Chapter 30: “This Time, I Want to Live Too”

Zeimer stayed by my side, holding me until I actually fell asleep. He even patted my back. My original plan was to fake sleep until he left, but he was unnervingly persistent; he seemed to sense exactly when I was still awake and kept trying to lull me to sleep. In the end, I drifted off for real.

When I opened my eyes, it was late afternoon. Someone was fidgeting with my hand and stroking my hair.

“Ian.”

I turned my head toward the low, resonating voice to find Felix, now changed into comfortable indoor clothes. Seeing the busy Emperor twice in one day—and at this hour—was surprising, but I kept my face neutral and offered a greeting.

“Hello, Your Majesty.”

My mouth felt dry and pasty from the nap. Felix noticed immediately and gestured to the servant standing by the door. While the servant brought a cup, Felix gently propped me up.

I blankly drank the water he held to my lips. To be precise, it was a fragrant liquid, likely some kind of herbal infusion. Felix kept his hand behind my back, supporting me personally until I finished the entire cup.

“You’re awake. I stopped by briefly this morning as well, but you were sleeping.”

Sleeping, my foot. I marveled at his silver tongue—lying so smoothly without batting an eye. Felix laid me back down but kept a firm hold on my hand. He looked down at me with heavy, sunken eyes.

Because the sun was setting in the opposite direction from the morning, he was backlit. The glare made me wince slightly. Seeing me frown, Felix flicked a hand to draw the curtains and switched on the small bedside lamp.

The soft amber glow flickered across his face. His elegant features, sharp as if carved from stone, gained a new depth in the dim light—from the prominent brow bone to the straight bridge of his nose. The contrast between his delicate, well-defined features and his strong jawline gave him the appearance of a masterpiece sculpture.

After staring at me for a long time with a gaze that felt heavy enough to manifest physically, Felix finally spoke.

“I had a dream.”

“A dream…?”

“Yes. It was a few days ago, but you appeared in it. It felt like a story from a very long time ago… it left me with a lingering sense of yearning.”

Felix brought my hand to his lips. He closed his eyes and murmured.

“I, too, do not want to lose you.”

Felix left after leaving behind those cryptic words. The dreams of someone with Dragon blood—the very axis of this world—could never be ignored. Even when I asked about the contents, he only smiled with his lips tightly sealed, leaving me to stew in frustration. I spent a long while feeling stifled after he departed.

Even after a long sleep, the lethargy wouldn’t lift, leaving my body limp. I shared a simple meal and fell back asleep with Mitchel, who was smiling brightly and saying he had decided to stay at the palace for a while. When I opened my eyes again, it was the middle of the night.

I thought the room would be empty, but I heard the scratching of a quill. At a desk in the corner, Claire was working by the dimmed light of a mana-stone lamp.

I watched him for a moment before slowly pushing myself up. My body was still heavy, but not so much that I couldn’t move.

I was debating whether or not to speak to him—he seemed so focused on whatever he was doing that he hadn’t noticed I was awake—when I suddenly felt a dampness on my face. Something warm was trickling from my nose. I quickly put my hand to my face, and it came away smeared with dark red blood.

The rustle of the duvet finally caught Claire’s attention. He turned his head, then bolted upright.

Claire rushed over, plugging my nose with a cloth and tilting my head forward. The grip of his hand through the layers of fabric was incredibly strong. I tapped his arm, feeling like my nose bone might actually snap. The veins bulging in his thick forearms were palpable against my palm. It hurts because you’re using so much strength…!

The cloth in Claire’s hand seemed to turn blacker by the second. The room was so dark that red and black were indistinguishable. Blood must have leaked into the back of my throat; I tasted a sickly, metallic bitterness. Since I couldn’t spit it out, I just rubbed my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

“Are you alright?”

Claire asked, his voice thick with worry. My nose and mouth were buried in the bundle of cloth, so I couldn’t speak; I just nodded. Once the bleeding seemed to have subsided, Claire meticulously wiped my face and took out a fresh cloth, holding it ready in case the bleeding started again.

“When did you wake up?”

“Just now…”

Claire tucked a pillow behind my back and brought over some water to rinse my mouth. The water I spat out was a pale pink. Only then could I ask him what I had been wondering.

“It’s very late. Why are you in my room…?”

“Ah…”

Claire gave a faint, awkward smile and avoided my gaze without giving a proper answer.

It was late. A glance at the clock showed it was well past midnight. Under normal circumstances, he would have gone home long ago.

I felt burdened by the unidentifiable, yearning look in Claire’s eyes, so I let out an awkward cough.

Claire sighed inwardly. Zeimer had been in a foul mood all day. Concerned about the mage, who had canceled all his appointments to lock himself in his room, Claire had gone to find him—only to find Zeimer throwing a quiet, magical tantrum. The room was so thick with the mana Zeimer had expelled in an attempt to intentionally drink himself into a stupor that Claire felt suffocated. He detested the raw mana used in high-level sorcery.

