Editor 158

Kleio knew the source of that smell as if it were etched into his bones. It was the smell of the underground prison at the North Gate, where he had been confined until three days ago.

‘Was he interrogating Arthur? There’s nothing special to find out from him—what on earth was he trying to force?’

His head throbbed for a moment, but he straightened his back and held his head high, not wanting to show it.

The world had not yet been shaken.

If things went according to plan, Arthur would soon be released.

No, he had to make sure it happened.

Kleio ignored any mention of Arthur, the Kishion estate, or his own confinement, and offered a greeting.

Arguing about first-degree treason right away wouldn’t help change the situation.

“Thank you for making time for me despite your busy schedule. You must have used a shortcut to save your precious time.”

The crown prince smiled a little at Kleio’s response.

Their conversation was like a dance, keeping in time—neither trusted the other’s words, but both gave the proper answer at the proper moment.

The prince, seated in the single armchair of honor, gestured with one hand to the chair on his right.

Thanks entirely to [Separation], Kleio was able to move calmly and sit without trembling.

“Yes. I’ve waived the usual six-week wait, so get to the point. If I judge this to be a trivial matter, I’ll get up for my next appointment.”

The crown prince’s schedule was usually set six weeks in advance, and allowing such a sudden meeting was indeed a great favor.

It was rather shameless for the one who had imprisoned Kleio and his friends to say so, but still.

But Kleio hadn’t come to argue right and wrong with the crown prince. He was neither in the position nor had the status to do so.

‘Just try to buy time. It won’t be easy, but…’

It was the first time since the winter night in the Tristain estate, when the beast Grendel attacked, that he was alone with the crown prince.

Unlike then, his complexion was clear, and his eyes looked sharp and lively. Apparently, the aftereffects of using the stigma hadn’t set in yet.

The crown prince tapped the back of his right hand with the index finger of his left in a regular rhythm. He seemed relaxed, but it was clearly a sign of impatience.

He wouldn’t be held here by just any bait.

Kleio recalled the bullet he held under his tongue.

Was it right to use it now? If he revealed more information here, would the future become even worse?

It would be a lie to say he wasn’t hesitant.

‘But I have to do it. I haven’t thought of a better way.’

Even Arthur, who was much younger, had said he would take responsibility for the consequences and aftermath of his actions. For Kleio, who had lived much longer, to avoid responsibility was inexcusable.

Kleio spoke.

“I have urgent information about experiments that sacrificed our citizens. It seems to have happened during the process of refining a unique drug made from Ezra’s Iron Pen and the blood of magical beasts.”

“Hm, go on.”

“The name of the drug is Hydra’s Poison. Ninety-nine years ago, a student of the capital defense force made and took it, and died in a rampage. When a user goes berserk, the aftereffects are devastating enough to devastate everything around them.”

“How does such a bizarre poison involve the sacrifice of citizens?”

“The main ingredient, Ezra’s Iron Pen, is originally an herb effective at driving away magical beasts. If one survives after taking the poison made by mixing it with beast’s blood, the user acquires ether sensitivity that they didn’t have before.”

The prince’s fingertips stopped moving.

Kleio’s judgment was correct.

Revealing information not recorded in the previous manuscript certainly drew the prince’s attention.

“Where did you get such information?”

“You remember the incident at the opera theater two winters ago, don’t you? I suspected the swordsmen who caused that mess might have taken this drug, so I continued a personal investigation.”

“What clue did you use to track it for two years?”

“Red ether. All users of Hydra’s Poison, regardless of level, seemed to have red-tinted ether. But with nothing but eyewitness accounts in the chaos, it was hard to report to the defense force.”

In the silence, the prince’s rust-bronze eyes shone with a metallic sheen. On his face was a strange joy.

“Red ether. Dame Rosa the swordmaster’s ether was also rose-colored. Is it different?”

“Completely different. Not the bright, vivid red of Dame Rosa, but a dark, muddy red. No one has ever reached swordmaster status with ether sensitivity induced by the drug, and the higher the manifested level, the more reason seems to be lost due to side effects.”

“How does that loss of reason appear?”

“People commit animal-like attacks. They crave the blood of other living things and destroy buildings. By tracing such bizarre incidents, I was able to reach this conclusion.”

“If the side effects are that severe, there’s no real benefit to raising one’s level—are there really that many people willing to take the poison?”

“My guess is that the subjects aren’t taking the drug voluntarily, but someone is kidnapping or deceiving innocent civilians into ingesting the dangerous poison.”

“Hm. So who, for what purpose, is making the drug using hard-to-get beast’s blood and conducting experiments?”

“I suspect the purpose of the terrible experiments is to stabilize the drug. It seems they’re trying to suppress side effects while raising the manifested ether level to the advanced class.”

Gulp.

Kleio swallowed dryly as his throat tightened.

“…It appears that the one conducting these cruel experiments solely to stabilize the drug is an Albionian deeply connected with Brünnen. I’ve heard rumors that red-ether madmen have appeared in provincial towns on both sides of the Pintos Mountains, in Brünnen and Albion.”

“And you know the name of this person with deep connections?”

“Yes.”

“Speak.”

