Scary Guy, Bad Guy, Reckless Guy (3)
Aslan was a lunatic who wanted to rule as an absolute monarch—he even planned to abolish the parliament altogether.And the crown prince? He was the kind of man who should never be king.
If, by some chance, that incident were to happen and Melchior still managed to become king, then he couldn't possibly be a benevolent ruler.
"I have to live out the rest of my life in this world too. Having a tyrant ascend the throne would be a nightmare.But if the only options are Hitler, Stalin, and the protagonist, what other choice do I have?If this country's ever going to function properly, Arthur has to be the one to take the crown."
Cleio felt more certain than ever that he must support Arthur's claim to the throne.
He had just poured several million dinars into registering his new estate. There was no way he could treat this world the same as before anymore.
In truth, Isiel wasn't the only one who saw Arthur as the hope for change.All of Arthur's companions carried some noble cause of their own.
Compared to them, Cleio felt a little sheepish—he was mostly hoping to live comfortably off steady rent income thanks to political stability.
Still… the grand roles should be left to Arthur and his comrades.
No matter what anyone said, he wasn't the "Hero" of this world.He was just an NPC inserted by the author to make the story flow smoothly.
"Even if the tone or personality varied slightly between versions of Final Draft, the core was the same.Arthur is the traditional protagonist—the hero who leads this world's history in the right direction."
In real history, there's no such thing as a single "right direction."World history doesn't belong to heroes; it isn't shaped by the will and actions of just a few people.
No one living in their own era knows which choices were the "right" ones.The outcomes of their actions exist beyond their own lifetime.
But in a written story, the judgment of history is already set—It exists as the ending the author intends to reach.
In this tale, Arthur—the hero—was destined to lead the world,and his choices would forever be deemed righteous.
…
While Arthur and Cleio were each lost in their own thoughts, the carriage arrived at the royal palace.
The entrance road, brilliantly illuminated, was lined with carriages bearing the crests of countless noble houses.
Isiel, dismounting from her horse, handed the reins to the stablehand and opened the carriage door for Cleio.
Perhaps because of the earlier conversation, Cleio's eyes kept drifting toward her.With her sharp perception, there was no way Isiel didn't notice.
"What were you talking about with Lord Arthur that you keep sneaking glances at me?"
"…About Professor Rosa Fehite?"
Usually serious, Isiel's demeanor grew even more solemn.She glanced between Arthur—who had stepped down from the carriage—and Cleio, standing nearby.
Even from that single name, she seemed to understand everything.
"Use her title properly. She is the knight I respect most."
Watching Isiel skillfully escort Cleio, Arthur took a few steps back.
"Then go enjoy the ball! I'll go pay my respects to Father.When it's almost over, I'll send word to the stables to come fetch you."
Considering the tense currents running between the three royal princes,Cleio could understand why Arthur wanted to avoid the ballroom.He simply nodded.
Isiel departed for the reception room to meet the Viscount of Kishion.
Cleio crossed the carpeted hallway alone, past the royal guards standing in formation at the entrance.
The royal palace, its chandeliers blazing with light, was majestic and magnificent that night.
When he finally entered the central hall, a junior official who recognized him called out his name.
A name without a title drew no attention at all.Dione and Arthur had been right.
"So this is what they meant by 'dressing up to blend in.'"
The Novantes' party was nothing compared to this.
From generals wearing uniforms heavy with medals,to foreign princesses whose towering tiaras looked like they might snap their necks—everyone was dressed to the nines, and the air was thick with perfume.
The orchestra by the windows was playing a light dance tune.
The adjoining salons buzzed with laughter and chatter.Some couples had already begun to dance early.
The night was still young.
At the far end of the hall, the twin thrones of the King and Queen stood empty—and so did the slightly lower seat meant for the Crown Prince.
Cleio took a glass of champagne from a tray carried by a servant and sipped slowly.
