Report
"Arsène!"
"Let me go!"
As the two moved closer, a panicked Delaina hastily tried to pull her son away.
But Arsène’s gaze remained locked on Ian, intense and unyielding. He looked like a young predator who had just found an intriguing new toy. Instead of yielding to his mother’s grasp, Arsène roughly shook her hand off and seized Ian by the collar.
"How amusing," he muttered.
"……."
A sharp gleam flashed in Arsène’s eyes as he activated his abilities once more. Ian could feel the raw, primal force radiating from Arsène’s fingertips—but the moment it made contact, the energy fizzled out, dissipating into nothing.
Crunch!
The bones in Arsène’s hand bulged white as he tightened his grip on Ian’s collar.
How could Arsène forget this feeling? The Emperor, Marive, Gale, and even Jin—all of them embodied the undeniable weight of divine protection, an unassailable shield that set them apart from others. Arsène could only recognize and resent this barrier, realizing its presence yet again—just as painfully obvious as the strain on his own hand now.
"So, you’re royalty, huh? Strange… Where does this power come from?"
Arsène’s voice dropped to a murmur, his flushed cheeks betraying his excitement. He had stumbled upon something extraordinary, and his mind raced with thoughts of how to exploit it. The more he thought about it, the more laughter bubbled up inside him. His shoulders trembled with suppressed mirth, and Delaina watched her son with growing dread. This wasn’t the Arsène she knew—this was someone unfamiliar, alien, and deeply unsettling.
"…You truly act like a monster," Ian said, his tone cold and firm as he pried Arsène’s hand away. "Look at the eyes of those watching you."
Ian’s words were a sharp reminder, and Arsène’s perspective shifted. The world around him came back into focus—Delaina, the advisors, the priests, and even the mages. Their expressions were a mixture of shock and confusion, all fixed on the spectacle between Arsène and Ian.
"Aha," Arsène chuckled softly.
But what did it matter? His powers had left no trace on Ian, vanishing the moment they met. Strange as his behavior might have been, it could easily be dismissed as posturing between two figures on the brink of a critical confrontation.
"Mother, let’s leave now," Arsène said with a smile.
"Uh… Oh, yes, of course," Delaina stammered, forcing an uneasy smile. This was her sweet son, after all. Surely, Ian must have provoked him.
"Sir Ian, I must say I’m looking forward to tomorrow as much as you are. Truly, it’s going to be remarkable."
Arsène shook his head, clicking his tongue in mock disapproval, his words dripping with sincerity. Then, he climbed into the carriage with Delaina, followed by the now-alert officials. The once-turbulent procession began to withdraw, one carriage after another disappearing down the road.
Neigh!
Inside the carriage, Delaina and Arsène sat across from each other.
Delaina cautiously took her son’s hand, her gaze softening as she held it. Arsène, however, remained fixated on the window, his piercing eyes following Ian until the carriage turned a corner. Only then did he turn back, a smile of pure delight spreading across his face.
"Arsène, what did Ian say to you earlier?"
"Why do you ask? What would you do with the answer?"
"If he said something hurtful—"
"How many children has Father sired?" Arsène interrupted.
"…What?"
Including the third prince who had died from a fall, Jin was the last legitimate heir in the line of succession. Below that, there were only the children born to nameless women in the palace—none significant enough to matter.
"There are about a dozen or so, but there’s no need to worry. They all live as though they’re already dead outside the palace. As long as your position as heir remains secure, none can threaten you."
"Is that so?"
Arsène’s response was flat, almost indifferent. His mind was preoccupied with the memory of Phylia, whom he had seen in Gale’s quarters. She looked like she had been cast from the same mold, unmistakably resembling him. If she shared his birth mother, was her father royalty? Hadn’t he heard that she was the illegitimate child of the fallen Derga family?
How should I weave this together? Hmm? Jin, do you know the answer?
No matter how the threads were tied, Arsène knew the result would be entertaining. He couldn’t suppress his laughter any longer, letting it spill out.
"Ahaha!"
Blessings of the royal family? What nonsense. He was one step away from taking control of the empire, and now Ian’s secret had fallen into his lap. Things couldn’t have turned out better.
