Chapter 50: The Blank Canvas

“Forget it. The two of you can go together.”

After thoroughly assisting with my morning hygiene routine, Zeimer offered a casual, brief farewell, instructing me to enjoy a hearty breakfast before swiftly vacating the premises. His posture made it abundantly transparent that he harbored absolutely no desire to remain trapped within a confined space alongside Claire.

In stark contrast to my own deliberate, painstaking chewing rhythm, Claire’s consumption velocity was remarkably rapid. In accordance with my request for a simplified menu, the kitchen had prepared a selection of morning sandwiches. A solitary portion had been allocated to my plate, while Claire’s tray hosted two. By the literal millisecond my fingers managed to guide the first half of my meal past my lips, the Knight Commander had already systematically decimated his entire portion. Naturally, because he was a thoroughly educated aristocrat raised within the strict parameters of high society, he maintained an absolutely flawless execution of table etiquette throughout the rapid display.

Anxious to ensure that my slow progress wouldn’t plunge me into a state of acute embarrassment, Claire methodically shifted his empty porcelain plates toward the edge of the mahogany table, initiating a soft, fluid stream of conversation to bridge the silence. I could intuitively perceive that his intellect was actively executing a precise detour around several sensitive subjects. Claire was characteristically taciturn by nature, but he was by no means unobservant. By now, the underlying reality of my predicament must have naturally registered within his mind. Profoundly grateful for his silent piece of consideration, I continuously offered small, rhythmic nods of my head while quietly working through the remaining bread.

The moment I concluded the meal and thoroughly rinsed my palate, Claire finally rose from his seat to manage the logistics of our departure. He systematically layered my physical frame in heavy winter garments—beginning with a thick forest-green sweater, followed by fleece-lined trousers, a massive insulated overcoat, and a heavy woolen scarf wrapped tightly around my throat. Only when the absolute sum of my skin was protected from the elements did he halt, his features casting a fleeting shadow of hesitation as if wrestling with an internal debate. Ultimately, he leaned downward, lifting my entire frame in one fluid motion to deposit me into the waiting wheelchair, before carefully securing my heavy boots and tucking a thick thermal blanket over my knees. The precision with which he knelt on a single knee to guide my feet into the leather footwear carried the smooth, natural ease of a deeply ingrained routine.

The trajectory leading toward the training complex was mercifully brief. Because the First Training Grounds were structurally anchored within the interior defensive walls—the precise sector reserved for the residency of the imperial bloodline and high-ranking state officials—the perimeter was reinforced with high-tier acoustic dampening sorcery. Furthermore, given that Claire had explicitly redirected the entirety of the knights’ standard drills to the auxiliary arenas situated outside the inner walls today, the silence dominating the path was immense and absolute.

Though the expansive landscape of the imperial palace was thoroughly buried under the pristine white snow, the primary walkways had been completely cleared. Whether the immaculate state of the stones was the result of the servants laboring frantically since the pre-dawn hours or the execution of specialized environmental magic, the trails were perfectly ordered.

Anchored within the seat of the wheelchair Claire was smoothly guiding forward, I tilted my head backward to look toward the gray sky. The snow was still descending, though the violent flurries had systematically surrendered to a gentle, sporadic scattering of solitary flakes. I slowly slid one of my hands out of its heavy glove and extended my bare palm toward the winter air. The literal second a few drifting crystals made physical contact with my skin, they seamlessly dissolved into microscopic beads of water before vanishing entirely. I stared down at my palm in a quiet, analytical trance.

“Claire.”

The moment his name slipped past my lips, a thick cloud of white condensation instantly bloomed into the freezing air, scattering across the atmosphere. Because my neck was severely arched backward to lock onto his silhouette, the warm breath naturally rode the thermal currents upward, lightly brushing against the lower half of his face.

“Does today mean…… that there is truly not a single soul occupying the arena?”

“Yes,” he responded softly, his eyes maintaining a steady forward anchor. “Today, there are only two entities present within that space: you and myself, Ian.”

“I see.”