Fitting for late summer, the pale drink carried a delicate scent of elderflower and citrus.Its crisp acidity left an elegant, refreshing aftertaste.
"Yeah… royal alcohol really is on another level."
Draining the last drop with regret, he blinked twice.
The moment he activated [Perception], the faint murmurs of the hall grew as loud as speeches.The orchestra's tune, the tightness of his clothes—everything felt amplified.
But now wasn't the time to focus on discomfort.
"I don't know why the crown prince sent me an invitation,but since I'm here, I'm not leaving empty-handed."
At a banquet of this scale, the key players of the story were bound to appear.
Having boarded the same ship as Arthur, Cleio figured he might as well study the faces of those he'd inevitably become entangled with later.
Leaning casually against the wall to hide his dizziness, he quietly scanned the hall.
Thankfully—or perhaps not—a plain-looking boy like him didn't attract any young ladies looking for dance partners.
Under [Perception], his vision sharpened until he could clearly make out the expressions of people standing against the far wall.
He mentally flipped through the "Memory Scroll" of The Promise, cross-referencing it with what he saw.
The first person he identified was Duke Joseph Cruel—a middle-aged man with neatly combed graying hair, thin lips, and a firm jaw that gave him a cold impression.
"That bald guy up front making a toast must be Count Ramsdale,and the burly one covered in medals is Ambassador Schultz.So the people from Aslan's faction arrived early."
That was when—
"Speak of the devil…"
"His Highness, Prince Aslan of Riognan, enters!"
The same junior official who had halfheartedly announced Cleio's arrival now shouted with ten times the vigor to herald the Second Prince.
The orchestra's music softened, and the crowd's murmurs swelled.From the entrance, people bowed in a wave, one after another, like falling dominoes.
Cleio too bowed slightly, following the crowd's motion.
Then he raised his head again—
Striding boldly through the center of the hall as if he were already king,the Second Prince's steps were measured, his robe rippling with poised grace.
Aslan Riognan.
At twenty-five, the Second Prince stood tall and proud—a handsome young man with commanding posture.
His features bore some resemblance to Arthur's,but the color of his hair and eyes gave him an entirely different aura.
He had inherited his mother's jet-black hair and eyes—traits that made him stand out among the people of Albion.
His mother, Juleika, was a princess of the Brunnen Dominion's Castilien Imperial family,and a cousin to the current Emperor of Brunnen.
"Among the three brothers, he's the only one who looks different.That's Aslan's quiet complex—why he's obsessed with the legend of the Conquering King.Even though it's just dominant genetics giving him black hair.I mean, even I, a humanities major, know that much.This world seriously needs a scientific revolution."
The prince, unaware that Cleio even existed, strode past with arrogant composure. Cleio fixed the prince's profile firmly in his mind.
It was hard to believe that the same prince—still so young-faced, with an air of immaculate self-restraint—would someday commit all those brutal acts.
Without a single sidelong glance, Aslan walked toward the dais. Below the royal thrones, two seats were set aside for the second and third princes.
Taking his place, Aslan gazed up at the higher throne reserved for the Crown Prince, his eyes shadowed with complicated emotion.
Then he looked for a long time at the empty chair beside him—one that would not be filled tonight.
Under the effect of [Perception], every flicker of Aslan's movement was crystal clear to Cleio.
"Ah… when his expression changes, the whole atmosphere changes with it."
The prince, his black eyes steeped in ancient resentment, now truly looked the part of a villain.But judging by the way several young noblewomen stole glances at him, whispering and blushing, Cleio wasn't the only one forming opinions.
"Well, bad boys always have their fan base."
The absurdity of it made Cleio snicker quietly to himself.
A flood of memories came back—particularly from that romance novel he'd once proofread when money was tight.
"In romance stories, the cold, black-haired guy is always the male lead.This one just picked the wrong genre—he's wasting his youth seething with jealousy toward his own brother."
Duke Cruel approached Aslan first, bowing slightly.They were clearly exchanging private words.
"Though I can hear every word."
