He was in a situation where he might never be able to express himself properly, but there was nothing else worth trying. Ed, who seemed to have grasped the gist of the situation, looked equally troubled. After a brief silence, he spoke.
“I shall look for a way. For today, it would be best if you rested and ate something first.”
Unless Edward happened to be some linguistic genius capable of mastering a foreign language in a single day, there was unlikely to be any miraculous solution. Still, Ian had already resigned himself to the situation. He gave a half-hearted nod and picked up his spoon.
He set it down only after finishing roughly half of the perfectly seasoned potato soup. When Ed urged him to eat a little more, Ian shook his head and tapped the tabletop. It was his way of saying he would finish it later, and Ed understood immediately. He said as much, left the tray where it was, and headed out.
It was becoming increasingly obvious that the only reason Ian had hardly noticed the language barrier until now was because Ed was so perceptive.
The door clicked shut.
Only after the sound of Ed’s footsteps had completely faded did Ian push his fingers into his mouth.
He expertly prodded the back of his throat a few times, and almost at once, everything he had swallowed came back up.
He spat it into the half-empty bowl, then poured the entire contents onto the floor. Afterward, he dropped the bowl as though it had slipped from his hands, making it impossible to tell that he had deliberately vomited.
A sharp crash rang through the room.
The door flew open almost immediately, and soon a maid was cleaning up the shattered dishes. Ed did not return, which probably meant he had gone to see his master.
Even after she had finished cleaning, Ian could feel the maid watching him from the corner of her eye.
He had no choice but to feign drowsiness.
He returned to bed and closed his eyes.
Only after quite some time had passed did he finally hear the door close.
“…”
It had been quite a while since he realized they were drugging his food.
Since his body was far from its usual condition, the effects had been tolerable at first.
But only at first.
In Ian’s line of work, going several days without sleep was hardly unusual. Even when he forced himself to rest, four hours was about the most he ever managed.
So spending more than half of every day asleep for several days in a row simply didn’t make sense.
Once he realized that falling asleep left him unable to regain his senses properly, he naturally began to notice Ed checking how much of every meal he had eaten.
The reason he had done nothing despite knowing all this was simple.
Until now, there had been no reason to.
It was better to be drugged into a stupor and look half-dead than to jump at every footstep beyond the door.
In his previous life, such carelessness would have been unthinkable.
But ever since waking up here, Ian had been sunk in a state of profound lethargy.
Is this a dream, or is it reality?
Ian rose from the bed where he had been lying like a corpse and looked toward the empty terrace.
If he wanted an answer, there was only one way to find out.
After confirming that the hallway outside was quiet, Ian slowly approached the terrace without making a sound.
Night had fallen over the world beyond the windows, leaving it as dark as an abandoned island.
Click.
Ian opened the terrace door with an expressionless face and took a single step outside.
“Hi there.”
The voice came from above him.
Ian slowly raised his head.
A young man was smiling down at him.
He was perched precariously on the narrow stone ledge above the window, a strip of masonry not even a handspan wide, his chin resting in one hand as he grinned from ear to ear.
The sight was utterly bizarre.
“Go back inside while I’m still asking nicely.”
It was a dark night, but beneath the moonlight, the man’s hair looked almost purple.
It was a color rarely seen in the real world.
Yet that was hardly the most striking thing about him.
There were letters carved into his face.
Pitch-black letters.
Jagged and disorderly, as though someone had scratched them into his skin with the tip of something sharp, the markings covered his left cheek and continued all the way down his neck.
Ian could not read the language of this place, but even so, he could tell they weren’t anything refined, like verses from the Bible.
As though perfectly aware of where Ian’s gaze had landed, the corners of the man’s mouth stretched even wider.
“As you can see from my face, I’m such a virtuous person that I’m not very good at saying cruel things.”
He was certainly an accomplished liar.
Apparently accustomed to reactions like this, the man casually tapped his cheek with his fingertips.
When Ian still said nothing, he tilted his head with a small, “Oh?”
Then, in the next instant, he sprang lightly from the ledge and landed on the terrace.
“You don’t believe me, huh. Well, I suppose this is a first for our dear prince, isn’t it? I hear that in Rox, even the lowborn have clean skin, right?”
…Prince?
Ian frowned at the unsettling form of address.
The man interpreted the reaction however he pleased and burst into loud laughter.
“Hahaha!”
Then, without being asked a single question, he launched into a breathless torrent of words.
“You should be grateful I’m the one who came. Claude wanted to come, but I volunteered personally. You still don’t know what a hard-ass that bastard is, do you? He’s the type to put a sword to your throat the second you open the window. Right?”
Ian had no idea who Claude was.
The man, however, shook his head as though that hardly mattered and continued in an almost pitying tone.
“You really ought to learn to be a little more flexible. Like me. I came rushing over because I was worried our poor prince might be all lonely and frightened by himself. Ah, what a relief you’re alive. I honestly thought I’d never get to see you.”