Murmuring the confirmation like a quiet piece of internal data, I systematically coaxed my freezing fingers back into the fabric of the glove. The tips of my digits were already severely numb from the brief exposure. The handwear was a sentimental artifact fabricated by Theodore, who had shared the nursery dormitories of my childhood orphanage. Much like his elder sister Laura, Theodore possessed an extraordinary, near-supernatural affinity for textile handicrafts. Though the structural stitching was visibly clumsy and unrefined compared to the clinical perfection of the imperial garments produced by the palace tailors, I had cherished the item so deeply that Zeimer had personally woven a high-level thermal enchantment directly into the fibers.

The moment our perimeter sequence intersected with the entrance of the complex, Claire retrieved a heavy brass key from the depths of his tactical coat. For security protocols and acoustic isolation, the entire perimeter of the combat arena was enclosed by a massive, soaring palisade wall. In stark contrast to the palace pathways—which were already heavily marred by the footprints of passing guards—the interior plot of the training grounds promised to hold an unbroken, pristine ocean of white snow. The anticipation caused my chest to tighten with a small, uncharacteristic flutter of excitement.

“Wow……”

The heavy iron-reinforced doors swung wide, exposing the vast, entirely vacant training expanse to my eyes.

“How does it appear to your senses?”

A distinct trace of quiet pride colored Claire’s features. I offered a firm, rapid nod of my head to communicate my absolute approval. I caught the faint vibration of his voice attempting to formulate a secondary sentence, but the sheer aesthetic gravity of the pristine view rendered my auditory processors entirely incapable of registering his words.

“Wow……”

I allowed the soft gasp of admiration to escape my lips yet again.

Looking out across the quiet field, my mind involuntarily projected a phantom silhouette of my past self—the lonely youth who, during the pre-dawn obscurity when the sky was nothing more than a bleak shade of slate gray, would silently unlock these massive doors entirely unassisted, illuminate the guide lamps, and systematically sweep the dirt away. Perhaps, if it were the Ian of that specific era standing here today, he would have experienced a brand of joy infinitely more profound than my current self could manage. The winter transition mapping my seventeenth year into my eighteenth had been an unmitigated, biting freeze.

During those dark cycles when the absolute majority of the military forces had deployed to the front lines, leaving only a skeletal complement of knights to garrison the imperial palace, I had personally volunteered to manage the morning opening sequences in place of the absent squires. Every single dawn, I would stand completely isolated within this space, swinging my blade through the repetitive arcs of the forms Uncle Charles had drilled into my muscle memory. Because my physical vessel was chronically unaccustomed to the immense, volatile torrents of mana flooding my pathways, my erratic swings would frequently gouge massive, unsightly scars across the architecture of the arena. Furthermore, because I possessed absolutely zero mathematical certainty that my leaking energy wouldn’t violently assault anyone who dared step within my perimeter, I had actively chosen absolute isolation. Though Phedem—the divine blade bestowed by the Goddess’s authority—had permanently dissolved into the void during the final cataclysm, I vividly remembered the agonizing, desperate efforts I had expended within this exact space to force my mana to seamlessly coat its edge. For an entity who had spent an entire infancy manipulating nothing but pure, structured holy power, mastering the erratic mechanics of raw mana had been a punishing, near-impossible evolution.

Claire smoothly guided the wheelchair toward the absolute perimeter corner of the arena, locking the mechanisms before carefully hoisting my frame upward. He positioned his massive hands securely beneath my armpits, supporting my weight from behind in a firm, protective embrace.

Leaning heavily against the absolute security of his chest, I slowly allowed the soles of my boots to sink into the thick, pillowy cushion of the snow. While my internal circuits were technically capable of sustaining a crude, independent stride across the field, I was currently standing before Claire—and more than anything, I harbored a desperate desire to preserve the pristine, unbroken silence of this morning. Claire held my frame with an immovable, iron-clad stability, completely absorbing the absolute entirety of my physical weight against his own torso.

He partially elevated my center of gravity, effectively allowing my legs to execute a simulated walking motion without the crushing pressure of reality. Beneath our feet, the crisp winter snow let out a soft, rhythmic crunch with every step we traced across the white. I cast a fleeting glance downward at the tracks we were leaving behind. Because the undersides of my palace boots were spotlessly clean, the indentations manifested as nothing more than beautiful, deeply carved geometric depressions in the pristine landscape.

