I Became the Teacher of the Imperial Family’s Bastard

063. The Night Becomes a Cradle (5)

To clear up any misunderstandings, I am not a saint.

I am not a supreme judge who makes rulings, nor do I possess extraordinary insight for judgment or discernment compared to others.

Leaving all that aside, whether that fake dies or not, what does it matter to me?

I’ve gained everything I needed here.

I’m busy just organizing information and setting policies.

Nevertheless, the reason I give answers is because questions are asked.

Because I know the necessity of someone who can say even one more word when one knows nothing.

―It is possible. Although the young master behaved badly, he was a very clever and broad-minded child from a young age.

Just as my sister did for me, I judged that this act could also leave a debt in the heart.

So I said,

“What’s the point of killing? It only makes it harder for those left behind.”

“……”

“Isn’t it strange that the one who made the mess and the one who cleans it up are different people? That’s what I think.”

I recalled my experiences during the war.

The prisoner unit was a meat shield.

Many volunteered because they wanted to get out of prison even with that treatment, but the battles we experienced made life in prison seem comfortable in comparison.

I longed for a clear sky, but what I faced was a blood-stained land.

What I wanted was a peaceful sleep, but what I faced was an invasion that lost the distinction between day and night.

There was one who said he would rather return to prison.

There was one who said he wanted to find peace in death.

Yes, let them realize there that death itself was rest.

Execution was too humane a measure for a prisoner.

I don’t think that’s a story limited to just us.

“I don’t know what you think, but…”

“…Yeah.”

“Responsibility is heavy. Exchanging dozens of lives for one life doesn’t add up. I’m not saying to save him. But if the reason you want to kill that guy is to repay a life with a life, that’s not logical.”

What did the fake do?

What I know is that the kid destroyed the dagger he had built and created.

Is he pitiful because he was possessed by a demon and had no choice but to commit a crime?

So what.

As I said before, I have neither sympathy nor anger towards the fake.

If there’s one emotion involved.

“I need Igrosia. More precisely, I need the intelligence of this place.”

That guy destroyed it.

Just thinking about how long it will take to recover gives me a headache.

“The responsibility to restore it lies with that guy. He ruled here for ten years, so he probably knows the job better than you.”

If I were to mention the necessity, that would be it.

It’s a convenient story.

But, I know.

“…Is that so.”

Girgoor is someone who wants to rely on such a convenient story.

Even while rationally judging the fake’s death, he hopes someone will push him from behind because he can’t do it himself.

Girgoor smiled bitterly.

From the way he brushed the fake’s forehead, it was clear he had already made his decision.

“Then what to do. In this condition, he won’t be able to work.”

“Will you save him?”

“…It’s a reprieve. As you said, death is too humane.”

For a moment, he took a breath.

Then he added.

“I’ll make him take responsibility, and then I’ll ask this kid again. What does he want to become?”

Well, at least after paying for his sins, I know he won’t choose execution.

I examined the fake’s body.

I frowned.

‘That crippled prince b*stard.’

Did they really have to mess him up like that?

The reason for leaving only the blood vessels in his head intact while crushing the rest is obvious.

They wanted to make his death as painful as possible.

Despite claiming rational judgment, in the end, emotions took over and they turned him into a rag.

Certainly, in that state, he could never recover by ordinary means.

If I didn’t have a fortunate card, it would have ended up that way.

“There’s one way.”

“Huh?”

“A way to save him. A way to make him walk again.”

Girrgo’s eyes widened.

Soon, wrinkles formed around his eyes.

It was right after that.

He laughed helplessly and asked in a voice mixed with desperation.

“…The price?”

He’s quick to calculate.

That’s rather good.

“Put it on credit.”

“A debt of the heart… You handle people well.”

Well,

“Not to that extent.”

It was an overpraise.

* * *

From noble mtl dot com

The fake writhed in pain.

Eyes did not open, ears did not hear, and the thought of smelling or tasting something was beyond a dream.

He could only groan in pain that erupted from his entire body.

And that too, with only his mind awakened.

Having forgotten the distinction of time, that moment felt like an eternity.

He merely reflected on why this had happened with fragmented thoughts.

He was struck by the Crown Prince.

The hatred that surged at that fact was fleeting, and soon the pain awakened something.

It was the question of ‘why.’

‘For what reason…’

Did he meet such a painful end?

Was it revenge, or perhaps self-loathing?

But why did he feel such deep emotions for ‘that woman’?

‘She…’

Had saved him.

She had filled his belly when he was dying of hunger at the bottom of Igrosia.

It was at that moment he thought.

The imposter doubted.

‘…Was it really her?’

It was a truly strange doubt.

To express it plainly, it was a doubt on the level of questioning whether the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, or whether this continent might actually be flat… a truly absurd doubt.

Thus, he could not understand why he harbored such a question.

But there was a peculiar compulsion that he should.

And as he continued to think, something became clear.

‘…No.’

It wasn’t.

That woman was nothing.

What had been his light and salvation was, from the beginning, not a girl resembling spring but a boy with the form of a stray cat.

Not someone who embraced him like a mother, but someone who tested him at every moment.

He spoke of proving worth.

That coldness made him desire self-improvement and created a need for recognition.

A consistent standard had given him a sense of stability.

He was never one to use words like “together” or “us.”

Ah, why hadn’t he realized this?