"Will Her Majesty the Queen not be attending tonight?"
"My mother said she wasn't feeling well."
"I see… I suppose she'd rather spend a quiet evening than watch Your Highness seated below Prince Melchior."
"So that's it—she couldn't stand seeing her son sitting in a lower chair than Melchior.And they're saying that out loud, huh."
There wasn't a single clear supporter of Melchior visible in the hall.
But in a way, everyone except Aslan's faction could be considered Melchior's supporters.
As they awaited the Crown Prince's arrival, expectant murmurs filled the room.Countless lips spoke Melchior's name with reverence and admiration.
Unlike Aslan—who relied on the pro-Brunnen faction of nobles—Melchior, whose mother was a commoner, owed his influence not to lineage but to his uncanny social grace.He had won popularity and respect through a masterful blend of charm and cunning diplomacy.
"His mother died young, too.Even so, the Crown Prince supposedly built vast networks across both the business world and high society.He used persuasion and intelligence gathering in perfect harmony—became Crown Prince without even a formal investiture.Oh right, and he had that silent confidant… Lord Thaethurn."
But the figure described in the manuscript—Thaethurn Tristein—was nowhere to be seen.Nor had Melchior himself appeared, even as the evening grew late.
"The Crown Prince is running late.Well, the protagonist always makes a late entrance."
Unable to endure the noise any longer, Cleio slipped out through a side door, hoping for some air.
Despite Arthur's concerns, Melchior probably wouldn't pay Cleio any attention.
"With this many guests, who'd care about one random student?Arthur's just paranoid—he's been through too much in this version."
The problem started when Cleio wandered too far, looking for a quiet spot.
All the attendants were busy at the ballroom, leaving the dim corridors deserted.Not even a guard was in sight—no one to ask for directions.
He was definitely lost.
"The ballroom was on the first floor when I came in… so why am I on the second floor now?!"
After standing for so long and wandering aimlessly, his legs and back ached.
Through the windows across the vast courtyard, he could still see the brightly lit ballroom—but the more he walked, the farther it seemed to get.
"Maybe that corner leads back? If not, I'll just climb out a window.I can use the [Slowfall] spell to land safely."
He had been warned not to use magic inside the palace, but if he stayed lost much longer, he'd never make it home.
Dragging his tired body, Cleio turned a corner—and froze.
At the beginning of the long corridor, within a wall niche, hung a life-sized portrait illuminated by gas lamps.
A woman in white stood at an angle, turning slightly to look over her shoulder.
And "Kim Jungjin" knew that face.
"…Min San?!"
Min San had been the Madonna of the history department.
Pale-skinned, long, elegant eyes—her beauty had an icy grace.Rumor had it she was of mixed heritage, though no one really knew.
Hers wasn't a "friendly" kind of prettiness. Yet when she smiled faintly, it felt like your heart was being squeezed tight.
The woman in the painting, with her light violet eyes, looked down at Cleio.Her long, white hair, her height, her bearing—everything was identical to Min San.
Below the portrait, a brass plaque read:
"Kim Jungjin" wanted to yell at his own subconscious.
"Was I really this pathetic?"
Sure, he'd had a long, unrequited crush—but to project her face onto a fictional character?
He and Min San had never been close.
She was polite to everyone, occasionally even starting conversations with him,but her replies were always brief—no more than necessary.
She'd entered and graduated top of her class,and she came from a wealthy, distinguished family.There was no reason she'd ever pay attention to a broke scholarship student like him.
Call it pride, but he had never wanted to delude himself or act foolishly.
"No… something's off.Nothing from my real world has ever appeared here before.There's no way I could have painted Min San's face into this world myself."
As he considered other possibilities, his eyes dropped to the silver ring on his left index finger—the one engraved with [Promise].
Why did this world contain an item identical to his university graduation ring?And why did the "final manuscript" feature a character modeled so clearly after Min San?
A single, unnerving hypothesis began to take shape.