what I hear, he didn't so much as blink in front of Duke Astell himself, and replied, 'I'm a card the family was going to throw away anyway, so I'll take the annulment cleanly.'"

Eleanor said nothing for a while. She set down her pen and quietly laced her fingers together.

A card the family was going to throw away, so he'll take the annulment cleanly?

He had always been the man who trailed after her, begging for clumsy kindness. For him to show such a completely different attitude now—there had to be a reason.

He wants to seize the initiative, perhaps.

By mentioning the annulment first, he wanted to put this side in the position of having to yield. If that was his game, it was understandable enough.

Even if this was a political marriage bound by a family debt, she had no intention of handing over even the initiative in the relationship to that incompetent man. And if this wasn't even a power play—if it was just some crude stunt to catch her attention—then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she would need to smash it head-on, so he would never think such foolish thoughts again.

"It's an act, I assume."

"Yes, my lady. Most likely."

The butler agreed carefully. But before he could even finish that thought, he had to deliver the next piece of news.

"Additionally... Young Master Ethan drafted an Engagement Annulment Pledge himself this morning and stamped it with his seal. He said he would have it delivered the moment you visit next week..."

"He signed it himself?"

"Yes. According to a maid of House Astell, his manner was utterly composed."

For the first time, a small crack appeared in Eleanor's expression.

"...Next week, you said."

Her voice was as calm as ever. Only, Eleanor herself noticed a beat late that she had taken a breath to keep it that way.

"Yes, my lady. As scheduled, you will visit the Astell main house next Wednesday."

"Move the schedule up."

The butler lost his words for a moment. What she had just said, and the expression she had been wearing until just now, did not match.

"Not Wednesday. I will go to the Astell main house tomorrow morning."

"Pardon? Tomorrow? But the formal alliance procedures with House Astell are still..."

"That doesn't matter."

Eleanor flipped over the document she had been reading and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠finished, indifferent.

"I need to see with my own eyes... whether that man is actually thinking."

"Understood. I shall inform the household staff."

The butler bowed hastily and withdrew.

Alone in the study, Eleanor sat back down and looked at the documents she had been reviewing. The letters would not come into focus. In the end she closed the papers and turned her gaze to the window.

...Ethan von Astell.

If what unfolded before her eyes tomorrow was nothing more than a crude performance to catch her attention—

A thin frost settled across the surface of the inkwell on her desk.