“…”
“I mean, when I saw our prince bleeding all over that carriage, I thought, Ah, that’s it for him, isn’t it? But then—bam! The second I think that, you just—whoosh!—start breathing again. Phew. That’s what you call being on the same wavelength, right? Huh? No?”
“…”
“Hey, are you even listening to me? Or are you one of those stuck-up types who refuses to speak to low-lives like me?”
He spoke so quickly that Ian wondered whether he was breathing at all.
Even if Ian’s throat had been perfectly healthy, answering that barrage of questions properly would have been difficult.
Weariness crept across his face.
Ian took a step toward the man.
There was no point responding to such nonsensical chatter.
Nor did he have any need to.
After all, Ian had not stepped onto the terrace—despite knowing someone was there—to have a conversation.
“Huh?”
The man was just opening his mouth again when Ian spotted the briefest opening and reached for the dagger at his waist.
The man reacted instantly, his hand shooting up.
But Ian was faster.
He had already snatched the dagger and withdrawn.
The moment the man realized what had been taken, his expression turned cold.
“Hey, killing me isn’t going to solve…”
He shook his head like someone dealing with a naive young master and extended his hand.
Give it back. It’s dangerous.
If you return it now, I’ll pretend this never happened.
That was what his placating gesture seemed to say.
Ian had no intention of complying.
He raised the dagger high.
The viciously sharp blade flashed through the air.
A look of exasperation crossed the man’s face.
I told you killing me won’t solve anything. Why are all these noble brats so damn impatient?
At this point, he decided it would probably be easier to strike the prince on the neck and knock him unconscious.
But when he looked ahead, the prince he had expected to come charging at him had not moved at all.
“…Huh?”
Drip. Drip.
The man froze, one hand still extended.
Drops of blood splashed onto the floor.
He let out a disbelieving scoff.
Weren’t you going to stab me?
His gaze dropped to Ian’s wrist.
A deep cut had opened across it, blood pouring freely from the wound.
Then the dagger rose again.
There wasn’t even time to question what was happening.
Ian slashed his wrist a second time without the slightest hesitation.
He no longer seemed to be paying any attention to the man at all.
Blood immediately began pooling at his feet.
Then came the pain.
So sharp.
So vivid.
So undeniably real that Ian’s eyes widened.
“Hah.”
And with that, Ian was forced to accept the answer to the question that had tormented him for the past two weeks.
This feeling of blood running down my skin… There’s no way this is a dream.
It was absurd.
He knew that.
But this scenery, unchanged no matter how many times he slept and woke again, was telling him that this was reality.
At first, Ian had not cared.
Yet as one day bled into the next, he had eventually been forced to understand.
But I’m sure I died.
That memory was still vivid.
But so was the blood dripping onto the floor right now.
As Ian sank into his thoughts, the man who had been staring at him in stunned silence suddenly cried out, as though he had finally realized something.
“Wait a minute. Wait, wait, wait! Hey, if you’re going to hurt yourself, do it in secret! Why are you using my dagger? Now it looks like I’m the one who cut you!”
“……”
“If I get dragged away and punished because of this ridiculous misunderstanding, are you going to take responsibility? You’ve never been whipped in the same spot over and over until the scars look like tree branches carved into your back, have you, Prince? Let me tell you, it really hurts.”
Then blame your own reputation if nobody trusts you.
Ian had exchanged only a few words with the man, but the conclusion seemed entirely plausible.
With someone like him, most people would probably find such an accusation perfectly believable.
Then again, people like this were always the last to recognize what they were like themselves.
The man clearly did not think he was at fault in the slightest.
His aggrieved protests only grew louder.
At this point, his endless chatter had become little more than noise.
Unable to tolerate it any longer, Ian narrowed his eyes and turned away.
He strode back into the room and threw open the door leading to the hallway.
A startled voice rang out behind him.
“Wh-what the—!”
The men stationed in the hallway had been standing around with bored expressions.
Now they all turned toward him at once.
They looked genuinely startled.
Apparently, they had assumed Ian was sleeping quietly inside, only for the door to suddenly fly open.
Ian paid them no attention.
He raised the dagger in his hand.
At the sudden sight of a weapon, the man nearest him instinctively stepped back.
“Put that down right—”
But once again, the blade already had a destination.
Almost as though putting on a show, Ian dragged it straight across the wrist he had already wounded.
Bright red blood welled from the third self-inflicted gash and streamed down to the floor.
“Huh?”
For a moment, the guards simply stood there with their mouths hanging open, unable to understand what they were seeing.
Then startled shouts erupted from every direction.
And really, that was only natural.
A man who had been as quiet as the dead for two straight weeks had suddenly thrown open his door and begun deliberately cutting himself in front of them.
Anyone would have been horrified.
“Stop the bleeding! Stop the bleeding…!”