Click-clack!
Meanwhile, Romandro turned away from the retreating carriages and approached Ian. Ian was dusting off his slightly disheveled clothes, waving dismissively to assure the others he was fine. A vivid red scratch, left by Arsène’s fingernails, stood out against his pale neck.
"Ian… Are you all right?"
"What on earth just happened? Why did Prince Arsène act that way?"
"Your neck! You’re injured!"
The officials hovered nervously, unsure whether to approach or stay back. Ian finished tidying himself before turning to the High Priestess and her attendants. Though their faces were hidden by robes, their hushed murmurs betrayed their unease. The tension in the palace had been palpable from the moment they arrived.
"Let’s move on. The citizens of the empire are waiting. High Priestess, Lanco, follow me."
Ian snapped his fingers, startling the gatekeepers into action. They hurried to load the priests’ belongings onto carriages and scurried to tidy up the scene. Whatever had happened, it was clear that in disputes between those of high rank, it was always the commoners who suffered. The best strategy was to avoid getting involved.
"Minister Ian," the High Priestess Lilly called out cautiously as she followed Ian.
"Speak," Ian replied.
"This is not the Imperial Palace we imagined. While it was never a place of love and hope, it was at least stable and grounded. Now, it feels precarious and chaotic. What has happened here? And Prince Jin—where is he?"
"Prince Jin is residing in the Ministry of Magic’s quarters," Ian replied.
"The Ministry?" Lilly echoed.
"But first, Priest Lanco."
"Yes?"
Ian stopped in his tracks. Before meeting with Abidel and Makael, there was something he needed to confirm.
"When you received the Oracle, what was the voice of the divine like?"
"The voice of the divine? My limited abilities cannot begin to describe its grandeur."
Lanco’s voice trembled with reverence, as though recalling the glory of that moment. Ian, pressing gently, asked again.
"I’m asking about your memory. I know the divine is great. For context, Abidel and Makael’s descriptions were quite… intriguing."
“…The voice was deep and heavy, as if it shook the very ground beneath me. Each word carried a weight that trembled my heart,” Lanco said, his tone reverent.
His description aligned more with Makael’s account of a heavy, imposing voice than with Abidel’s claim of a gentle tone. Ian nodded, as if he had expected this, his thoughts flashing back to the fierce gleam in Arsène’s eyes.
‘He tried to use his power on me just now.’
Ian brushed his fingers across his neck. Arsène had undoubtedly attempted to cast "Brainwashing," a form of mental magic. It was the most insidious trick in his arsenal, but the mention of "royalty" afterward confirmed that the spell had been nullified by something stronger.
‘The blessing of royalty remains intact, meaning I am still Emperor Ian.’
Not Ian the illegitimate, but Ian the true heir.
Ian turned to Romandro, issuing his next command.
“Deploy additional guards to Prince Gale’s quarters.”
“Guards? Why?”
Arsène had begun to question Ian’s lineage. If so, his next move would likely target Ian’s birth mother, Phylia. There wasn’t much time left, but Ian was certain Arsène wouldn’t risk exposing his suspicions openly in the Imperial Palace. Who would believe him? And even if they did, it would bring Arsène no advantage.
‘If I am confirmed as royalty while holding the position of Minister of Magic, Arsène’s campaign to become the first Royal Mage collapses. It’s far more effective for him to use this knowledge to destabilize me.’
Phylia… or perhaps Jin.
Romandro stared at Ian, waiting for an answer. Realizing the gaze, Ian merely smiled and walked ahead.
“You saw Arsène’s antics earlier, didn’t you? It’s just a precaution,” Ian said casually.
Phylia had Nersarn and the warriors protecting her, and politically, her vulnerabilities were limited. But Jin? As a child caught in the storm of political upheaval, he was far more susceptible to Arsène’s schemes.
‘I’ll protect Jin myself.’
Ian personally opened the carriage door, ushering High Priestess Lilly and Lanco inside. Once they were enclosed in the private, sealed space, Ian leaned forward, revealing the true purpose of their conversation.
