Prince, Our Prince (3)
Then it happened.
[―By the command of user Arthur Liognan, the skill 'Battlefield Transcendence' is released.]
"Uaaaahhhh!!!"
The air split open in front of Cleio, and through the slanted tear, Arthur fell out—covered in blood.
He collapsed onto the ground with a dull thud, clutching his stomach.
The wound was bad. Blood poured out in torrents.
"Arthur! Are you okay?!"
"Totally not okay. Hurry, stop the bleeding—I'm dying here."
He still tried to joke, but his face, slick with cold sweat, had turned deathly pale. Arthur's life was slipping away.
Cleio, trembling from exhaustion, propped himself up on the floor and tried to open a magic circle again.
[―Insufficient ether remaining.]
Promise sent the warning, but Cleio couldn't afford to care.
He wasn't a healer, but it was obvious—this kind of wound wouldn't close with just pressure.
Frantically, Cleio recalled the formulas for [Hemostasis], [Disinfection], and [Pain Relief].
The world around him was still collapsing.
The weaker Arthur's breathing became, the more unstable the world's boundaries grew. In such chaos, he couldn't even think of a proper incantation.
The air itself had stopped moving when Cleio's desperate voice rang out.
"[Let the blood stop, the wound stay clean, and the flesh mend! This bastard has to live!]"
It was a mess of a chant.
Yet the spell activated.
Three intertwined formulas rose together, meshing perfectly before sinking into Arthur's wound.
The blinding light washed everything white.
[―Severe ether depletion detected.]
A sharp buzz filled Cleio's skull. His nose burst with blood, the metallic taste sliding down his throat—hot and bitter.
At last, the glowing spell dimmed.
Cleio barely managed to lift his heavy head.
Arthur, battered and filthy, was touching his stomach in disbelief.
His torn clothes and bloodied hands were still a mess—but the wound had vanished completely.
The sound of the wind returned. The air moved again.
The world still existed.
"You're… alive?"
"…Thanks to you, Cleio."
Doubt turned to certainty.
The world's tremors following Arthur's injury.
The message about the protagonist's existence threatening the stability of the script.
All of it pointed to one thing.
'Don't tell me—if this guy dies, the world dies with him?'
As the tension drained, so did his body. Every drop of ether spent, his limbs went limp.
Arthur and Isiel were shouting something, but their voices blurred.
We're screwed. This can't be happening.
[―User's narrative intervention rate is rapidly increasing.]
[Bound Item: □□□'s Promise]
[―'Promise' unlocks Stage 3. The ability 「Perception」 has been created.]
A week earlier, just before dawn, Cleio had been carried home in the Viscount Kysion family's carriage after fainting—and apparently, Dione's reaction had been terrifying.
When he woke the next morning, worried, he immediately asked Behemoth whether something had gone wrong from overusing ether.
Behemoth, smacking its tail against the floor, opened its triangular mouth with an unimpressed look.
"You came home drenched in blood, and even the Head Lady was deeply troubled. I looked into it overnight—but you are perfectly fine."
"Then why the nosebleed?"
"Do you think your ether sensitivity is normal? You're trying to channel overwhelming power through a flimsy human body—your energy wavers. You're catastrophically out of shape. Train yourself."
Relieved, Cleio hugged Behemoth and spent the next two days lazing in bed. The creature whined that its ribbon tie would wrinkle, but didn't actually resist being held.
Naturally, he didn't tell Dione the truth. Since she couldn't understand the cat anyway, he planned to keep it that way forever.
It was just a little nosebleed, but she's acting like I've got a terminal illness. Still, at least she stopped nagging me about dance lessons.
Escaping that duty—memorizing complicated steps and spinning around a ballroom to stodgy music—was blessing enough.
Not that he did nothing; he kept practicing ether circulation while lying down. He'd been neglecting magic since the start of break, after all.
After facing a fight where his life had truly been on the line, he'd regained a sense of urgency.
Whether to dodge conscription or avoid danger, I should make full use of what I've got.
Focusing on the circle's shape, he continuously drew ether through his heart, circulating it again and again until his body felt lighter and his mind clear.
Seeing him stick to bed so diligently, Behemoth twitched its whiskers with satisfaction.
"Yes, that's it. Keep doing that every day and your ether vessel will soon grow immense. There's plenty of ether to draw from—you'll be able to cast ten spells in a row without getting dizzy."
"I'd rather not ever be in a situation where I have to cast ten in a row."
Behemoth clicked its tongue.
"With talent that bright and a nature that lazy—perhaps that's how the world balances itself."
"Hey, I only do what I can handle. No overexertion—that's my life motto."
I already worked myself to death in my last life.
Peace lasted exactly one week.
On the eighth day, the mansion's atmosphere grew restless.
Arthur had come storming in.
Overprotective Dione refused to let him see Cleio under any circumstances.
Apparently, she'd unleashed a full string of scolding remarks about "blasphemy" and "insolence," and Lady Canton, who'd made no effort to stop her, had later recounted the whole scene in admiration.
Despite nearly dying, Arthur was somehow bursting with energy—visiting the Aser mansion nearly every day.
Even yesterday, Cleio had heard the commotion from the parlor but pretended to stay asleep.
He's only coming to say one thing anyway—that I should side with him.
