IYTTEPAAK Chapter 6

"Look at me."

The power of the imperial bloodline is manifested through the eyes and through the voice.

It doesn't matter whether the target is conscious. All that's required is a body with the organs to receive the sensation.

My gaze clawed its way into his mind, digging around.

Forcing submission without consent is no easy thing. Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been impossible to command the man called Rohengrin's treasure.

But right now, his body and his mind—never mind his mana core—were all reduced to wreckage.

"Hnngh…"

Even with the potion fully poured out, a thin stream of it still ran down from his left eye.

That physiological tear was probably the whole of the feeble resistance left in him.

I confirmed the small mark that surfaced in his left eye, and then faded away.

I released the hand that had held his eye open, and wiped away the tear.

"It's over now. That must have been hard, but you held on well."

And.

"I'm sorry."

He would surely hate me for this. But so long as the one trying to harm him was himself, I could find no better method than this one.

I gave him his first command.

"Live for me, Regen."

Regenhart Lohengrin. Third prince of the Kingdom of Rohengrin, and the linchpin of the Eastern Alliance's military strength.

His final battlefield had been a snow-covered gorge. On either side, towering, sheer rock walls stood locked in place, and at his back stood the last fortress, its iron gates shut fast.

Backed against a dead end, he stood alone against the imperial army.

"Reinforcements will arrive in two days, Your Highness. Two days. Just hold for two days."

The one speaking was the friend he trusted most, and the capable advisor who had protected the kingdom until now. He understood the desperation of a situation so dire it left no room for cleverer strategy.

"This is the best we can do, given where we stand."

"If we hold two days, is there a chance?"

"You know me, don't you? I only ever go with the best choice."

Those who could actually fight were a mere handful. In battles among knights, ordinary soldiers held no meaningful weight as a fighting force.

Regen resolved to go out alone.

Didn't matter. As a prince, he had always fulfilled his duty. He had lived his life believing his calling was to protect the weak and gentle, the good and the powerless.

If anything, not having to watch someone dying beside him made things easier to bear.

A full two days, straight through—one man's battle against a legion.

Didn't matter how brilliant the empire's strategists were. His strength surpassed the level of ordinary combat entirely, rendering tactics meaningless.

"The—the Butcher of Rohengrin!"

"Kill him! Eek!"

The one called a treasure in his own kingdom was known, in the enemy's, as a devil.

As though nothing remained of him but instinct, he cut down enemy after enemy's throat with his sword, again and again.

When imperial soldiers dropped, pointless as wildflowers snapped at the neck by a bitter wind, white death fell from the sky to dress each corpse in its shroud.

Cold enough to burst his veins, heat pouring off an overworked heart—his whole body twists. Just as his abused body began, slowly, to signal its limits, he saw a banner through the falling snow.

He believed it meant reinforcements. But what came into view within visible range was the blue eagle crest—the empire's own symbol.

What truly drove Regen to despair came next. The last fortress, which should have stood firm in unbroken defense, met with disaster.

The fortress opened its gates, undefended.

"No!"

He had burned his entire life to protect that gate. All of that effort collapsed into ruin, meaninglessly.

A moment later, the one holding the royal family hostage walked out onto the battlefield, escorted by soldiers.

"Wouldn't it have been better to die before having to see such a filthy sight, Your Highness?"

It was his friend—the kingdom's advisor.

"What is the meaning of—"

"You know that, don't you? I always make the best choice."

"And this—this is the best?"

"I'll grant that our views differ. I've simply chosen my own best, rather than Your Highness's. And at present, the best choice is…"

The blade pierced through the right side of Regen's chest.

"Treason."

One week later, the third prince of the Kingdom of Rohengrin was officially pronounced dead.

The moment Regen opened his eyes, he thought:

'So—there was still an eye left to open.'

Only one eye was entirely intact. As though it had never been injured at all—his original eye, with its hawk-sharp vision, exactly as it had always been.

He rolled his eyes to take in his surroundings. An ornately painted ceiling. Curtains and bedding in a rich, refined color. Beautiful, elegant patterns decorating the walls. Vases placed here and there to fill out the space. Every bit of it was a place utterly unfamiliar to him.

