Three times since that night of the birthday party, the moon had waxed full and waned again—three cycles of silver light growing and dying in the sky above the manor.
The hectic days had ended, and peaceful days had returned once more. The servants moved with their usual efficiency, no longer running frantically between tasks. The manor settled back into its comfortable rhythms.
But my state of mind had been severely disturbed since that day. A constant churning in my chest, anxiety that wouldn't settle, thoughts that wouldn't quiet.
The cause was entirely due to the truth I'd discovered that night—a truth that haunted every waking moment and invaded my dreams.
Within the next five years, I would die.
Moreover, five years was merely the time until the main story began. I'd probably die before that—likely within three or four years, judging by narrative timing and the progression of Erica's character arc.
So whether I died tomorrow, or died right now, there'd be nothing strange about it. The sword of Damocles hung over my head, its thread growing thinner with each passing day.
Well, humans never know when they'll die—that applied to everyone, a universal truth as old as mortality itself. But having it presented as a confirmed fact was an entirely different matter. The weight of certainty versus possibility—the difference was crushing.
What shocked me more was that I probably hadn't deviated from the main story's trajectory at all. Not in any way that mattered.
The details might differ—names changed, exact events shifted slightly. But in the end, I would die, and she would fall into darkness and become the final boss. The destination remained fixed, regardless of the path.
Until now, I'd worked hard to ensure Erica didn't follow that tragic fate. I'd actually thought I'd succeeded, that we'd veered off course, that my presence had altered the story fundamentally.
But that had just been an illusion—a comforting fantasy I'd built to shield myself from the truth.
Everything I'd done until now was meaningless. I couldn't help but think that. Three years of effort, of guiding her toward happiness—all of it rendered pointless by the inevitability of my death.
...That said, I couldn't just sit here waiting to die.
More than anything, if I died, Erica would rush headlong toward the worst possible ending. That was the one certainty I could identify in this mess.
That's the one thing I absolutely refuse to let happen.Over these three years, she has become the person I care about the most in this entire world of Pumitra Celest Kingdom.
No matter what, I must stop her from meeting a miserable end.
But how?
Should I try to make her hate me so that she won't care if I die?
…No, that would be completely counterproductive.Rejected, she might fall into madness even faster.
It might be arrogant to think so, but in the original story, it was my—her childhood friend's—death that triggered her killing spree.
So, the most effective solution is simple:
I must avoid dying.
If I could do that, none of this would be a problem.
Except I don't even know how I'm supposed to die.
Illness?Accident?Murder?
If it's illness, then what disease?If it's an accident—fire? A fall?If it's murder—who kills me? An assassin? Or do I die in battle?
Nothing is clear.Even my past life doesn't remember the details, nor whether such things were ever established in the settings.
Honestly… I'm stuck.
But I couldn't just sit idle either. Waiting for death to claim me felt like the worst possible option.
So I thought. And trembled with fear of dying at any moment. And thought some more.
And as a result of all that thinking, I found myself swinging a sword and poring over magic tomes until my eyes burned and my hands ached.
It was a simple, muscle-headed kind of idea, I knew—the kind of straightforward solution that ignored nuance and complexity.
But I also thought this might be the most effective approach. When you didn't know the specific threat, you prepared for everything.
Even illness could be cured with magic if I was skilled enough.
Even an accident could be recovered from with magic, or perhaps prevented entirely with sword techniques and heightened reflexes.
And if it was murder—well, becoming stronger was obviously the best strategy there. Can't kill what you can't defeat.
I'd smash through any death flags head-on with pure power. Overwhelming force rendered plots and prophecies meaningless.
I didn't know how strong I needed to become—there was no clear benchmark, no level requirement displayed over my head. But at minimum, I needed to be able to deflect any danger of death that came my way. To be untouchable, unkillable.
In other words, I needed to become the strongest. Nothing less would guarantee survival.
Only five years remaining at most. The time limit was absolute, the countdown relentless.
Every single swing of my sword, every few seconds spent absorbing knowledge from magic texts—it all felt like it would determine my fate. Each moment either brought me closer to survival or confirmed my demise.
This was my motivation now: not just protecting Erica, but surviving long enough to continue protecting her. The two goals had become inseparable, wound together like threads in a rope.
＊＊＊
"—Guh!"
A voice that wasn't quite a voice leaked out as I tumbled across the ground. The impact drove the air from my lungs, left me gasping and disoriented.
My entire body was scraped raw and stinging painfully—skin abraded by rough dirt and gravel—but the pain wasn't enough to immobilize me. I could still move, still fight.
"One more time... please!"
My voice came out hoarse but determined, already pushing myself up on trembling arms.