Now he was sure of it. Every narrative thread was pushing Cleio Aser in a single direction:
To stand with Arthur.
To help him achieve his goals.
To keep him alive.
The protagonist of a story usually survived until the end—but not always.
Even more so if the author had begun to lose control of the manuscript.
Judging from how things were going, this story was in a state where anything could suddenly pop out—utterly devoid of logic.
Even if Cleio told Arthur directly, "If you die, the world ends—so be careful," there was no way he'd listen.
Especially since this world exists inside a manuscript—if I tell him that, he'll never believe me. No, even if he does, that would be worse. That guy would probably say, 'Then let it burn,' and charge straight into it just to spite whoever's pulling the strings.
Arthur Liognan was a man who hated being told what to do and would willingly dive into a fire if it was his own choice—that was the core of his character.
But without that reckless courage and sheer willpower, how could he possibly survive the stormy fate awaiting him?
So my role is basically a human airbag, huh? Maybe the author, unable to control Arthur himself, dropped me into the story just to stop the world from crashing into a bad ending.
The protagonist was both the one who could kill the story and the one who could keep it alive.
If a hero had lived through the same narrative nine times already, it wouldn't be strange for him to have become one with the story itself—inseparable from it.
Most classic plays are named after their main characters for a reason… "The Prince of Albion" is really just "The Chronicle of Arthur Liognan."
Since morning, Cleio had been tossing and turning, groaning into his pillow, until Behemoth finally burrowed into his arms.
Even with his eyes closed, Cleio could picture the cat's expression and the lazy sway of its tail.
It was thanks to the Promise's Stage 3 function—「Perception」.
Though his body no longer hurt, he'd stayed in bed precisely because of that ability. 「Perception」 was far too overwhelming to adjust to in just a few days.
Feels like the author added this feature because they were worried the 'airbag' character might die first just bumbling around the protagonist.
Even Cleio had to admit his physical strength, agility, and reflexes were all bottom-tier. If he wanted to survive long enough to dodge a single strike, keen senses were the bare minimum.
The first change he noticed was in his vision.
His dynamic sight had become absurdly sharp—people's movements looked almost slow.
His sensory perception had grown so acute that, even while lying in bed, he could tell exactly who was walking down the hall.
Would've been nice if I could switch it off. Damn it.
He couldn't imagine how martial arts masters in all those novels managed to live normal lives without losing their minds.
I can even hear footsteps on the carpeted hallway. How the hell am I supposed to sleep like this?
Measured, composed footsteps—Lady Canton.
Light, quick steps—Dione.
Proud, soft four-footed taps—Behemoth.
And the one who, despite his tall frame, moved like a silent assassin—Arthur.
He'd trained his body with ether enhancement so well that he could leap from the garden terrace without making a single rustle.
Cleio was dumbfounded.
Dione won't even let him in the front door, so he's resorting to this?
He yanked the blanket over his head and hugged Behemoth tighter. The cat grumbled in protest, but Cleio pretended not to hear.
Clink—clack.
Click—
Arthur, apparently intent on burying what little royal dignity he had left, was now trying to pick the lock on the terrace door. Cleio shouted irritably,
"Planning to steal something? Why are you trying to sneak in through that?"
Arthur's voice came from outside.
"Nice reflexes, Cleio! You could tell it was me right away?"
"Who else would crawl through there? That's not deduction, that's common sense."
"Your tutor won't let me in through the front, so what choice do I have?"
Behemoth flattened its ears, clearly displeased at the disturbance.
"Euuung~ nyat (Who dares cause such racket at this hour… mnya)."
Setting Behemoth down, Cleio reluctantly dragged himself toward the terrace.
He sluggishly pulled the curtains aside and opened the door, then crossed his arms and leaned against the frame—without inviting Arthur in.
Having crept through the garden unseen, Arthur looked a mess. Leaves tangled in his hair, dressed in only a shirt and trousers with a sword at his waist, the prince grinned like a mischievous street brat.
Cleio spoke first.
"Look at yourself."
"And look at you."
He was referring to Cleio's wrinkled pajamas, bare feet, and unkempt hair.
"Whose fault do you think that is?"
"I was just trying to thank you, but you wouldn't let me see you~."
"Consider your thanks received. Now leave. We don't accept assassins sneaking into this house."
"I really am sorry about that day. Usually, I can handle three of them alone—easy. That was the first time it ever went that bad."
Even in the original manuscript, it wasn't that bad. How much has the Second Prince pushed him if a seventeen-year-old's already this used to ambushes?
"I found out something interesting, though. Did you see their blades? The sword aura was red. Isn't that weird? A Mage's circle and a swordsman's aura are both golden—and for a sword aura to show color…"
It was something even a basic swordsmanship textbook would cover, so Cleio recalled it immediately.
"They'd have to be a Sword Master, right?"
"Ninth in class, and you remember your theory. Yeah. But they weren't Sword Masters. More like level 5. And once I dragged them into a subspace, their power just snapped out after a while."
"So they had something that temporarily boosted their ether level?"
Cleio listened carefully. Promise hadn't been able to display those assassins' levels clearly either.
"Yeah. When I took off their masks, all three of them had blood-red eyes. Whatever they were using, it wasn't anything good for their bodies."
That had never appeared in the previous version of the manuscript. Cleio's face hardened.
A most unwelcome variable had just entered the story.