“Abidel’s prophecy was false,” Ian stated bluntly.
“…What are you saying?” Lilly asked, stunned.
“Ten years ago, what she heard wasn’t the voice of the divine. It was the voice of a demon. A devil scheming to bring down Bariel by sowing hatred against Roberside. I am certain that demon is Arsène.”
Lilly pushed back her robe, revealing sparse, grayed hair and deep wrinkles etched by years of service. She squinted in disbelief.
“…I wasn’t this shocked even when I first heard the prophecy. Are you truly Ian of the Ministry of Magic? This is Carbo’s Temple we’re discussing—the sacred temple that has stood since the founding of the empire.”
Meanwhile, Lanco looked as though he might faint, bowing his head and clasping his hands in silent prayer, as if begging for forgiveness for Ian’s audacious claim.
“I understand your disbelief, and I don’t expect you to accept this immediately. But your understanding isn’t my priority right now. The magic confirmation ceremony is imminent, and I intend to reveal the truth there.”
“Ian…”
“There is one thing I ask of you.”
Thud-thud-thud!
The carriage jolted as its wheels hit a rough patch. Lilly instinctively grasped the armrest, but her unwavering gaze remained fixed on Ian.
“I want you, with your years of experience, to confirm if the ceremony I’ve prepared is valid. And if, by chance, you see a demon…”
Splash!
The carriage rolled through a puddle, scattering water in a radiant arc. A faint rainbow appeared, reminiscent of the one Ian had glimpsed earlier in the Ministry garden. It felt as though the moment itself was creating a fleeting sense of hope.
“Help me eliminate it. And grant Prince Jin a new life. That is the only way to atone for Carbo’s mistake.”
“Ian… What are you—” Lilly began to protest, but her words faltered as the Ministry of Magic’s building came into view through the window.
Standing on the steps were Abidel and Makael, their robes cast aside, faces exposed and tear-streaked as they rushed forward.
‘Impossible.’
The disbelief gripped Lilly, but she didn’t voice it. Ian had made it clear he wasn’t seeking her approval. Instead, she traced a trembling sign of the cross over herself, again and again.
Clink.
Gale stirred his soup with a spoon, his expression neutral. Just as he expected, a small, round object surfaced—a bead slightly larger than a pill. With a sigh, he set it aside and crushed it under his spoon. A crisp crack revealed a tightly rolled slip of paper.
“Ridiculous,” Gale muttered.
Rumors of his potential defection had clearly spread faster than he anticipated. Every meal seemed to bring another hidden note, whether in soup or bread, from courtiers desperate to sway him toward Luswena.
Knock, knock.
“Your Highness, we heard glass breaking. Are you all right?”
“….”
Phylia peeked in hesitantly. Without responding, Gale pushed his bowl aside, signaling her to clear the table. His drawer was already cluttered with five similar notes—each bearing the handwriting of a potential traitor, just as Ian had predicted.
“You’ve been eating so poorly lately. I’m worried,” Phylia said softly.
“What’s there to worry about? I’m going to die anyway.”
“…Well, I won’t be able to dine with you tomorrow. Ian is holding the magic confirmation ceremony, and I need to attend.”
Phylia offered a sheepish smile as she gathered the dishes. But her trembling fingers betrayed her unease. The rumor had reached her late but hit her hard—at tomorrow’s ceremony, either Arsène or Ian would die.
“Why?” Gale asked.
“Oh, you haven’t heard, Your Highness,” Phylia replied hesitantly, recounting the palace rumors: that Arsène was a demon, and if not, Ian would pay the price.
Gale’s eyes widened, and he turned his head slowly toward her.
“What?”
“I thought I should go. Not that my presence will make much difference, but I’m worried.”
‘Arsène, a demon?’
Gale bit down on his cigar in frustration, his mind racing. He didn’t fully understand the situation, but one thing was clear.
“Phylia.”
“Yes?”
“I have a favor to ask.”
Phylia tilted her head, puzzled. A favor? It was rare for a prince to request anything from her.
“Take me with you to the magic confirmation ceremony tomorrow.”
