Prince, Our Prince (2)
So that's how everything connected—his given "Promise" abilities and the fact that he was a classmate of the prince.
'So the prince pretending to be friendly was just setup for this storyline, huh?'
Cleio's expression twisted in irritation, but Arthur, unusually serious, continued.
"Whatever your mark may be, I don't think you'll actually become an 8th-level mage."
"A wise conclusion."
"No, Cleio, that's not what I meant. Hear me out. On the last day of term, I saw you cast magic—six times in total."
'Where the hell was he watching from?'
Remembering how he'd shouted those cringe-worthy middle-school-level lines in that filthy storage room, Cleio's forehead burned. Embarrassing didn't even begin to cover it.
And embarrassment wasn't the only problem.
"There are many retired veterans living near the Kishion viscounty's camp. I asked them all. Even the great Zebedee himself couldn't pull off the same spell successfully six times in a row."
"Well, that was ages ago. People's memories blur. Or maybe you just mis-saw something in that warehouse."
When Cleio refused to budge, the ever-smiling merchant-prince's face finally lost its grin.
"Rei, let's not waste each other's time. You might be a mage capable of reaching beyond level 8. So don't take the bait, no matter what Melchior dangles in front of you. I had to say this before the celebration."
There was something off about Arthur's hardened expression. In the manuscript, it was always the second prince who threatened him directly. The first prince, on the other hand, was unpredictable and secretive.
'Besides, Crown Prince Melchior… he never becomes king!'
"The crown prince isn't your biggest threat right now. Shouldn't you focus elsewhere?"
"Yeah. The one who keeps trying to drive a blade into my bed is Aslan. He's easy to read. But Melchior… no one understands him, or what he truly wants."
Cleio frowned. Arthur probably meant well—warning him against the inscrutable first prince—but it was meddling all the same.
No matter what anyone said or did, no one could influence Cleio more than Arthur himself.
This was a fictional world, and every major historical event in it stemmed from Arthur.
'It's his nosy interference that keeps pushing up my narrative involvement rate. Damn it…'
"That's why it bothers me that Melchior personally invited you. I've got a good sense for trouble, you know?"
"As if the crown prince could be more ominous than you."
"Hah! Haven't heard 'that ominous child' in ten years. Did your mark tell you that too?"
"Think whatever you want."
As their exchange fizzled out, Isiel checked the clock and stood up—it was nearly midnight.
"Your Highness, it's getting quite late."
"Then we should head back."
"Yes, let's."
Cleio, somewhat sobered, rose as well.
Out of courtesy for all the help he'd gotten, he covered the tab. The pubs had been cheap, so the total wasn't much—but still, it stung that Isiel had only sipped syrup-water while Arthur had done all the real drinking.
They left the bar and began walking toward the tram stop. The alleyways were narrow and winding; it took time to get out.
Isiel kept a sharp eye on their surroundings. Arthur led ahead, humming a silly popular tune.
Walking beside her, Cleio spoke first.
"Hey, sorry for not thanking you earlier, Isiel. I really appreciate your help. Without you, I'd have been badly hurt."
"I didn't do it because you're cute."
Maybe she still remembered the student-canteen incident; her tone was cold. But Cleio clearly recalled the worried look she'd worn on the stairs.
Her ears flushed faintly red as she turned away. She was embarrassed.
Cleio almost laughed but held it in so as not to offend her.
'Still just a kid, huh.'
"Yeah, I know."
Arthur turned back to them, smiling mischievously.
"Isiel's supposed to be my bodyguard, but she only ever ends up saving you. Don't you feel indebted, Cleio?"
"Indebted? The only one who owes anyone is you, Arthur—after raiding my wallet."
"Hey, I can pay you back ten, a hundred times over—as long as you side with me."
"Keep dreaming."
"I'm serious!"
Arthur's booming laugh echoed down the dim alley.
Growing up outside the palace, he had none of a royal's arrogance. Instead, he was warm and loyal—stubborn, yes, but fiercely devoted to his comrades in the manuscript.
If they'd met under different circumstances, Cleio might not have minded being friends.
'The problem isn't his personality. It's that he's the protagonist of this manuscript.'
Cleio resigned himself to what he knew deep down: if the author willed it, someday he'd have no choice but to stand at Arthur's side.
'But that doesn't mean it has to start today.'
Arthur was only seventeen. However harsh his training or skill with the sword, he couldn't yet stir the world's great upheavals.
While the prince was busy building his faction, Cleio figured he could make some money through investments—maybe support Arthur later by buying him magical gear instead of risking his own neck.
'Money's a wonderful thing. I can help without being the one getting stabbed. No need to stress about the distant future.'
With that thought, Cleio lightened up. Worrying too much would only age him faster.
In Rune Dane's summer, dusk didn't fall until past nine. Even close to midnight, the sky still held a soft indigo glow.
Arthur might have soured the mood a bit at the end, but the mellow buzz of alcohol lingered.
It was a good night—
Until dozens of throwing knives came whistling at them from the dark.
An ambush!
Clang—Ching—
Scrraaaaak!
Isiel drew her sword in a flash, scattering the incoming blades with bursts of sword-energy.
"Your Highness!"
The prince too unsheathed his blade.
Ether surged through their limbs—[Enhancement]. In a blink, both launched off the ground like arrows.