“However, Your Highness, as a mere commoner, my life is precious; I cannot dare to speak such a name based only on suspicion.”

Melchior brushed his fallen hair over his shoulder and smiled softly.

“The person you’re meeting with now is the acting king of Albion. If you’re afraid to mention the name even so, you’ve already answered, haven’t you?”

Kleio paused.

That nonchalant reaction… Did it mean Melchior already knew Aslan and Zuleika were behind it?

Two years ago, an assassin using red ether rampaged in the middle of the capital, so Melchior would have had plenty of time to trace the culprit.

But it was hard to read his true intentions beyond that smile. So Kleio lowered his posture and flattered Melchior.

“As expected, Your Highness, who commands loyal subordinates, already knew this wasn’t new information. If you’re already preparing measures to stop those cruel experiments, I apologize for my improper haste.”

“Well. Even if I have matters in hand domestically, I haven’t had the right talent to open a foreign branch, so it hasn’t been easy. Did you rush this meeting to let me know my brother’s hobby has gone too far in an area I overlooked?”

“Your Highness….”

“That’s rather presumptuous.”

Listening to Melchior’s answer, Kleio suddenly realized: The crown prince seemed to be enjoying this dreadful conversation.

He was knowingly leaving Aslan’s brutal human experiments unchecked.

‘No. It’s not just neglect. Even if I brought proof of Aslan and Zuleika’s cruel experiments, he has no intention of stopping them.’

“Of course, as it’s my first time encountering such a case, I admit it was hard to grasp the true nature of it.”

Kleio realized the source of the prince’s pleasure.

Aslan’s rampage was also an unprecedented event for Melchior. How could he not be delighted?

One who had lived nine lifetimes did not distinguish between good and evil as those given only one life did.

But understanding was not the same as acceptance. Unconsciously, Kleio’s fists clenched tight.

The stench of rotting pus and burned black flesh lingered at the tip of his nose like a hallucination.

The pain of Gehaim. The degradation of humanity experienced by those who were imprisoned with him.

All of it was real, and it was the act of reducing human life to nothing.

Kleio could not forget the moment when hands, ruined by poison and burns, lost their grip and slipped away with the loss of life.

“I believe many innocent citizens of Albion and Brünnen have been sacrificed. It’s not something that should be overlooked.”

Kleio’s tone was still calm, but Melchior detected a faint trace of anger.

“Sacrifice, is it. Do you want to claim their deaths are an irrevocable tragedy?”

Today, the crimson in Melchior’s eyes had shrunk to mere lines, and the bluish-green area looked wide and warm as he gazed down at Kleio.

“You have the stigma of ‘foresight,’ a powerful blessing that marks you as chosen by God. Yet you claim you don’t know the structure of this world, even to me. Let me tell you one thing, Sir Kleio. You’re terrible at lying.”

The crown prince was now fully convinced that Kleio knew about the world’s repetition.

He continued, his tone joyous.

“Time in this world is cyclical. Even those who die now will be alive again in the next phase—what’s so sad or tragic about that death?”

Kleio’s lips froze.

‘Thou shalt not kill’—it was a universal commandment of humanity.

But if the dead return and even murder is nullified by repetition, what sustains morality?

While the mage was silent, the crown prince’s smile only deepened.

“Faded flowers aren’t truly dead; when the year passes and the season returns, they bloom again. If you took up gardening, you’d understand what I mean.”

Kleio realized more clearly than ever that to Melchior, human life was worth less than flowers.

“Even if history repeats, if you don’t retain the memory of the repetition, that death is just death. Don’t you know? Even if you can return to a state before the pain, the pain experienced is still pain.”

Interest faded from the prince’s expression, replaced by cold indifference.

“If you want to preach, I can give you a seat at church, but don’t bother testing my patience. Is that all for your report?”

The prince glanced at the wall clock. His well-shaped lips moved, signaling the next words would be a dismissal.

Kleio answered urgently.

“Then, what Your Highness truly desires is for the season to come when no more flowers ever bloom in God’s garden, is it not?”

It was a direct question—ultimately, didn’t he want to end the repetition?

As if about to activate Insight’s Structure Poetry, the crimson in Melchior’s eyes flared like fire. Gritting his teeth, Kleio maximized the intensity of [Separation].

An immense pressure pressed down on the office.

But Melchior soon regained his composure and withdrew the skill.

“God’s garden, is it. That’s an apt description. Yes. If you look down on this world from afar, it might appear as nothing more than a delightful garden.

Do you know, Sir Kleio? Beneath the idyllic landscape of a garden lies the cycle of life and death, the struggle for survival, the devouring and being devoured.

Just as it is difficult for a flower to bloom, so too is it difficult to keep even a blade of grass from growing in the soil. Gardening doesn’t yield results overnight. To plant even a single branch or blossom exactly as I wish requires the patience of countless years.

I am quite used to such things.

Until then, I am willing to watch the flowers bloom anew each time.

Of course, the flowers that bloom again never have exactly the same shape, stamens and pistils, or petals as before. The subtle difference is a small reward given only to those who wait.

Yes, for example, it would be a lie to say I’m not curious how this unprecedented mage will be refined next time. Someone who wouldn’t have even survived by this point before now comes and goes from my office.”