Frondier approached Atjie with careful steps.
'...It’s fine.'
Nothing has been decided yet.
Even if everyone else has reached a conclusion.
Until I confirm it with my own eyes—
Stop.
Frondier reached his hand out toward Atjie, but just like with Malia, his hand halted in the air.
It was a strange sensation. There was none of the resistance one normally feels when being blocked by a wall.
Within Frondier’s perception, his hand continued extending forward, yet the result was that it had never extended at all.
If he had to put it into words, it felt as if Atjie was slipping out of the path Frondier’s hand was taking.
Most people wouldn’t be able to understand what was happening, but Frondier could form a faint hypothesis.
'Another world...?'
Atjie could be seen right now, yet somehow he did not seem to be located in this world.
Frondier remained inside this world, and so did his hand. So even if he could see Atjie, his outstretched hand could not reach him.
Like this, there was no way to know whether he was dead or alive.
More than that—
'...This isn’t Pandemonium.'
One of the possibilities that Atjie might still be alive collapsed.
Frondier unconsciously swallowed. He was tense.
Slowly, the reality he had been turning away from crawled up his back.
Frondier maintaining his composure right now wasn’t because of a strong mentality. Nor was it because he had a solution.
He was simply looking away.
He gathered every difficult possibility, forcing new hypotheses into his head. When one collapsed, he created another.
His thoughts drifted toward areas with even lower likelihood, areas unverified. From there onward, it was already the realm of delusion—thoughts formed only to prove Atjie was alive.
But the truth here was brutally simple and clear.
Atjie was dead.
That was all there was to it, and yet, to deny that one fact, his mind kept spinning.
How long had it been?
“...Frondier.”
Police, magicians, and healers had gathered to retrieve Atjie’s body, but after eventually giving up because they couldn’t touch it, they left.
When Frondier first met her, Malia had collapsed, but she had since composed herself considerably.
Only after crying for a long time did Malia manage to hear what had happened, and she issued orders to her household for investigation. She talked with other magicians and teachers about being unable to touch Atjie’s body.
What kind of magic that was, or if it was even magic at all. How much the Imperial Palace understood of the situation.
She even calmed down enough to check the surroundings of the place where Atjie had fallen, discussing what might have occurred.
...During that long, long time.
Frondier had not spoken a single word, staring at Atjie with eyes that had dried stiff.
“Let’s go back, Frondier.”
Malia said.
When she first encountered Frondier, she was the one who collapsed, but now she had recovered far more.
The problem wasn’t her.
“...I’ll stay here.”
“Frondier...”
Malia’s voice was filled with sorrow.
She had cried a lot. Only after crying could she come to her senses. Only then could she accept reality and prepare herself, even a little, to move forward.
Frondier could not.
He had not cried yet.
And most likely, he would not cry—not even at the moment he died.
All this time, Frondier had continued—
“It’s fine.”
Frondier spoke with a parched voice.
“I’ll return soon.”
“...”
Frondier’s condition was serious.
He had flown here at full speed, expelling nearly all his mana. He might not have been completely depleted, but his mental and physical exhaustion was severe.
Unlike Malia—who had been steadied by those around her—Frondier had not moved an inch during all this time.
As if even twitching a single finger would destroy everything, Frondier stayed exactly like that.
Malia, watching him, thought she needed to somehow get him to eat something. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
After repeating several very small breaths, Malia spoke.
“...I’ll be waiting at the mansion.”
“Yes.”
Malia spoke with calmness, even beyond that—with a layer of emotionless neutrality—and walked away.
Frondier did not know how to endure grief yet. It was not something Malia could teach him. Every person has their own way of handling it.
Frondier needed time. If he believed that himself, Malia could only respect it.
When Malia had taken a few slow steps forward—
“...’s fine.”
She heard Frondier’s voice.
Thinking he was calling for her, she turned back—but Frondier was still in ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ the exact same posture, frozen like a wooden statue.
Only his voice moved.
“It’s fine.”
Like a thread of wind brushing past her ear.
“He wasn’t hurt.”
What that meant, she could not know.
***
Atjie de Roach was dead.
The eldest son of House Roach, the pinnacle of spearmanship, the object of admiration for every warrior of Constel.
...The Sword-and-Spear, Atjie.
His death plunged the Empire into great shock, and rumors about it spread loudly among the citizens.
The chaos spread through the PRO headquarters, Constel, and even the Imperial Palace.
But the deeper one went inside the palace—
A suffocating silence crushed every attendant.
Deep within, where the Emperor, the Empress, and the Imperial Princess resided—
Only here did all outside noise flee like frightened mice.
“Your Highness. It has already been two days.”
“That is correct. Please open the door.”
“Your Highness...!”
Before Philly Terst’s door—
The attendants called her with desperate expressions.
It had been two days since Empress Philly had locked herself inside, refusing all water and food. The attendants could do nothing but pace anxiously.