The ether wreathing their swords flashed so bright it looked like lightning.
Ka-kang—cha-cha-ching—cha-kang!
They deflected the second wave of blades as well.
As their sword-energy burst forth, Cleio's Promise ability—"Understanding"—automatically activated.
Above the attackers' heads, the text [Level 4 Swordsman] shimmered briefly before fading.
Frozen behind his valiant companions, Cleio finally raised a magic circle a beat too late.
"[B-Block the enemy!]"
So shocked that his voice stammered, Cleio's incantation came out clumsy and unrefined—but perhaps because it was born of desperate instinct, the [Defense] spell manifested with surprising force.
The magic formula blazed into reality, radiating blinding white light.
Clang—scrrrraaaak—chaaang—!
The barrage of throwing knives ricocheted off, scattering outside the circle. Even the assassins' weapons sparked and bounced away when they struck the barrier.
The luminous circle turned the dark alley bright as day.
Figures in black emerged from the shadows—three attackers.
Arthur didn't hesitate for a second. He leapt from within the circle and aimed straight for one assassin's throat.
Isiel swung her sword in a wide arc, cutting deep into the shoulder of another who tried to intercept.
But the assassins dodged their assaults with frightening agility.
They weren't ordinary killers—their skill was evident. Having been exposed, they immediately unleashed sword energy.
Cleio's eyes widened in horror.
A crimson aura flared, stretching twice the length of their blades.
The Promise's message glitched, flickering into nonsense—but Cleio didn't need it. He could tell just by that aura.
'They're Level 5! This is bad!'
Isiel quickly retreated into the circle, widening the distance.
"They're intermediate swordsmen!"
"Cowards without honor!" Arthur spat.
Master and retainer adapted fast, using the magic circle as cover—but they were still outmatched.
Cleio's trembling hands clenched tight. To a modern man, the sight of blood spraying and flesh tearing was pure terror—alien and nauseating.
But he couldn't just stand by.
The [Defense] magic stopped the assassins from entering the circle—but Cleio couldn't strike back unless they stepped inside.
He reactivated the [Defense] spell three times as it started to falter. The longer the battle dragged on, the more cuts Arthur and Isiel suffered—and the more his own ether drained away.
Think! There has to be another formula!
But fear and panic clouded his mind. Even spells he already knew refused to surface.
A level 3 mage could load only three formulas at once.
Recalling the combination of [Caster Excluded], [Target Excluded], and [Wind], Cleio decided not to renew the defensive spell this time.
He bit out a chant with everything he had.
The words that came to mind—a miracle from that romantic English poetry lecture he'd once taken by mistake—didn't fit the situation at all, but he had no time to refine them.
The assassins, seeing his fading ether, assumed he was spent and charged into the circle without hesitation.
Cleio shouted:
"[Upon the air where dark storms blow—move like the wind of light!]"
A whirlwind roared to life. The assassins' bodies were snatched up, their dropped weapons spinning with them.
A golden storm surged upward from the ground, so bright it turned the world blinding white.
Thanks to the [Target Excluded] condition, Isiel and Arthur weren't caught in it. They moved effortlessly through the gale, delivering finishing strikes to two of the assassins as they flailed helplessly.
Only one remained—the most skilled of them—who barely managed to steady himself and grip his weapon again.
"You damn rats—!"
From beneath his hood, his blood-red eyes glowed with murderous rage. He vaulted past Arthur and Isiel, sword energy lengthening several times over as he lunged straight at Cleio.
Cleio, still mid-spell, couldn't defend himself.
Arthur spun, shouting in panic.
"Don't—!"
Before the crimson blade could reach Cleio, a surge of inky energy erupted from the mark on Arthur's hand. Promise text flared gold.
[―Arthur Liognan uses the skill 'Battlefield Transcendence.'][―Time Remaining / Limit Time:00:00:39 / 00:00:40]
The magical storm subsided.
Exhausted from ether depletion, Cleio's knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground.
The back alley fell silent again—leaving only Isiel and Cleio behind.
The three assassins and Arthur had vanished into subspace. It was clearly Arthur's doing.
"How could you face them alone?!"
Isiel's voice trembled with anxiety. Even with two wounded, the enemies numbered three—and Arthur himself was already bleeding from several cuts.
"There must be a way to follow him!"
Cleio replied numbly,"The subspace created by 'Battlefield Transcendence'—no magic can penetrate it…"
Seconds passed.
Isiel turned to say something—but her lips parted halfway and froze. Even her hair, still swaying from her heavy breathing, stilled completely.
Promise flickered dangerously.
[―Arthur Liognan is deeply entangled with the framework of the world.―Protagonist existence…? ※??? Deletion threat… 1▲럲섇? † in progress. Damage detected to '□□□□'s Palimpsest.]
The once-solid world began crumbling from its edges.
Only the narrow alley where Cleio sat and Isiel stood remained like an island, as everything else disintegrated into torn text and shredded parchment.
Just like what had happened in the dean's hallway—the world was twisting again.
Why? I didn't even use my Editor Privilege this time!
The fissure in reality reached Isiel's feet.
Her shadow was the first thing pulled into the dark void beneath. Inside that rift—nothing. Only emptiness.
Cleio couldn't even draw a proper breath.