For the first time in a long while, he was thinking clearly. The aftereffects of battle and the toll of torture had kept him constantly feverish, his awareness flickering in and out like something guttering. But now his mind was not merely clear—it was lucid to the point of pain, crystalline.

The memories, shattered like mosaic pieces, fell one by one into place.

The snow-covered gorge. Two days of battle. His friend's betrayal. Captivity. Torture. The execution.

Once he'd reconstructed this much, a question rose in him.

Why—was he still alive?

Wiping out a royal bloodline entirely was the completion of a conquest. If the empire had any sense, there was no way they would have let a member of the royal family live—and yet his head remained attached to his neck, functioning just fine.

He tried to recall how this had come to be, but a headache—like ice shards gouging directly into his brain—interfered. He put it down to an aftereffect of the torture.

Aside from that one section, sheared away as though cut clean out, the rest of his memory gradually returned.

He'd been dragged before the Mad Emperor like some kind of slave, ankles chained together with the other prisoners. He'd heard talk of spoils, of grants, and women's voices.

Among it all, what stayed with him most clearly was...

"You are mine."

He flinched—something felt like it had bored deep inside him and taken hold.

"Awake?"

"......"

Drawn by the voice, identical to the one in his memory, he turned his head. A woman's silhouette showed through the drifting curtain.

She lifted the curtain aside with an elegant, unhurried hand and revealed herself.

She was a woman who called to mind the beautiful white sand shores he'd once seen as a boy. Her platinum-blond hair, thick and flowing, was the exact color of fine sand shining resplendent beneath the sun.

The pale sky-blue eyes regarding him were as cold and clear as ice water. They suited perfectly the indifferent, composed blankness of her expression.

A woman like a midwinter shore.

That was his first impression.

Once that brief impression passed, rational thought began to turn again.

A woman of unrivaled beauty, as though she'd stepped straight out of a painting.

In the imperial palace, a woman like this could hold only one of two possible standings.

One of the Mad Emperor's countless consorts, or one of the eight surviving imperial princesses.

"You... are..."

His voice, scraping out of his throat, came out shabby. She kindly filled a glass with water and offered it to him.

"The sixth imperial princess of the Empire, Rosasia Trinite Magnalorde."

The Mad Emperor's daughter.

He wasn't especially surprised by an introduction and greeting delivered as easily as handing over a glass of water.

He pushed himself upright to sit and took the glass, wetting his throat just enough. His voice came out functioning considerably more cleanly.

"So you're the one who received me as a grant."

"...I suppose it's not strange you'd remember it only that far."

The princess's manner of speaking was somewhat odd, though not enough to draw his particular attention.

He got out of bed. There was no pain at all, even moving his legs.

He checked over the rest of his body as well; aside from his right eye, it was, for the most part, recovered.

He set the emptied glass down on the side table himself and then walked slowly around the room. He hoped that what he was doing would read simply as curiosity about this unfamiliar place.

The princess seemed entirely unconcerned, sipping only at her tea. She didn't so much as watch or observe him with any particular interest.

"This is my first time in an imperial princess's bedroom."

"It's my first time bringing a man in, too."

She said even this without the slightest change of expression. He couldn't tell what she was thinking.

With the princess's silent permission, he was able to go as far as the balcony. A magnificently kept garden and fountain came into view all at once. And to his right, he could make out a grand building he guessed to be the main palace.

A cold wind blew against him as he gripped the marble railing, scattering his white hair.

The winter wind, which must have blown all the way from the northeastern gorge where he'd spilled so much blood, seemed to carry the faintest scent of it still.

He took in the view before him for a while. To anyone glancing at him just then, he looked, for all the world, like a man only now grasping that he had set foot in the very heart of the empire.

"...Only the second floor."

"Yes. A mere second floor."

The reply came immediately, and he turned to look at the princess in spite of himself.

Still calmly enjoying the scent of her tea, she went on without so much as meeting his eyes.

"You couldn't die even if you jumped."

"......"

His wish to die had been seen straight through.