Cayen Has No Regrets
The southernmost tip of the Empire: Ruben Territory.
It was a blessed land the northern winds of the continent never touched. A warm breeze always drifted through. The scent of fresh grass filled the air year-round, as if the whole place had been steeped in that forest-phytoncide fragrance people talked about from somewhere far across the continent.
The capital’s blood-soaked power struggles, the winter winds that used to bite into his flesh—none of that nonsense reached this far.
With nothing but a single bag slung over his shoulder, Cayen had drifted aimlessly south until he stopped at the edge of a dense forest on the outskirts of the territory.
A small cabin sat there. Moss clung to it in patches from long years without a human hand, yet somehow it carried a cozy wood scent that felt almost hypnotic.
Is this what phytoncide smells like?
He had spent his entire life gasping for air in the cracks of the Kiros Marquisate’s massive, freezing stone walls. Even the Imperial Academy’s grand marble dormitories—where people had stared at him like he was some creature that should never have set foot in society—now felt like a cruel joke in reverse.
To someone like him, this shabby little cabin was… perfect weather for dying—wait, no. The perfect place for dying. For a second there he almost felt like he was channeling Jun-gu hyung.
“Haa… This is really nice.”
He pushed open the creaking wooden door and stepped inside. A cloud of stale dust billowed up, but he didn’t care. He dropped his worn leather bag right in the middle of the living room with a dull thud.
Thud.
A shard of his shattered mana core stabbed into his heart. The metallic reek of blood rose all the way to his throat. He drew a practiced breath and simply rode it out.
Two months at most. The countdown on his terminal diagnosis had already begun. He had no time left to waste on despair or resentment.
Every remaining hour would be spent crafting a fucking legendary death routine that belonged to him and him alone. It seemed he had no patience left for anything else.
First he had to fill this empty cabin. The private nest egg he had quietly stockpiled behind the family’s back. The gold coins he had scraped together bit by bit while running missions. More than enough for one final stretch of luxury.
Humming under his breath, he headed for the market in Ruben Territory.
Back in the family, the things Cayen was allowed to buy had always been fixed. A razor-sharp steel sword. Spiked armor even magic-beast hide couldn’t pierce. Magic scrolls to light the night. Harsh disinfectant for wounds. Tools for killing people—or for keeping himself alive. That had been the whole of his life.
Today was different.
“Welcome, young man! Come to look at furniture? Our place, eh? We use the best wood around these parts!”
The furniture shop owner—looking every bit the cheerful, free-spirited type—greeted him warmly. No contempt from the half-sister who treated him like vermin for being a bastard. No filthy stares from the saintess who looked at him like refuse for using black magic. None of that existed here. He just looked like some idle young man from out of town, and they treated him accordingly. That simple kindness felt almost too sweet for him alone.
“This rocking chair looks soft and comfortable. The leather’s nice and smooth. It’d be perfect out in the yard.”
“Whoa, young man, you’ve got a real eye! Lie back in this under the southern afternoon sun and it’s pure heaven. The backrest angle adjusts too!”
Cayen laughed brightly at the owner’s sales pitch and handed over the gold coins without a second thought. Spending money purely to decorate his own ending, free of the duties that had crushed him his whole life—it felt strangely exhilarating.
It wasn’t just the rocking chair. He ordered a wide flat bench for lounging in the yard shade as well. At the general store in the next alley he stocked up on a fishing rod, a tea-cup set, bundles of soap, and crisp soft bedding. Callused hands that had only ever gripped a sword, now loaded with household odds and ends. He kept breaking into laughter.
“Hehe—oof, koff.”
Rounding a corner with his arms full of packages, his solar plexus twisted without warning. A clot of black blood surged up and spilled out. He braced a hand against the wall, pulled out a white handkerchief, and roughly wiped his mouth. In an instant the cloth was soaked red-black. Still, he smiled, lazy and unbothered.
Looks like a core fragment properly nailed my stomach this time.
Not like I need to save money anymore, so no point skimping on food. Maybe I’ll buy the most expensive cut of meat tonight and grill it.
Death itself was the ultimate free pass sitting right in front of him. Even the pain felt like dopamine just for being alive. Probably because he was terminal. Whatever.
Back at the cabin he arranged his new purchases one by one. Swept and wiped the living-room floor. Carefully laid out the soft bedding in the bedroom. In the corner of the yard where the sun lingered longest, he set up the rocking chair.
He sank deep into it and began to rock slowly.
Creak. Creak.
The sound of wood settling filled the yard. A gentle southern breeze tickled his cheek. When he closed his eyes, birdsong from the forest washed over his eardrums like clean water.
It was strange. Something felt seriously off. His body was collapsing day by day and the blood-coughing only got worse, yet his chest had never felt this light or peaceful in his entire life. It was so bizarre he thought he might go crazy.
The liberation of having completely escaped everything wrapped around his whole body. What those women were doing in the capital right now, whether they were howling with belated regret—he didn’t want to know. Not even a little.
Now his world held only a quiet cabin, warm sunlight, and a death that approached him kindly.
“Finally… I can really rest.”
He surrendered himself to the rocking chair and drifted so deep into that sense of freedom he never wanted to swim back out.