Nothing in the room remained intact. It wasn’t that Zeimer had physically smashed anything; his rampaging emotions had manifested through his mana, ruining every object in sight. It was unlike Zeimer to lose his composure over anything. Of course, Claire had heard enough to know the cause. As expected, it was about Ian.

Zeimer was sprawled on a sofa in the middle of the dark room without a single light on. He leaned his back against the armrest with both legs stretched out on the cushions. He held a bottle of strong whiskey. Empty bottles rolled across the floor, suggesting he had been at it all day.

“Come, have a drink. There’s plenty.”

Zeimer spoke without looking back, swirling the bottle in his hand.

“I’m fine.”

“Why? Your work is done. Or are you planning to go see Ian?”

Zeimer chuckled. Claire let out his umpteenth sigh.

“Zeimer.”

“What.”

“I understand your feelings, but excessive drinking is not good.”

Zeimer’s laughter cut off abruptly. He straightened his posture, his gaze locking onto Claire.

“Understand? No, Claire. You don’t understand.”

“…”

“A long, long time ago.”

Zeimer’s eyes searched the empty air, as if looking at something very far beyond Claire.

“It was a very long time ago. So old it’s grown worn.”

Another bottle joined the ranks on the floor with a thump. Zeimer, having dropped the empty whiskey bottle, cracked his neck from side to side and cut himself off.

“…No, forget it. Just go. Weren’t you going to see Ian?”

Given the clear dismissal, Claire had no choice but to leave, though his worry remained. He was concerned for Ian, but Zeimer also looked perilously close to breaking. It was even more worrying knowing that despite acting like a wreck now, Zeimer would never show a hint of instability in front of Ian.

The moment Claire closed the door, he heard a loud shattering sound from inside. The empty bottles on the floor must have exploded, unable to withstand the pressure of Zeimer’s mana. Claire paused for a moment but eventually headed toward Ian’s room with a dark expression.

Claire had no connection to Dragons. Naturally, he couldn’t feel their energy. This was a world made of mana originating from the Dragon’s Breath. Despite having pure mana filling his own body, he was fundamentally different from Felix, who carried Dragon blood, or Zeimer, who had met a Dragon and swallowed a scale. The talk of “having to meet the Dragon” that the two of them shared felt like a distant story from another world to Claire. All he wanted was for everyone to be happy.

The war was over. But only after the war ended did the real battle begin.

The psychological trauma of the war wasn’t limited to the common soldiers. A war where you had to watch your comrades and family die at the hands of monsters—and then kill those same loved ones once they were turned—remained a nightmare for everyone.

Felix might be different. He was the perfect monarch. He was the coldest person Claire knew—someone who wasn’t swayed by emotion. The reason he kept Ian in the palace likely wasn’t out of a personal desire to have him nearby, but for some specific reason.

Claire walked slowly to Ian’s room, deep in thought. It was late, and the hallways were filled with silence. He carried a few sheets of paper and a quill to organize his thoughts.

It seemed Ian didn’t have much time left. He had appeared to be getting better on the surface, but apparently, that wasn’t the case. They had all been too complacent. Because the war was over, because the Demon King was gone, they thought… they thought everything would be okay now.

Arriving at the room, he sent away the attendant who had been waiting and checked Ian’s complexion. Ian lay motionless in a deep sleep, his breathing regular. Claire watched him for a while before sitting at the desk.

The desk was neatly organized. A bottle of mediocre ink, worn-out quills, a few sheets of paper that looked like doodles, one writing primer, two basic magic books, and a notebook with “Swordsmanship Stances” written on the cover in clumsy handwriting. Claire stared at them for a moment, then his eyes widened.

The “doodles” were all traces of Ian. They held the desperate struggle of the young Hero trying to survive in the palace. Among the crooked characters, the name “Ian” written in an elegant script stood out. The paper was covered in countless repetitions, traces of him practicing his own name over and over.

With a hollow feeling, Claire reached for the notebook. He was almost afraid to open it, but he couldn’t stop himself. Upon opening it, he found drawings as clumsy as the handwriting. Below the drawings were captions written with terrible spelling.

“Normal walking -> move diaganally -> stab” “Cut and lift -> swing”

Claire took in every detail. It wasn’t easy to read due to the crude spelling, but he persisted, sounding out the syllables under his breath.

He froze when he found a sentence that stood out. Unlike the fragmented words and phrases, this was a complete, coherent sentence.

“This time, I want to live too.”

A sentence written in crooked, clumsy characters.

This time?

Claire quickly scanned the rest of Ian’s notes. After finishing the notebook, he opened the other books. His conscience pricked at the thought of looking through someone’s private belongings without permission, but he couldn’t ignore the instinctive gut feeling that he had to see this. The traces weren’t in one place; they were scattered sporadically.

“This time, I want to live too.” “The end of the world and my end.” “I won’t die.” “I want to rest.” “The world.” “Can I live?”

Claire narrowed his eyes. The end of a newly discovered sentence was blurred, as if it had been wet and then dried, making it hard to read.

“When everything ends—”

Something felt ominous. Claire whispered softly to himself.

“…When everything… ends…?”