Though the mechanical logistics of our posture could have easily resulted in a clumsy, awkward stagger, Claire possessed such an extraordinary, master-level mastery over his own kinetic positioning that I didn’t experience a single microsecond of physical discomfort. Yielding entirely to the peace of the moment, I systematically deactivated every muscle in my torso, allowing my entire physical form to go completely limp against his frame. A low, incredibly soft chuckle vibrated through Claire’s chest. Wholly indifferent to his amusement, I continued to rhythmically advance my legs. The moment I surrendered total structural control to his guidance, our erratic, halting steps transformed into a sequence so fluid and natural it felt as though I were navigating the snow entirely on my own strength.

Before my awareness could map the distance, we had arrived at the mathematical center of the vast training grounds. Behind us, a long, solitary sequence of twin footprints stretched across the white like a lingering tail.

“Claire, I wish to sit down here.”

Without a single word of protest, Claire carefully lowered my frame onto the field before shifting his weight to sit directly alongside me. I briefly calculated the physical distance separating our silhouettes before completely abandoning all decorum, throwing my arms and legs wide to collapse flat against the frozen earth. Because my entire body was heavily insulated by multiple layers of thick textile armor, the biting cold of the winter elements only managed to penetrate the absolute back of my skull where my hair met the snow; yet, being deeply buried within the plush, silent depths of that immaculate blanket filled my consciousness with a profound, unshakeable sense of tranquility.

A heavy thud resonated directly to my right. Tilting my face toward the source, I watched Claire mirror my exact positioning, his massive spine collapsing carelessly onto the snow banks without a single thought for his pristine uniform. As he stared blankly up toward the gray expanse of the heavens, thick, billowing clouds of ghostly white condensation exhaled from his lips, blooming like smoke before dissolving. Sensing the absolute intensity of my fixed gaze, Claire slowly rotated his head, locking his eyes directly onto my features.

The sporadic, halting snowfall suddenly shifted gears, transitioning into a massive, heavy downpour of dense, white flakes. The descending ice crystals caught the ambient winter light, refracting the illumination until the entire atmosphere appeared to sparkle with microscopic brilliance. The dark obscurity that had dominated the pre-dawn hours had completely evaporated, leaving behind a world that shimmered with radiant energy. Set against that blinding, glittering canvas of pure white, Claire offered me a wide, blindingly bright smile—his eyes thoroughly saturated with an absolute, unwavering devotion that mirrored the sparkling scenery. We remained anchored in that silent matrix, our eyes locked in a profound, unbroken dialogue that stretched across an immeasurable pocket of time.

Then, out of the absolute quiet, Claire softly broke the silence.

“What brand of individual was I to your senses…… back then?”

Confronted by the sudden question, I quietly allowed my consciousness to submerge into the deep, archived corridors of my memory, tracing the lines of our shared past.

Claire maintained an absolute, unmoving anchor on my eyes, waiting for the manifestation of my verbal data with immense patience. I drew a deep, lung-bursting breath of the freezing air; the sharp temperature stung my pulmonary tissues like a localized needle prick.

“You were entirely identical to the individual standing before me today.”

He had been the absolute Guardian. In stark contrast to the rest of our circle—who were systematically reclaiming their past configurations one by one—the underlying reality that Claire had yet to trigger his own awakening sequence was almost certainly due to the fact that he had thoroughly fulfilled his original existential mission to its absolute completion. Within the mathematical framework of our previous reality, Claire was likely the solitary entity who had stood vigil to witness the definitive end of the world after my spark had vanished. I possessed absolutely zero data regarding the trajectory of the universe following my departure.

“Caelum…… the Dragon’s Blade,” I murmured, my voice maintaining a completely flat, clinical detachment.

Even now, whenever my mind processed the image of that specific weapon—the ultimate instrument engineered to signify the absolute conclusion of all things—a sharp, phantom ache would violently constrict the chambers of my heart.

“You must ensure that you maintain an absolute, iron-clad grip on that weapon at all times.”

“…….”

“That blade…… is the precise instrument that will successfully bring a definitive end to everything this time as well.”

