Editor 163

For an Impermanent Peace (3)

“If it is the logic of this world to give and then snatch away, then the logic of this world is wrong for me. You, being the will of God in human form, could never agree with me on that, of course.”

Melchior’s tone remained elegant, but beneath it simmered anger.

Cleio steadied himself, resisting the urge to leap out the window and flee, and replied,

“Though the workings of God I cannot predict have granted me a portion of the truth about this world, such grand modifiers are too much for a mere created being like myself.”

Melchior, rubbing the ink stain on his glove with his left hand, suddenly realized he was emanating murderous intent and suppressed it.

“I have no intention of using force on you right now. But if I am to bestow the title of Capital Defender again, I could make sure to include a covenant in the process. That’s the virtue of humans—learning from experience and advancing through knowledge.”

Each medal of honor is awarded only once in a lifetime.

So those words were a promise for the next life. Cleio had guessed as much about his thorough entrapment, but hearing it aloud made it all the more terrifying.

‘No, there is no such thing as a next life!’

Swallowing the words he could not say, Cleio discreetly wiped his sweat-dampened hands on his trousers.

Now even “Separation” was at its limit. It wasn’t because he’d hit a skill wall, but simply because it was being used to block Cleio’s psychological shock.

“Then I’ll let you know later how I’ll impose my knightly duty on you. You may go.”

“Then, Arthur…?”

“You heard me. All charges will be dropped. He’ll be released right away. So, do you want to be his guarantor?”

“If there’s no procedural problem, I’ll do so.”

“As you wish.”

Wearing a businesslike smile like a Windows desktop background, Melchior called for a parliamentary attendant to escort Cleio out of the office.

To meet Arthur, he had to move from parliament to the palace. The connecting corridor, which he’d used before, felt like a thousand-mile journey today.

Though the attendant did not walk particularly fast, Cleio’s legs trembled as he followed. His shirt collar and palms were clammy with cold sweat. The meeting had felt like twenty hours, not two.

‘…Still, Arthur is being released.’

Cleio spurred himself on, whipping both body and mind back into motion.

.

.

.

In the palace’s outer audience chamber, Cleio Asher now stood in the spot where Gideon Asher had stood a few days ago.

Unable to find anywhere else to look, he glared at Philippe’s portrait above the fireplace, and for some reason, he thought he could understand how Gideon Asher had felt.

Any expression seemed inappropriate, and his heart swung from cold to hot.

He couldn’t imagine what kind of ordeal Arthur had suffered after being dragged away.

‘He’s tough mentally, so maybe the hit wasn’t huge, but his body was brought back from the brink of death.’

His ring grew so hot he turned off “Separation.”

As soon as the extra function of the ‘Promise’ wore off, his composure evaporated with it.

Ether began to swirl around Cleio’s hands. The thought that any wound must be properly healed brought this about.

Click.

Tap.

“Ah.”

It was one of those moments when you have so much to say that your mouth won’t open.

Arthur strolled in, hands in both pants pockets, looking nonchalantly unscathed at first glance.

His shave was so hasty that stubble remained at the jaw and neck, and his hastily donned shirt and pants, wrinkled and too small for his height, made his limbs look comically long.

It was Arthur who took a step toward frozen Cleio first.

“Ray, I’m glad you’re safe. I was surprised you were listed as my guarantor. You wouldn’t believe the crazy things Vesna was saying, dragging your name through it.”

Arthur’s eyes were shadowed with worry, thanks to Vesna’s vicious words. Cleio spread his arms wide, trying to reassure him.

“I don’t know what bullshit you heard, but it’s all lies. Do you believe the Internal Security Bureau chief? I’m totally fine. I was released in less than three days after just being locked up. Sure, the bail was huge, but that’s no big deal. You know whose son I am.”

Only after Cleio’s confirmation did Arthur finally let out a long sigh, his broad shoulders slumping like a deflating balloon.

“Really, nothing happened? Haah. I was so worried I thought I’d go mad. Do you know what happened to the others? Are they okay?”

“Chel was released about the same time as me. Isiel is being protected by her mother’s family. The twins are with their aunt. They’re probably out of house arrest by now. You’re the one who suffered, so why are you worrying about everyone else looking like that?”

Arthur protested gruffly.

“Looking like what! Before I came out, I washed up, shaved, changed clothes. Am I still dirty?”

“That’s not the point… You’re hurt.”

The prince not only rounded his lips in an ‘o’ but his eyes went wide as well.

“Wow, how did you know? They healed everything with magic.”

“It’s true that earlier, under the north gate, I sensed healing magic being cast. Who else would it have been for but you? Are you alright? Where were you hurt? Let me heal you properly…”

Arthur reflexively knocked away Cleio’s hand as it reached out. The trained swordsman’s strength sent the magician’s weak wrist flying.

Arthur, more surprised than Cleio by his own action, drew a sharp breath.

“Ray, are you okay? No, it’s just…”

Cleio, hiding his rapidly swelling hand from Arthur’s sight, suppressed his turbulent emotions and asked,

“Tell me properly. What did Vesna Driscoll do to you?”

Arthur’s fingertips, glimpsed for a moment, seemed to ooze blood. Arthur quickly shoved his hands back in his pockets.

“It was nothing much. They just… drained all my ether so I was exhausted, wouldn’t let me sleep, blocked ether circulation?”

How could that be nothing much?

Sweat beaded on his clean forehead, and his lips were parched. Despite his haggard complexion, Arthur forced a mischievous attitude.

That was Arthur’s way of avoidance and lying.

