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As time passes, humans lose their desire for revenge and anger, even toward their enemies, and begin to feel pity. The members of the Horgan Unit, who until summer had found satisfaction in Libertan's pain and screams, gradually began to avoid his cage. Even the callous Chenko occasionally urged for Libertan's end.
But Valentin did not kill Libertan.
He simply waited in silence. For the moment Libertan would stand up.
Valentin waited endlessly. For the moment his fifth life would begin.
He waited and waited, but as of today, when the autumn torrential rains began to fall, nothing had changed. Libertan did not rise again, and Valentin's fifth life did not begin.
Valentin still remains in this world.
Still, in this place.
“Chenko, call the cleanup crew. Dispose of the rebel leader's corpse.”
At those words, Chenko, who had been standing blankly with a vacant expression, started.
“You've finally come to your senses... No, I understand. I'll call them immediately.”
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed. Turning his back on Libertan, Valentin looked toward the Weasel, who was busy wiping away cold sweat while standing far from the cage after delivering the imperial decree.
“Any other messages?”
“Pardon?”
“Were there no other communications besides this?”
When Valentin demanded an answer while waving the letter, a flicker of something crossed the Weasel's eyes.
A nostalgic scent that twisted his heart surfaced, and he felt a parching thirst in his throat. All his blocked senses began to sharpen. That elegant and noble handwriting he hadn't seen in so long. What first greeting had his princess sent? With what thoughts was she waiting for him? His heart tightened at the thought of the letter that Larisa's hand must have touched.
However, Valentin's expectations plummeted in an instant.
“If you are referring to the letter I delivered previously, there has been nothing received this time.”
“...Nothing?”
“Pardon? Yes.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Yes... Was there supposed to be something?”
That couldn't be.
According to his memory, there was no promised sender. Yes, there certainly wasn't, but...
It bothered him. As he realized this, the world—which for the past half-year had been distorted and warped without a single ray of light—instantly regained its true form. A scent that should have been impossible to detect by a nose that had lost its function to the smell of rotting corpses seemed to linger like a dream.
Why has there been not a single communication for the past six months?
Frowning with discomfort, Valentin arrived at a space used as a makeshift office in the musty basement. Beside the desk, newspapers published from spring until now were piled up, some resting on the desk. They were the editions of the dates Larisa was mentioned.
Opening a drawer, he saw letters that arrived periodically from the Imperial Palace. As he always had, as if it were a daily routine, he had been receiving reports of Larisa's every move. For half a year, Larisa had shown no particular unusual activity.
She seemed peaceful, and it felt as though she had adapted wonderfully to the time without Valentin. While he felt proud of her, he also felt a twist of nausea. Despite being accustomed to watching her from afar, it irritated him that Larisa did not seek him out, stood on her own, and fearlessly appeared at every banquet of the Nikitin family or tennis tournament hosted by the Imperial Family.
I suppose she has time to play, but no time to miss me.
Only one page arrived each time. The sender was always either Ivan or Vasily. Never Larisa. Even though she could send one at any time, and knowing that he stayed not far away, there was absolutely no contact until the end.
What a disillusioning selfishness.
Knowing it was a disillusioning, childish, pathetic, and foolish wait, Valentin still waited for Larisa. Whenever he missed Larisa's scent unbearably, he would grip a pen and write the sentence 'To my beloved Princess Larisa' on paper, only to give up. He wanted to rush to her right now and devour her tender lips, but he could not put it into action.
Valentin was trapped here.
This place was his grave.
While praying his entire life for the curse to end, he could not possibly escape it. He merely waited for Libertan to vanish from this world... He hoped the nightmare would end and everything would remain as it was... But he also waited for everything to end and return to the beginning... The bedroom ceiling viewed through the body of a five-year-old would provide relief along with frustration... Valentin had already grown accustomed to that endless repetition...
But Larisa, if you would reach out your hand.
If your existence could reach me.
Then, as I have always been helplessly drawn to you, I could stand calmly by your side as if nothing had happened.
The curse would lose its power. You yourself are the proof. The precedent that even a weak coward could move forward was Larisa—you.
“Captain.”
“....”
“Shall we clear this place out as well?”
Of course, the answer 'Yes' did not come. Valentin gripped his throbbing forehead and silently steadied his breathing.
Then, a flamboyant envelope tucked between dozens of letters caught his eye. It was the first letter that had arrived from Larisa when she was thirteen, as lively and lovely as a newborn foal.
How did that end up coming to me?
[Hide me here for a bit.]
He remembered.
The shock of that fleeting moment was still vivid to Valentin.
It was as if the god he had revered his entire life had fallen to earth. Valentin could say nothing while facing his god. He thought he might have babbled something, or perhaps he had just stared blankly. Larisa's voice, heard right before his eyes, felt like a choir of angels descending from the sky of the abyss.
It was that ecstatic.
And that was why it was terrifying.
[You hid here as soon as we crossed paths. Right here.]
Flight was an instinct.
In a world that had naturally begun to revolve around him, a future where he and Larisa crossed paths did not exist. No, it must not exist.
While hoping that the fourth life he had encountered would be the absolute final one, Valentin always kept an unfortunate ending in mind. Since the worst among them was undoubtedly Larisa's death, he was satisfied with watching her from a distance.
He had countlessly imagined holding Larisa's hand, sharing warm warmth, and whispering blessings, but he had never dreamed of making it a reality.
If he were to cross the line of being a stranger and share emotions and thoughts with her—she who was fulfilling just by existing—an answerless fear and anxiety would crush Valentin. He feared a future where, driven by the obsession that he could not lose Larisa, he would control and manipulate her world.
Because Lara is precious.
Because he must protect her.
Protect...
'...Truly?'
As he swallowed a habitual sneer, his throat stung as if a needle had been driven into it.
The downside of a life repeated without fatigue is that one repeatedly confirms their own rock bottom.
Valentin was anxious about Larisa.
Because he might lose her? Yes. But that wasn't all. At some point, Valentin began to feel fear toward Larisa herself. He found her presence, which was too bloated in his world, repulsive.
This emotion, somewhat different from blind loyalty toward a god, was precisely... terror.
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