For what reason had he been captivated by that girl and destroyed what he truly needed to protect?

Before long, he had forgotten the pain of his flesh.

What began to dominate him was a feeling that could be called either self-reproach or sorrow.

He never thought of himself as someone who would shed tears.

Yet, his eyes were hot.

It was at that moment when he opened his eyes.

Tears streamed down, blurring his vision, and the warm ceiling, which he had never seen in his life, slowly came into focus.

A voice was heard by his ear.

“You’re awake now.”

The fake’s eyes trembled.

He rolled his eyes towards the voice he heard.

Soon, the fake’s expression twisted.

“…Master.”

“You recognize me now?”

Black hair, a face so delicate and androgynous that it was hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl.

Everything, from the stitched-up eye to the characteristic pale skin, spoke.

This boy was his master.

The fake forced himself to rise.

Crash!

Then he fell to the floor.

His whole body shook from the impact.

“Ugh…!”

In a disgraceful position, the fake trembled and pressed his head to the ground.

“…Please kill me.”

In his own mind, death was the only possible atonement.

* * *

Girgore looked down at the man with his legs crossed.

A hollow laugh escaped.

After all the trouble to save him, he now asks to be killed.

It was absurd, yet belatedly, a feeling of welcome arose.

‘This was the kind of child he was.’

So calculating, yet full of affection for himself.

A child who used all calculations solely for his own benefit.

He had never failed.

He never even tried to fail, and it was clear he found such things abhorrent.

Girgore spoke, unable to hide his welcome.

“Now I see the face I know.”

“I will gladly accept my punishment. Please……”

How could he do that?

Girgore got down from the chair.

He squatted down and met the eyes of the man sprawled on the floor.

The man couldn’t bring himself to lift his head and only stared at the floor.

Yes, this child didn’t need to hear that he was okay.

Girgore, who had spent several sleepless nights pondering how to say it, finally found the answer.

“Why would you gladly accept your punishment? It’s not for your benefit.”

“…I will correct myself.”

“Why do you decide the punishment? That’s for me to decide.”

“……”

The focus disappeared from the man’s eyes.

The reason his body trembled was not fear.

Girgore knew.

The child was simply terrified of becoming someone no longer needed.

That was pitiful.

A child who had nothing special, who had only used his wits to survive, now wanted to become a sinner.

“Lift your head.”

At those words, the child, who had only grown in size, slowly lifted his head.

Facing the eyes filled with despair, Girgore spoke.

“Responsibility, you see, is something you bear while alive.”

Looking back, it was a world unfamiliar to Gilgoer.

He had never taken responsibility for anything in his life, nor had he ever thought of doing so.

If it wasn’t necessary, he would discard it.

Believing that was the only answer, he even considered killing this child.

In truth, he knew he didn’t want to.

Yuren had merely pushed him forward.

Thinking about it made Gilgoer smile.

Yuren Pharos, a man he only knew by name, was capable of more than Gilgoer had imagined.

He owed a debt of the heart, and he had to repay it.

For that reason alone, this child had to do his best.

“Don’t try to escape by dying. Take responsibility for what you’ve done. Normalize Igrosia and build more than what you destroyed.”

Thud, the man’s body froze.

His eyes widened as if they would tear apart.

Gilgoer continued, a bit awkwardly.

“It’s the first time. Giving someone a second chance.”

And it’s a second chance for an unforgivable sin.

He denied his own beliefs and the life he had lived to make this choice.

He did it all for a single bond.

So,

“I’ll give you a name.”

He branded him.

“Ias. From today, that’s your name.”

An ancient word he had heard on a long journey.

It meant ‘original sin.’

“Repay it. This time, I’ll be watching.”

It was a name given to the sin born from himself.

As long as either of them lived, this mark of sin would never be erased.

The man’s eyes reddened again.

He bowed his head.

That was the answer.

Girogo laughed bitterly and looked out the window.

‘Hmm, the weather is nice.’

The view of the capital from the Papal Palace was a clear color, unlike Igrosia.

* * *

Who saves the dying?

A healer? Or a priest?

In fact, both can do it.

But if you ask who really saves someone at the level of a corpse, in my opinion, there is only one.

‘If it’s Historia, well.’

As long as they are breathing, they can somehow be restored to normal.

In my previous life, that was the level, and whether it was a blessing in disguise or not, in this life, due to recovering from that mutation, the divine power was strengthened, so even a fake could be made normal with eyes closed.

After returning to the capital, I did not go to the Papal Palace together.

I sent a recommendation letter and a letter enclosed, and I went straight home.

Still, since I returned, I should at least greet my sister and move.

A guy who can’t be filial is not treated as a person.

For that reason, I returned home, and what I saw at home was not my sister, but another guest.

“Your Highness the Princess?”

“Faro…! Ah! Ahem, ahem…!”

Aria was in our garden, and when she saw me, she smiled brightly.

Normally, she would have run straight to me, but for some reason, she cleared her throat and pretended to be modest, straightening her back and saying such words coyly.

“You have arrived. Young Lord. Is the injured place okay?”

Then she looked up at me with sparkling eyes.

It was clear that she was imitating something she had seen while I was away, but since she started by worrying about the place that would be injured in the future, such a thought crossed my mind for a moment.

‘Is she telling me to get hurt?’

It was a brief thought.