Prince, Our Prince (4)
"Arthur, come in for a moment."
"You're finally letting me in? I'm about to be overcome with gratitude."
"Don't even start…"
Arthur sat comfortably in the armchair before the centerpiece, legs crossed like he was in his own home.
"Why did you go in alone with such dangerous guys?"
"I noticed before—when the subspace resets, everything inside vanishes. Only living people come back. Since we couldn't raise an alarm saying we were ambushed, dealing with the bodies was always a pain. So I brought them in planning to leave them behind."
The way he casually scratched the back of his head while saying that was outrageous. It wasn't the kind of thing you said with a chuckle, like you'd just been caught playing a mischievous prank.
'Just how many people has this guy killed to talk about disposing of corpses so casually?'
"And besides, I was worried our future Archmage might end up dying like a dog."
"You've got a way with words for someone who just made me suffer through hell. Sure, this whole mess was because of you, but... thanks for blocking their attacks. I appreciate that. But still, who says I'll become an Archmage…"
Arthur uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.
"If you wanted to deny it, you shouldn't have shown me proof. Even if it was only for a moment, those guys fought with the strength of Level 5 swordsmen, and yet their sword aura couldn't pierce your defense magic—and you're only a Level 3 Mage."
'Wait, you were analyzing all that while your life was on the line?'
"My eyes don't lie. Soon, everyone will realize it too—not just that you're a Mage, but that you bear the stigmata of Analysis or Prediction."
Having no further excuses, Cleio shut his mouth. Arthur chuckled and crossed his legs the other way, the sword at his side clinking as he moved.
"Right now, the fact that you discovered a holy relic at the Trinity Auction hasn't reached the capital yet, so you're safe. But come the autumn social season, you'll find invitation cards stacked to the ceiling outside your dorm room."
Just imagining it was enough to kill one's appetite. Watching Cleio's expression visibly crumple, Arthur continued.
"That's why I'm trying to stake my claim early. Take my side. If you invest in me now, your return will be tenfold later."
"What exactly does that mean? Be your ally? Your friend? Or are you asking for a vow of loyalty?"
Arthur raised his eyebrows—this answer was different from Cleio's usual light evasions.
"Even if I asked, would you swear loyalty?"
"No. Never."
"Didn't think so. Loyalty's a bit much. Even being friends or comrades would be a stretch right now. I know you don't think much of me. But at the very least, don't side with Melchior or Aslan."
Once again, Cleio stared off into the distance.
'That again. Taking the side of one of the other princes? Like that's even possible. One of them is bound to snap someday, and the other's a full-on villain. Ugh.'
Whatever Arthur read from Cleio's silence, his tone grew more earnest.
"You've probably guessed it too, but the one behind the assassins is Aslan. That guy doesn't care anymore—he'd go after his own blood. If he grabs power, there's no limit to what he'd do. If they were to borrow the power of an Archmage, it wouldn't be for the good of the world."
Cleio, who had been pretending not to listen, turned back toward Arthur. Arthur considered not just Aslan, but even Melchior, a dangerous figure.
'Hmm. The crown prince in the papers always seemed perfect. Handsome, capable, diligent, popular as hell.'
"How can you be so sure? I get it with the Second Prince—you've had firsthand experience. But the Crown Prince has a good reputation. On what basis do you say they 'won't use that power for good'?"
Arthur exhaled lightly, as if caught off guard. A quiet tension fell between them.
The hesitation didn't last long. Arthur clenched his fist, as if bracing himself, and began.
"I don't have a basis. So you probably won't believe me. But I have to be honest. I simply know what they're going to do."
'!!!'
"I know the result without knowing the cause. That's the essence of the curse placed on me."
Uncharacteristically, Arthur spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. It was clear he was putting something into language he'd never explained aloud before.
"It's also why I was confined to the summer villa in the frontier with my mother before I could even write my own name. A few ominous events happened exactly as I had 'known' they would."
Arthur didn't say it outright, but Cleio had a good guess.
'Should've dialed it back, author… You rewrote that same scene eight times, and now the timeline's all scrambled even without edits.'
"Anyway, I know. Far too much unjust blood will be shed by their hands."
Arthur's piercing teal eyes locked directly onto Cleio's.
The intense presence radiating from him struck Cleio's heightened senses, sharpened by 「Perception」, making his head throb.
A prince cannot back down. Upon those still-young shoulders must already rest the hopes and convictions of many.
Cleio couldn't find the words to refuse anymore. He had no grounds for saying no—he was just trying to avoid it. But the protagonist's gravity was undeniable.
'It's too much. Stop looking at me like that.'
"Fine. I get it. Whether I take your side or not, I promise I won't join the other princes' factions."
"Is that a promise?"
"...I promise."
As if it had been waiting for just that answer, the word promise flashed brightly.
[―User's Narrative Intervention Level is rapidly increasing.]
He'd expected this to happen, but seeing the notification appear still made the system feel like a nuisance.
With Arthur radiating intensity and 「Perception」 dragging on his nerves, Cleio felt overwhelmed and sank deeply into the armchair.
"By the way, what's with your second brother? Why is he so obsessed with destroying you when you're just a student?"