"Oi oi, are you seriously saying that!? Your whole body's scraped up like a skinned knee!"
When I requested another bout, the armored man before me responded with shock—or rather, half-exasperated disbelief. His voice carried that particular tone of someone dealing with a stubborn child.
Currently, I was engaged in mock battles with the knights permanently stationed at the Ansheinus estate. We'd crossed swords casually before, but lately—if our schedules aligned—I fought like this every single day. Morning training, afternoon drills, evening sparring. Every spare moment dedicated to improvement.
The reason was simple enough.
They served a count's family, so naturally they were skilled fighters—accomplished enough that just watching them was educational. If observing alone helped me grow, actually fighting them would accelerate that growth exponentially. The logic was sound, even if the execution was painful.
Fighting seriously like this made me painfully aware that our previous mock battles had contained significant "playing around" elements. They'd been holding back considerably, treating me like the child I appeared to be.
Before, I'd had roughly a fifty-fifty win rate against them. Now, if I won once out of ten matches, that earned high praise and surprised congratulations.
I was far—far—from the strongest.
So I needed to extract more from them. Learn faster, train harder, push past every limit I encountered.
"I'm fine, please!"
My response was spirited, energetic despite my battered state.
"No, Liam, you... Mmm..."
The knight's reply was reluctant, uncertain. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable.
Well, beating up a child probably didn't sit well with his conscience... but I needed this. Required it for survival.
As I thought that, he suddenly hustled over closer to me, his armor clanking with each step.
"Look... yeah, okay. I get it. But let's take a break first, alright?"
"No, I'm fine. Recovery magic handles fatigue easily enough."
I could already feel the warm tingle of healing magic knitting torn skin, soothing bruised muscles. The pain faded to a dull ache.
"...That's not the issue here."
He rubbed between his brows in a troubled manner, then leaned in close—close enough that I could smell leather and sword oil and sweat.
(Every time I knock you down, the young lady's gaze gets scary...)
His whisper was urgent, almost pleading.
(...Lady Erica?)
Her name coming up unexpectedly made a question mark pop up in my mind for a moment. But when I followed the armored man's pointing gesture, Erica's figure was indeed standing there in the shadows of the training ground's colonnade.
(Wh-when did she get here!?)
(She's been there for a while, didn't you notice?)
"...If you understand, then we're taking a break."
He said this in a voice loud enough for others to hear, then stretched elaborately before quickly leaving the area. His retreat was almost comically hasty.
Since it had come to this, I had no choice. I sheathed my practice sword and headed toward Erica, my steps slightly unsteady from exertion.
"If you were here, you could have called out to me."
"I didn't want to... interrupt while you were working so hard, Liam."
She smiled while blushing faintly, her cheeks taking on that rosy color that made my chest feel tight. The afternoon sun caught in her rose-gold hair, turning it into spun copper.
"Your lessons with Shelly-san..."
"Already finished. You could praise me for finishing early, you know?"
Her tone was playful, gently teasing. Those blue eyes sparkled with something between mischief and genuine desire for acknowledgment.
"As expected of Lady Erica."
I put on white gloves—the same ones I always carried—and gently patted her head. Pat pat.
This was a privilege only allowed to handsome people... but Erica seemed satisfied, smiling happily, so it was fine. Success.
Recently—or rather, since the birthday—she'd been like this. Finishing her lessons and scheduled activities early, then coming to observe my training.
,,,,
She never calls out—she simply watches.
That night must have made her even more attached to me.
I don't mind. In fact, I'm happy.
But at the same time, I feel uneasy.
If she makes time every day just to see me…then Liam holds a very important place in her heart.
If I really do die someday—her grief, her fall into darkness… would be even worse.
Ahh… this is bad.
Lately, all I ever think about is this.
Everything circles back to my death or her descent into despair.
"Liam?"
"Ah—sorry."
I must have spaced out.
When I try to cover it up, she looks troubled.
"Liam, you have been acting strange lately. Did something happen?"
"…No, not really."
I can't exactly tell her:
"I'm going to die soon, and your future self becomes a terrifying villain because of it!"
So I brush it off.
Erica still doesn't look satisfied.
I hate lying to her… but this one is unavoidable.
As I try convincing myself—
Whack!
A sharp blow hits my back.
"There he goes—trying to act cool again!"
When I turn, the knight from earlier grins broadly.
"Act… cool?"
"Yep! He's working hard so he can show off during the coming Trial Ceremony!"
"…Huh?"
The words leave my mouth before I can think.
Two things bothered me:
First, the "trying to look cool" accusation—not true at all.
Second…
Trial Ceremony?
Wait.
Don't tell me—
It's already… that time of year!?