Chapter 42: The Threshold of Forbidden Knowledge

When I opened my eyes in the morning, Zeimer was already in front of me. As if he had completely abandoned the notion of knocking to wake me, he was casually sitting beside the bed with his arms crossed, reading a book suspended in mid-air. Heavy blackout curtains were drawn, leaving the room rather dark save for the dim light embedded in the wall, but such a minor detail posed no obstacle to him whatsoever.

Skipping a formal greeting as a matter of course, Zeimer began to tend to me. Though he made no explicit mention of what had transpired a few days prior, his touch was noticeably more delicate, as if he were consciously keeping my condition in mind. Even though Zeimer reached out to shield my vision with his hand, the moment he swept the curtains aside, the sudden influx of morning sun flooded the room, dazzling my eyes and driving me to burrow right back beneath the duvet.

“It’s too bright, Zeimer……”

A low chuckle vibrated from Zeimer’s chest beyond the layers of fabric.

I blinked frantically beneath the sheets. Since I couldn’t openly manipulate my mana, I had to resolve every minor inconvenience through purely physical means. Living without the immediate convenience of magic felt a bit clumsy after possessing it for so long, but it was far from unmanageable.

By the time I had completed a rudimentary wash under Zeimer’s guidance and gathered my senses, a small over-bed table had been positioned over the mattress, fully set with a breakfast spread. The spoon had already been seized by Zeimer’s hand.

“Give it to me, please.”

I extended my palm. Fearing that he might confiscate the fork resting innocently beside the bowl as well, I quickly snatched it up. Even as he witnessed my defensive maneuver, Zeimer didn’t return the spoon; instead, he conjured a gentle, warm breeze to dry my damp bangs while simultaneously scooping up a portion of soup and bringing it to my lips.

“Say ah—.”

“I can eat on my own.”

I clamped my mouth shut, staring at him with stubborn insistence until he finally relented with a laugh, surrendering the utensil back to my grip. The exchange left me in the rather absurd posture of clutching both a spoon and a fork in either hand. Witnessing the ridiculous sight, Zeimer let out a genuine, booming laugh.

Zeimer teasing me was hardly a novel occurrence, so I paid his amusement no mind and began my meal. A standard imperial breakfast rarely featured soup, yet over the past several months, it had appeared on my tray without fail. Initially, the special treatment had made me feel intensely self-conscious, but humans are remarkably adaptable creatures. I could now face a bowl of soup in the morning without feeling overwhelmed by an unearned sense of grandeur.

After swallowing a few spoonfuls, I reached for a piece of the still-warm bread. It was a rustic, somewhat coarse loaf baked with minimal butter for health considerations, but I didn’t mind. The baseline standard of anything emerging from the imperial kitchens was vastly superior to the sum of everything I had experienced in the outside world. Had anyone told me a few short years ago that I would be indulging in such luxury, would I have ever believed them? Separate from the lingering discomfort in my mind, my physical body was steadily adapting to a life of absolute comfort.

The moment I lifted the bread, Zeimer smoothly intercepted it from my fingers, reaching for the marmalade jar to spread a thin layer across the surface. He already had a piece of unadorned bread topped with a single egg clamped between his own teeth. Zeimer had never cared much for sweet things.

The bright orange rind clinging to the jam knife caught the morning light, the thick syrup glistening brilliantly. It was the distinct, unmistakable shimmer of absolute opulence.

I accepted the dressed slice from him, cradling it in both hands. The rings adorning Zeimer’s fingers flashed in the light. Even the translucent marmalade coating the bread gleamed with a sort of predatory luxury.

While I ate, Zeimer poured a small glass of milk and placed it before me. Having dispatched his own portion without dropping a single crumb, he transitioned immediately to his coffee—a universal signal that his meal had concluded.

Lacking a genuine appetite myself, I set the bread back down after only a few bites. The turbulent, anxious thoughts that had kept me tossing and turning for the past few nights had evidently taken a toll on my digestion. Noting my retreat, Zeimer paused, a cup of coffee held in his hand as he sat with his legs crossed.

“Finished already?”