That had been a mystery even when reading the earlier drafts.
Aslan had shown vicious malice toward Arthur since he was too young to even walk properly.
Arthur hadn't become Aslan's target because of his talents—rather, it seemed Arthur had become a Level 4 swordsman at only seventeen because Aslan kept shoving him into deadly situations.
There was no real claim to the throne, no maternal relatives backing Arthur, and yet Aslan ruthlessly tried to eliminate him. It was undeniably odd behavior.
'It doesn't add up. That's another case of result preceding cause. Maybe…'
"Maybe it's because… I was born?"
Arthur's rare, subdued response—so unlike his usual confidence—brought Cleio to a single realization.
Aslan's motive, even one Arthur couldn't guess, lay in his reason for existence itself.
A man born for a singular narrative purpose—
to torment the protagonist.
"From as far back as I can remember, Aslan has hated me. Or rather… they say he learned what hatred was the moment I was born.
The royal head maid, Hileida, told me that before I existed, Aslan wasn't the kind of person overflowing with rage like he is now. She said he used to laugh easily—a bright, kind boy."
Resting his chin on his interlaced fingers, elbows on his knees, Arthur muttered with a sullen face.
"The Aslan I know glares at me with the eyes of a hellhound. But it's not my fault I was born, right? The fact that my hair and eyes are the same color as Leonid I's—that's just because I take after my mother. But that damned Legend of the Conqueror King… Aslan completely lost it over that."
Cleio quickly used 「Memory」 to look up the legend in the manuscript.
The tale of King Leonid I, the knight with sun-colored hair and eyes like the northern sea, was about the founding of Albion.
"The Conqueror King legend? So your brother's a bit of a romantic then…"
"Aslan's just delusional. If he gets any more romantic, I won't live long enough to complain about it."
'Wait—why is the Conqueror King legend coming up this early? In the previous draft, Arthur only mentioned it much later, after he'd suffered a lot more…'
Clearly, the was operating under different narrative laws.
Arthur shook Cleio out of his tangled thoughts with another blunt statement.
"Anyway. After everything I've been through, I figured I might as well give him a real reason to hate me properly. It's not like the crown has anyone's name written on it."
Even with that smirk tugging at his lips, the meaning behind Arthur's words was unmistakable.
It was a declaration of intent—a claim to the throne.
"The king's still alive, and the crown prince is legitimate. Aren't you afraid of being accused of treason or blasphemy?"
"It's just you and me here. Who's going to write a report about it? If you were going to rat me out, you'd have done it already. I've said worse plenty of times, and nothing happened."
"Hey, I said I wouldn't side with those two. I never said I was your man, you're going too far."
"I don't have any noble family ties or a secret intelligence network, so boldness is all I've got. Think about it seriously—a young man with conviction should be willing to stake his life on choosing the right king to fulfill it, don't you think?"
"I don't have conviction."
"The future Archmage really is impossible to recruit, huh. But if I'm going to achieve great things, I'll need you. So don't forget—I'm not giving up."
Having said his piece, Arthur walked out the door, vaulted over the terrace railing, and disappeared from sight.
Only the thin linen curtain swayed slowly, marking his departure.
Cleio, still sunk into the armchair, watched the faint motion of the curtain's edge tracing through his sharpened vision. Ripples spread quietly inside him.
'Is knowing results without causes really something only Arthur can do? The other princes, too, have lived through nine lives within this story's center…'
The characters were living beyond the author's design—each acting out their own wills and convictions, accepting or defying their fates.
The story was twisting under the weight of its own characters.
And the only one aware of those distortions—capable of correcting them—was himself.
The meaning of that so-called "Editor's Authority", the power to exert influence akin to the author's so long as he didn't rebel against the author's intent, became clear to him.
'If Aslan's been pursuing the throne he could never have through all eight revisions, then his resentment must have piled up massively. Maybe that's why he's sending assassins even stronger than the author intended. Damn, everyone's living way too hard.'
He thought back on his previous life. Even in a world without any "author," how much free will had he truly possessed?
He lived simply because he was alive, struggling through each day as it came.
Kim Jung-jin had no grand ambitions, no defined purpose. All he had were memories of people who died without warning.
So he'd been tempted—by the promise of a new life in a new world.
Perhaps this world with an author was actually better for him.
At least Cleio Aser had a purpose—one the author had granted.
If Arthur were to die and the world collapse, then at worst, Cleio would vanish along with the manuscript itself.
At best, he'd simply return to the same world that had nothing waiting for him—except student loans.
Cleio asked himself quietly:
Would it be okay if this second life ended too?
Did he really want to wake up again in that tiny room where winters were freezing and summers sweltering, where the blanket touched the bookshelf at the edge of the bed?
No.
'Even if all this is an illusion… I want this world to keep existing.'
Dione's bright laughter.
Behemoth's low purring that woke him in the mornings.
Madam Canton's gentle concern.
He had two worlds now—
One that didn't need him,
and one that desperately did.
And the latter, this fabricated world, could only endure with Cleio's help.
'…I never got The Matrix, honestly. You can eat steak and taste it for real even if you take the blue pill, so why does everyone insist on swallowing the red one?'