After casting [Soundproof][Barrier] magic on the whole audience room, Cleio finally spoke heavily.

“Then let me see your hands.”

“Ugh, come on. It’s not like I’m having a grade school health check.”

“Arthur.”

Arthur, rarely avoiding Cleio’s gaze, was nearly backed up to the centerpiece before he finally took his hands out of his pockets.

It was a disaster.

He still had ten fingers, but only four fingernails. The healing magic had left the wounds hurriedly sealed, leaving the nails rounded and knotted grotesquely. The remaining nails were worn and smashed, as if scraped and slammed on a rough floor.

Cleio quickly pulled out his wand.

Arthur hurriedly stopped the magician, who was about to recall a healing spell. The hand gripping his arm was frighteningly hot.

“The sound’s blocked, but don’t double-cast. You’ll collapse.”

“What?!”

Having fought monsters and gone on fieldwork together many times, Arthur knew Cleio’s ether sensitivity limits well. It was essential for coordinated attacks.

Cleio’s ether flow was as abundant as that of a typical level 6 mage. Healing a standing person’s wounds with double-casting shouldn’t cause him to cough blood or collapse as before.

Which meant the wounds were far deeper than they looked.

Cleio asked in anguish.

“…I know Vesna tried to force a [covenant] on you. After being held for over a week, it’s a miracle you walked out on your own. Tell me what happened. Show me your injuries. That’s how I can adjust the spell properly.”

“I’ve already been healed, so with some rest I’ll be fine.”

Rest, he said, even as he stopped Cleio from double-casting out of concern for ether depletion—a contradiction.

Cleio gripped Arthur’s arm tightly. At that, Arthur’s arm lost strength and released Cleio.

“Ow!”

Normally, Cleio’s weak grip would have barely tickled Arthur. Clearly, Arthur’s body was not in normal condition, no matter how desperately he pretended otherwise.

“The healing magic cast earlier didn’t include [Mitigation]. Now that things have turned out like this, they’ll want to hide the traces of torture. But you’re still in pain. Didn’t you hurt your insides too?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been hurt, so why are you fussing?”

“Getting hurt multiple times doesn’t make it painless. If you erase the wounds now, you can remove all traces. Show me now. The longer you wait, the harder it gets.”

“Oh, do you think I only have one or two scars? You can barely see them.”

“I hate that every time I see your scars, I’m reminded of your time underground. And your time can’t be turned back.”

Not even with “editor privileges” could Arthur’s time be edited. That was why Cleio had only worried for days, unable to use the privilege.

That impossibility made Cleio furious.

Yet Arthur, instead of resenting what he’d suffered, just sat there with a childish, open-mouthed expression that didn’t match his grown-up face.

“That’s right. Even with the miracle of the stigmata, my time can’t be turned back. Somehow, I feel like I’ve become a really great person.”

Since the “amphitheater” incident, Arthur had never brought up Cleio’s stigmata. But that didn’t mean he’d forgotten.

“Hey, Ray, I’d rather not erase the scars or turn back time. I’m proud of these as proof of my loyalty. They’re scars I got as evidence I didn’t betray anyone. Okay?”

Even with his fingers maimed and his nails destroyed, Arthur was still Arthur. Cleio, unable to cry or laugh, twisted his face in anguish.

At that moment, the ‘Promise’ flashed.

[―User’s narrative intervention is increasing.

Cumulative rate: 54.3%]

‘Even in a situation like this. Damn.’

He wanted to scatter the insensitive gold letters that appeared between him and Arthur, but since he couldn’t, he just closed his eyes.

If all of that boy’s fate was part of God’s plan, then what was the point of such suffering?

Was it to forge a better character through trials of pain?

But Cleio did not want to be his wilderness.

“Ray.”

When Cleio opened his eyes again, there stood a good and strong protagonist. His dear friend, whose turquoise eyes, sunken with fatigue, held only concern.

“No. Your loyalty doesn’t need to be proven that way. No matter what words you use, those are just proof of the unjust oppression they inflicted.”

Arthur would never speak about the days and nights he endured. Even as he suffered, he would try not to make his friends feel guilty. He would hide the truth in jokes. He would never want his friends to know the terrible truth.

So Cleio activated the stigmata.

[―Unique Skill: Using ‘Editor Privileges.’ (1/3)]

[―Time remaining / Time limit:

00:04:59 / 00:05:00]

Between Cleio and Arthur, a bundle of manuscript pages and a pen soaked in blue-black ink appeared.

The state of the manuscript, seen again after about a year, was even worse than before.

Even under Cleio’s careful touch, the remaining life of the palimpsest, crumbling to dust, did not seem long.

Arthur, too, recognized the worn sheets.

“That’s ‘Foresight,’ isn’t it? Why are you opening it?”

Even as a full-fledged young man, Arthur sometimes showed the same innocence as in his boyhood. Cleio answered honestly.

“‘Foresight’ is based on the past. It contains not only the future but also previous events.”

“How is that possible! That’s cheating!”

“You just won’t tell me anything!”

Even as he raised his voice, the magician didn’t take his eyes off the manuscript, which he was reading in reverse.

Arthur, shouting, tried to snatch the manuscript away, but the palimpsest slipped from his grasp like an illusion.

Even when he conducted ether through it and tried to shake it, the damn pages didn’t budge. He couldn’t even read the words; the letters on the rag were completely illegible to Arthur.

Several minutes that felt like centuries passed.

At last, Cleio’s expression became grim—terrifying, even—at odds with his gentle appearance, as if he had finally found what he was looking for.