Around the end of the first full day, one attendant had tried to force the door open.
The devotion was admirable.
But as he struggled with the lock—
Philly opened the door herself and blasted the attendant away with magic—
Then went back inside and locked it again.
Since then, the attendants only cried, “Your Highness!” No one dared try to enter again.
And this applied not only to them.
“...Mom.”
Knock, knock.
Aten knocked gently on Philly’s door.
But no reply came from within.
Philly had never once ignored Aten unless she was absent.
Yet this time, behind the knock came only cold silence.
No one could approach Philly now.
In terms of status and authority, the Terst Emperor could see her if he wished, but the Emperor respected Philly’s will and left her alone.
Inside the room, outside voices continued to plead for her.
But Philly sat silently in a chair.
Tap. Tap.
She tapped her fingers on the table before her.
At first, the tapping was messy, stained with regret and resentment, but as time passed, it became steady like a metronome. Philly herself didn’t even realize it.
If anyone had been near Philly—no matter who they were—they would have known instantly that this rhythm was not normal.
She tapped her finger every one second.
Without even a 0.1-second deviation.
With absolutely no meaning.
'...If something like an unchangeable fate exists.'
If something like that truly existed—
Philly’s foresight was undoubtedly the superior version of it.
Because she could change the futures she saw.
She could avoid danger the moment she sensed something ominous. Her foresight had played a massive role in firmly establishing her power and foundation as Empress.
Even if it was only a sensation, that sensation was real, and Philly had escaped danger countless times because of it.
Which is why—
'...You saw it.'
Regret she could not endure swallowed her whole.
Her foresight had grown stronger.
Not just a feeling anymore—something she could perceive with her senses.
She had seen a man collapsed before Malia, and she had seen Malia crying.
Whether the man was Frondier, Atjie, or someone else didn’t matter.
She could have saved them.
Because her foresight was something that could be changed.
It wasn’t the type of foresight that could not be altered.
And yet, despite being able to change it—she failed to change it.
'...What were you doing, Philly Terst.'
Reaching the point where no excuse was possible, Philly was driven to the edge.
'If only I had judged better.'
Where had she erred?
What information did she need?
What preparation, what countermeasures should she have taken?
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Her finger-tapping grew more precise.
Her eyes gradually lost focus.
No matter how hard she thought, no answer came.
She didn’t know what she should have known, or where she had gone wrong.
Right. Now she understood.
It was because she was Philly Terst that she could not produce the answer.
Because she was human.
A dull, foolish human who could not stop something even after seeing it beforehand.
If she had dedicated everything to reading the future—
If she had aligned all her thoughts to calculation and response—
Then for “Philly Terst,” things like humanity were unnecessary.
If she had discarded just that, then something like this—
Vrrr—
“!”
Philly jumped. Her tapping stopped.
Her phone was ringing.
She had set all her notifications to silent. She did not want to hear anything, nor be disturbed.
But regardless of her wishes—
There was one person she absolutely had to answer.
Someone she must not avoid, someone from whom she must accept punishment.
Philly looked at the screen.
“Frondier.”
A breath escaped her naturally.
“...Hoo.”
She had to say it.
That she had foreseen it.
That even knowing, she failed to stop it.
With trembling hands, Philly brought the phone to her ear.
“...Yes.”
A short voice conveying that she had answered.
Frondier spoke.
[Miss Philly.]
At that single sentence—
Philly folded over like a doll with its breath knocked out.
Her fingers trembled so badly the phone might break. She clenched her teeth so Frondier wouldn’t hear her collapsing breath.
[Please help me.]
Frondier said.
He asked for help.
He had no idea about Philly’s condition.
He did not know she had already seen everything in her foresight.
'...Right.'
But if Frondier wanted help—
Even if everything was already too late—even if everything had already ended—
If Frondier said so—
She could still help.
This time, she would not make a mistake.
She could pour everything she had into a perfect calculation.
Philly Terst was a human capable of that.
[Miss Philly, I need you.]
But Frondier spoke as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
[Your wisdom, Lady Philly Terst, is what I need.]
“...Wisdom, you say?”
What did that mean?
What did Frondier know to be speaking like this?
[Because I am someone who lacks wisdom.]
As if he knew what Philly was about to do—words that stopped her.
“...I’m the same, Frondier. I’m someone who has no such thing as wisdom.”
Philly had failed.
She was not someone whose wisdom Frondier should borrow.
So she was going to throw everything away.
[That isn’t true.]
But Frondier denied it effortlessly.
[Because now, I no longer fight alone.]
“...!”
—You always fight alone, don’t you, human sloth Frondier.
Those were words Philly had once said.
Words that had become a lesson, carved into him even now.
Unable to speak, Philly tapped the table again out of habit.
...Tap, tap.
But the rhythm was a mess.
And Philly’s eyes gradually regained their focus.
Her tapping soon stopped entirely.
“...What are you planning, Frondier?”
She clenched her fist.