“Yes.”

“They told me you skipped dinner last night as well. Try to eat a bit more.”

When he pressed the issue, I merely shook my head in refusal.

“If I force any more down, I feel like I’ll give myself indigestion.”

Accepting my stance, Zeimer took the remaining portion of my bread, popping it into his mouth in a single bite before systematically organizing the tray. Even knowing the recipe was low in sugar, watching a man who detested sweets casually consume a marmalade-dressed slice felt distinctly bizarre.

Stacking the dishes with practiced precision, Zeimer noticed the untouched glass of milk and slid it toward me. When I shook my head a second time, he raised the glass to his lips and drained it without a word. For a man who explicitly avoided dairy in the morning due to the heavy, cloying aftertaste it left behind, watching him polish off the milk made the situation feel incredibly surreal.

Once the tray was cleared and the table removed, Zeimer assisted me in rinsing my mouth. Having repeated this exact sequence for the past three months, the movements flowed between us as naturally as water.

With the room restored to order, Zeimer returned to the chair beside the bed, his hand moving in slow, rhythmic strokes across my back as he introduced a sudden, heavy topic. Even as the words parted his lips, a deep furrow remained locked between his brows, betraying his profound reluctance. It was the continuation of the conversation that had been abruptly severed in Felix’s office a few days ago.

“Ian, brace yourself before you listen to this.”

“Pardon?”

“Felix intended to convey this to you personally, but his schedule is so thoroughly choked that he simply couldn’t carve out the time. That is why I am delivering the news in his stead. The continent’s authorities have been opened to you.”

My eyes widened in profound shock as I pressed him for clarification.

“Authorities?”

Zeimer maintained the steady, comforting rhythm of his hand against my back as he expanded on the statement.

“Access rights to heavily restricted sectors, clearance to review highly classified continental intelligence, and the like. There are several absolute prohibitions anchored directly by Dragon Script, but it appears Felix utilized his sovereign prerogative to unilaterally unseal a few of those vectors for you. Personally, I consider it a grotesque abuse of absolute power. Regardless, what has been unlocked right now is merely a fraction; once you are officially invested as a Duke, a vastly superior tier of authority will devolve upon you.”

The expression anchoring Zeimer’s features was far from pleasant. It was entirely logical; after all, he was one of the few individuals who desperately desired for me to sever all ties with this imperial court, allowing me to live out my remaining days in quiet, undisturbed isolation.

“But do not let it distress you excessively.”

Zeimer stood as one of the few figures on the continent wielding the absolute highest tier of administrative clearance, a privilege derived far less from his station as a Grand Mage and far more from his profound connection to the Dragon itself. By that same token, Claire—who possessed a blade forged directly from a Dragon’s claw—shared a similar degree of continental clearance. I, however, despite being the Hero, belonged strictly to the jurisdiction of the Goddess; consequently, I possessed no inherent authority over a continent physically constructed from the literal anatomy of the primordial Dragon.

I looked at Zeimer, my mind a tangled web of conflicting thoughts. Attaining such clearance carried a massive, symbolic weight—it meant taking an active hand in governing the literal fabric of the continent—but it also fundamentally exacted an equivalent burden of absolute duty. My chest instantly grew heavy. Realizing the true nature of the suffocating weight that had been plaguing my thoughts, the terrifying reality of my choices finally struck home. Detecting the sudden drop in the room’s atmosphere, Zeimer actively sought to steer the conversation toward a lighter note.

“Do not overanalyze it. In the grand scheme of things, very little will fundamentally change for you.”

I quickly resigned myself to the reality. The intricate web of causality spun by the friction between the Dragon Script and the ancient scars of the world was a burden far too massive for me to ignore; I had already inherited too many variables. Concluding that it would be vastly more practical to familiarize myself with the tools at my disposal as quickly as possible, I turned my eyes back to Zeimer.

“Zeimer, regarding the Imperial Archives……”

Zeimer served as both the Imperial Librarian and the absolute custodian of the restricted archives.

“Does this mean I finally possess the authority to step inside?”