The winter landscape remained profoundly, beautifully silent as the snow continued to descend. I returned my gaze to the heavens, mapping the heavy, oppressive canopy of gray clouds dominating the altitude. This peace was a strictly temporary anomaly. I resolved to thoroughly consume every single microsecond of this transient tranquility until the clock ran out.

Having fully acknowledged the reality that my peaceful, mundane daily existence was bound to a rapidly approaching expiration date, I made a definitive internal vow to thoroughly, ruthlessly exploit the remaining timeline. If one were to query the exact methodology I intended to deploy to maximize this enjoyment, the answer was remarkably simple: I intended to lie down and execute an aggressive, absolute state of total inactivity. Naturally, my baseline existence already consisted of doing absolutely nothing, but I intended to elevate that passivity into a masterclass of pure, unadulterated laziness.

The erratic echoes of ancient, long-buried memories continuously hammered against the perimeter of my consciousness, but I systematically ignored the notifications with flagrant, practiced defiance. Let them batter the walls all they wished. I was a thoroughly accomplished adult who possessed over two decades of professional expertise in actively looking away from inconvenient realities. A truly mature, sophisticated individual was well aware that survival occasionally required the deliberate projection of calculated ignorance.

I sat nestled within the deep velvet cushions of the sofa, my fingers securely wrapped around the ceramic surface of a massive mug containing a steaming, heavily honeyed tea blend to kill the empty hours.

Wrapped in a heavy blanket spun from thick woolen yarn, thoroughly buried beneath a mountain of soft sweaters and plush pillows, I rhythmically wiggled my toes within the warm fabric of my socks, letting the empty segments of time drift past without a single trace of obligation. It was a profoundly intoxicating sensation. In truth, this exact state of absolute, unbothered comfort represented the literal apex of the life I had secretly fantasized about since infancy. The trousers I wore were engineered from a remarkably lightweight, brushed textile that maximized physical comfort; my feet were thoroughly protected by dense thermal socks, and the oversized sleeves of my heavy sweater cascaded fully over the backs of my hands, enveloping my limbs in a warm, protective barrier. I was, in the most literal sense of the vocabulary, thoroughly marinated in an ocean of pure, unadulterated coziness. The entire environment was mathematically perfect.

Reaching out toward the polished surface of the coffee table, I lightly tapped the glass face of the recording artifact twice. A vivid projection instantly bloomed into the air before my eyes. Though the transparent, hovering image naturally allowed the architecture of my private chambers to bleed through the background, the visual clarity remained remarkably sharp and the audio output was perfectly pristine, presenting absolutely zero obstacles to my consumption. The content consisted of a high-quality recording of a theatrical production that was currently experiencing immense popularity within the capital’s high society. Ordinarily, these phenomenally expensive magitech devices were exclusively purchased by high-ranking aristocrats for private luxury or utilized by the imperial archives for data preservation; Zeimer, however, had casually hauled the apparatus into my pavilion the moment I had voiced a minor complaint regarding boredom. Though the astronomical cost of the unit had initially threatened to trigger a localized cardiovascular failure within my chest, a quick, rational calculation of Zeimer’s ungodly personal net worth had instantly restored my internal peace.

As the slightly distorted perimeter of the projection stabilized into a crisp, high-definition display, I pulled my legs onto the velvet cushions of the sofa, tucking my lower limbs securely beneath the heavy folds of the blanket. My indoor slippers remained neatly, symmetrically aligned on the carpet below. I harbored a sudden, intense desire to lay completely flat. Navigating existence without a single active thought was, at this current juncture, the absolute highest form of happiness available to my reality. Although the bright winter sunlight cutting through the high arched windows slightly degraded the visual contrast of the projection, the mere prospect of calling an attendant just to adjust the heavy drapes felt intensely embarrassing—and frankly, the sheer weight of my own laziness completely overwhelmed any desire to move. In truth, the laziness was the dominating variable. Caught in that quiet, pathetic battle of attrition against the ambient sunlight, my consciousness gradually slipped away, and I drifted into a light slumber.

…….

I awoke to the sudden, distinct sensation of a pair of arms securely hoisting my entire physical frame into the air. The powerful chest pressed against my side was vibrating with a violent, uncontrollable shudder.

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