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[Translator - Night]
[Proofreader - Gun]
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Chapter 63: The Night Becomes a Cradle (5)
To clear up any possible misunderstanding: I’m no saint.
I’m not a Supreme Court justice handing down verdicts, nor do I possess some special insight superior to others.
Above all, whether that fake dies or not—it’s none of my business.
I’ve gotten everything I needed from this place.
I’m already too busy organizing information and determining next steps.
And yet, the reason I give answers is because questions are asked.
Because I understand the need for someone who’ll say even one word when you’re in a place where you can’t know anything on your own.
—It’s possible. Young lord just behaved poorly, but ever since he was young, he’s been clever and had a broad perspective.
Just like my sister once did for me, I thought maybe this act could relieve a debt of the heart.
So I spoke.
“What’s the point of killing? It only makes it harder for the people left behind.”
“……”
“Isn’t it strange that one person makes the mess, and someone else has to clean it up? That’s how I see it.”
I recalled my time during the war.
The penal units were nothing more than meat shields.
Many volunteered just for the chance to get out of prison, even if it meant that treatment—but the battles we endured were harsh enough to make life behind bars feel like comfort.
I looked up hoping to see clear skies, but what I faced was blood-soaked ground.
I longed for peaceful sleep, but what came was an endless siege that blurred night and day.
There were men who said they wanted to go back to prison.
Others who said they’d rather die and be done with it.
Yes, it was there I realized—death itself was a form of rest.
For prisoners, execution was an act of mercy.
I don’t believe that insight applies only to us.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking,”
“…Yeah.”
“But responsibility is a heavy thing. You can’t balance out dozens of lives with just one. It doesn’t add up. I’m not saying spare him. But if your reason for killing that guy is to trade life for life—then that’s not sound logic.”
What did the fake actually do?
All I know is that he shattered the dagger that kid forged and built with such care.
He was possessed by a demon and committed crimes—so we should pity him?
So what?
As I said, I don’t feel any sympathy or anger toward the fake.
If there’s any emotion involved…
“I need Igrosia. More specifically, I need this place’s intelligence network.”
And that bastard ruined it.
Just thinking about how long it’ll take to restore it gives me a headache.
“He’s responsible for fixing it. He ruled this place for ten years—he probably knows how to do it better than you.”
If I had to justify it with necessity, I’d say that’s the reason.
It’s a convenient argument.
But I know the truth.
“…I see.”
Gilgore is the kind of guy who would cling to even a convenient story.
Even though he’s rational enough to weigh the death of the fake, he still hopes someone will give him that push he can’t give himself.
Gilgore gave a bitter smile.
When he brushed the fake’s forehead, I could tell he had already made his decision.
“So what now? In that condition, he can’t even work.”
“You’ll save him?”
“…It’s a reprieve. Like you said—death is too merciful.”
He took a breath.
Then added:
“He’ll take responsibility first. Then I’ll ask him—what does he want to become?”
Well, at least I know this much: after paying his dues, the fake won’t choose execution.
I examined his body.
My brows furrowed.
‘Fucking useless prince bastard.’
Even if you were going to wreck him, did it really have to be like this?
It’s obvious—leaving only the blood vessels in his head intact and crushing everything else was a calculated move.
The goal was to make him die as painfully as possible.
After all that talk of rational judgment, in the end, emotion took over—and turned him into a rag.
True, in this condition, there’s no ordinary way to bring him back.
If I didn’t have one lucky card up my sleeve, it would’ve been the end of him.
“There is one thing.”
“Huh?”
“A way to save him. A way to make him walk again.”
Gilgore’s eyes widened.
Then fine lines appeared at their edges.
And right after, he gave a hollow laugh, and with a voice tinged with desperation, he asked:
“…What’s the price?”
Smart guy.
Good.
I like that.
“Put it on a tab.”
“A debt of the heart… you’re good at handling people.”
Who knows.
“Not that good.”
That was giving me too much credit.
* * *
The fake writhed in agony.
He couldn’t open his eyes.
He couldn’t hear.
Smelling or tasting anything was beyond impossible.
All he could do was groan in pain, bursting from every inch of his body.
And that, with only his mind still conscious.
Time lost all meaning.
That moment felt eternal.
Still, his broken thoughts kept looping back to one question: why had it come to this?
He had been struck down by the crown prince.
That realization surged with rage—for a moment.
But then, the pain awakened something else.
A question: “Why?”
Why had it ended this painfully?
Was it revenge?
Or perhaps self-loathing?
And why had he felt such deep emotions toward that woman?
‘Because she…’
…saved him.
She had fed him when he was drying up in the gutters of Igrosia.
That’s when a strange doubt crept in.
‘…Was it really her?’
It was a bizarre question.
Doubting that felt like doubting whether the sun rises in the east, or that the continent might actually be flat.
Utterly absurd.
Which made it all the more inexplicable why he had the thought.
Still, something inside insisted he had to think about it.
And as he followed that line of thought, something became clear.
‘…No.’
It wasn’t her.
That woman had been nothing.
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[Translator - Night]
[Proofreader - Gun]
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The one who had truly saved him wasn’t the girl who looked like spring, but the boy who looked like a stray cat.
Not someone who embraced him like a mother, but someone who constantly tested him.
That person had spoken of proving one’s worth.
His coldness had made the fake strive to improve and created a desire to be recognized.
His consistency had brought the fake a sense of stability.
He was never someone who said “together” or “us.”