After relentlessly badgering a highly reluctant Zeimer, I finally succeeded in my campaign; I was currently cradled securely within his arms as we made our way toward the Imperial Archives.

The Imperial Archives were situated at the absolute deepest terminus of the grand library. Although I had practically lived within the public sectors of the building over the past months, I had never managed to discern the physical coordinates of the archives themselves, largely due to my lack of clearance. The sector was engineered to remain entirely invisible and inaccessible to anyone lacking the explicit verification of the Dragon Script.

It seemed that precise level of authority had finally been granted to me. According to Zeimer, while the transition hadn’t cleared the standard bureaucratic channels, Felix—as the living descendant of the Dragon—had personally forced my clearance code upward. He had even added a scathing remark, noting that the former Emperor must have been completely unhinged to withhold such basic access from a Hero for so long.

Traveling within Zeimer’s embrace offered a profound, undeniable sense of stability. Had I chosen to utilize the wheelchair, no matter how carefully an attendant guided the frame from behind, the acute awareness of standing entirely isolated beneath the collective gaze of the court would have filled me with a creeping dread. Within someone’s arms—and specifically, within Zeimer’s—I felt significantly insulated from those vulnerabilities. He was indisputably one of the most powerful mages currently walking the earth; barring an attempt to violently rewrite the fundamental physical laws of the universe, there was virtually nothing beyond his capability.

As he carried me, the hand supporting my back wrapped firmly around my shoulder, pulling me securely against his chest. The steady pressure drew my shoulder inward, forcing my face to rest directly against the fabric of his robes. I felt immensely grateful for this small, silent consideration. The mere thought of the upcoming imperial banquets already filled me with an intense, suffocating anxiety; I despised being the focal point of human eyes. Furthermore, separate from using magic to deflect public attention, the simple act of looking at the citizens myself had become deeply distressing. Among the sea of faces tracing the corridors, there were bound to be individuals who had lost their most cherished companions due to my own inadequacy on the battlefield. I was terrified that a single glance might expose the hollow nature of my deception to the world.

The moment we stepped out into the courtyard gardens, the afternoon sun beat down with a sharp, piercing heat. Traveling within Zeimer’s embrace cut the journey to the Imperial Library down to a mere fraction of the time it usually took. It wasn’t necessarily that his pace was hurried, but rather that my mind felt completely at ease.

A profound curiosity vibrated in my chest. I couldn’t begin to fathom what lay hidden within the restricted vaults of the Empire. I had heard whispers of ancient scrolls, banned heretical texts recovered from the outer territories, comprehensive treatises on black magic, and primordial records concerning the true nature of the Dragons and the foundational history of the realm—yet I couldn’t even visualize the form such knowledge would take. Any sector locked behind the absolute seal of the Dragon Script was hidden for a catastrophic reason. Zeimer had already extracted a solemn vow from me, insisting that no matter what horrors I encountered within those walls, I must not allow myself to panic.

When I pressed him for details regarding the specific contents of the vault, he merely offered vague, elusive responses to deflect my inquiries. Even when I subjected him to a thorough interrogation, he simply offered a sheepish, awkward smile. The only concrete piece of advice Zeimer had genuinely imparted was a warning: anything touched by a Dragon’s breath would alter its physical form and inherent temperament based entirely on the specific individual observing it. He warned me to prepare my mind accordingly.

Naturally, a vast majority of the texts would likely manifest as a dense, indecipherable script completely beyond my comprehension, but curiosity was a force volatile enough to kill a cat. The specific intrigue driving my movements today felt somewhat synthetic—as if an external hand were subtly orchestrating the impulse—but curiosity remained curiosity regardless of its origin. It was the same routine every single day; I simply had nothing to occupy my time, and I knew with absolute certainty that if I remained confined to my room today, my mind would inevitably spiral back into a dark vortex of toxic thoughts. Concluding that it was an immense stroke of fortune that Zeimer had cleared his entire morning schedule for my sake, I prepared to bury my face back into the safety of his chest when—

“Ouch.”

“……Ian?”

Something sharp tucked inside Zeimer’s left breast pocket pricked me squarely in the cheek.

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