Ah, how could he not have realized?
Why had he been so bewitched by the girl and destroyed what truly mattered?
At some point, the pain of his body had faded.
What began to consume him now was a feeling that could only be called self-loathing—or perhaps grief.
He had never thought of himself as someone who would cry.
Yet, his eyes burned.
And in that moment, he opened them.
Tears fell in a stream, blurring his vision.
And so, for the first time in his life, he saw a warm ceiling, coming into focus slowly.
A voice echoed in his ears.
"You’ve finally woken up."
The fake's eyes trembled.
He turned his gaze toward the voice he heard.
And then, the fake's expression twisted.
“…Master.”
“So you recognize me now?”
Black hair, and a face so delicate and androgynous that one couldn’t tell whether it belonged to a boy or girl.
One eye sewn shut, and that distinct pale skin—all of it told him clearly.
This boy was his master.
The fake forced his body up.
Thud!
Only to fall to the ground.
His entire body jolted from the impact.
“Guh…!”
Lying flat in disgrace, the fake trembled as he pressed his head to the floor.
“…Please, kill me.”
In his own mind, death was the only way he could atone.
* * *
Gilgore sat with one leg crossed, looking down at the man.
A hollow laugh escaped him.
He had gone through the trouble of saving him, and now he asked to be killed?
It was absurd—but somehow, it also felt familiar, even welcome.
‘This is the kind of boy he was.’
Calculating to a fault, yet oddly affectionate—at least toward Gilgore.
A boy who used all his cunning solely for his sake.
He had never failed.
He never even tried to fail.
And it was painfully clear that he was terrified by the mere idea of failure.
Gilgore welcomed that.
“Now I see the face I remember.”
“I will accept my punishment… gladly. Please…”
What should he do?
Gilgore stepped down from his chair.
He crouched in front of the man sprawled on the floor and met his eyes.
The man couldn’t even lift his head and just stared at the ground.
Yes, for this child, words like “It’s okay” held no meaning.
Gilgore, who had spent countless sleepless nights wondering what to say, had finally found his answer.
“Why take your punishment gladly? It's not for your own sake.”
“…I will correct myself.”
“Why are you deciding your punishment? That’s my job.”
“……”
The man’s eyes lost focus.
But his trembling wasn’t from fear.
Gilgore understood.
The boy wasn’t afraid of punishment—he was afraid of becoming someone no longer needed.
That was the saddest part.
He had never been exceptional—just someone who used his wits to survive.
So why was he so eager to become a sinner?
“Lift your head.”
At those words, the boy—only large in size—slowly raised his head.
Gilgore looked into his despair-filled eyes and said,
“Responsibility… is something you carry while living.”
Turning back wasn’t a concept Gilgore understood.
He had never taken responsibility for anything in his life, nor had he ever considered it.
If something was unnecessary, he would cast it aside.
That’s why he had even considered killing this child.
But even he knew that, deep down, he didn’t want that.
Yuren had simply given him the final push.
Thinking of that made Gilgore laugh softly.
Yuren Pharos, a man he had known only by name, turned out to be capable of far more than he had imagined.
A debt of the heart must be repaid.
For that reason alone, this child had to work hard.
“Don’t try to escape by dying. Take responsibility for what you did. Restore Igrosia. And rebuild more than what you broke.”
The man froze in place.
His eyes flew wide open, as if torn.
Gilgore added, with a somewhat sheepish tone,
“This is the first time I’ve ever given someone a second chance.”
And to give a second chance for an unforgivable crime…
He had rejected his own beliefs and the life he had lived for this decision.
All for the sake of one fleeting attachment.
So then—
“I’ll give you a name.”
He branded him.
“Ias. That’s your name from today.”
An ancient word he had heard on his long journey.
It meant original sin.
“Make amends. This time, I’ll be watching over you.”
It was a name given to a sin born of himself—a name for the boy.
As long as either one of them lived, the mark of that sin would never fade.
The man’s eyes welled with tears again.
He bowed his head.
That was his answer.
Gilgore gave a bitter smile as he looked out the window.
‘Huh, nice weather today.’
The capital seen from the Papal Palace looked so much clearer than Igrosia ever had.
* * *
Who saves the dying?
A healer?
A priest?
Both can do it.
But when it comes to someone who's practically a corpse—by my standards, there’s only one person.
‘Historia, obviously.’
As long as someone’s breathing, she can bring them back to normal somehow.
She was that good in her previous life.
And thanks to that freak mutation in this life, which boosted her holy powers, she could fix someone like that fake without even blinking.
After returning to the capital, I didn’t go with him to the Papal Palace.
I just sent a letter of recommendation and a note.
Then I went straight home.
After all, I’d come back—I should at least greet my sister.
If you don’t respect your family, you’re not even a person.
That’s why I went home.
But the one waiting there wasn’t my sister, but a different guest.
“Your Highness, the Princess?”
“Pharos…! Ah! Ahem…!”
Aria was in our garden and beamed at me as soon as she saw me.
Normally, she would’ve run up to me immediately.
But today, for some reason, she cleared her throat, straightened her back, and tried to act refined as she said,
“You’ve returned, Lord Patriarch. Are your injuries well?”
Then she looked up at me with sparkling eyes.
She was clearly mimicking something she’d seen while I was away.
But the way she immediately worried about future injuries made one thought flash through my mind:
‘…Is she telling me to get hurt?’
A brief moment of contemplation.
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[Translator - Night]
[Proofreader - Gun]
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