Chapter 60: Chapter 60: Fix him
In the original novel, Johan occupied a villain role so quintessentially devious that readers would pause their reading to punch pillows in his effigy. His machinations against the kingdom and particularly his vendetta against Carlton earned him devoted hatred across the fandom. When he vanished for over half a year following his ultimate betrayal—a calculated scheme to assassinate Carlton—readers celebrated with virtual champagne toasts in forum threads titled "JOHAN IS GONE PARTY (BYOB)".
Yet despite his moral bankruptcy, a significant faction of readers found themselves conflicted. Their moral compasses spun uselessly in the magnetic field of Johan’s exquisite features. Forum signatures declared "Johan Was Wrong But He Looked So Right" and "I Can Fix Him (His Ethics, Not His Face)". The cognitive dissonance of despising his actions while coveting his appearance created a particular brand of readership whiplash.
Chief among these aesthetics-over-ethics advocates was the creator of the fanfic sensation that now rivaled the original novel’s popularity—the very reality Carlton had been unwillingly vacationing in for nearly a week. Her manifesto, posted as author’s notes on Chapter Sixty-nine, declared: "It is fundamentally criminal to waste bone structure like Johan’s on irredeemable villainy." With righteous determination befitting a crusader, she set about rehabilitating Johan’s character through the transformative power of Plot Revision.
Even one of her fanfic Chapters—titled "Silver Mirrors of the Soul: Johan’s Redemption Arc (Explicit, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family)"—gained such tremendous popularity that it rivaled the original novel in both readership and merchandising opportunities. Literary purists wept into their collector’s edition hardcovers while the redemption-hungry masses devoured each new Chapter, leaving comments like "OMG I KNEW HE WAS GOOD ALL ALONG" and "I would let this man murder my entire family and still thank him."
And so, with the godlike power granted to all who wield keyboards in fanfiction realms, she performed narrative alchemy—Johan’s villainous actions sprung not from malevolence but misunderstanding. His attempts to eliminate Carlton were recast as tragic misunderstood hottie operating under childhood misconceptions about complex family dynamics. His betrayal of the kingdom became a complex double-agent maneuver to save it from greater threats. Each deplorable action received careful retrofitting to preserve both Johan’s moral integrity and, more importantly, the aesthetic justice of allowing such beauty to exist on the side of good.
And thus did the narrative fabric tear, reality folded, and worlds collided. In one universe, Original Canon Johan, whose beauty serves as cautionary reminder that attractive packaging can contain toxic products, currently missing and presumed plotting. In another—this one— Fanon Johan, standing here in this corridor, whose identical beauty now accessorizes a redemptive arc that allows readers to admire him guilt-free. His reformed character as immaculate as his bone structure, ready to offer support, wisdom, and extremely photogenic group portraits for the royal family album.
Two versions of the same man, separated by nothing more than one reader’s refusal to let beauty and villainy coexist in the same exquisitely crafted package...
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Carlton’s entire body tenses like a bowstring pulled to its breaking point, the name "Johan" hanging in the air between them like a loaded crossbow. His eyes narrow into glacial slits, the temperature around him dropping several degrees as conflicting emotions war within him. The rational part of his brain—the part that’s been navigating this bizarre reality—screams that this isn’t the same Johan who once tried to poison his tea with nightshade while complimenting his new hairstyle. Yet every instinct honed through years of court intrigue and survival demands he reach for the concealed dagger in his sleeve.
The cognitive dissonance manifests physically as Carlton’s fingers twitch with phantom muscle memory of strangling his cousin during the Summer Solstice Incident three years ago. A vein pulses visibly at his temple as he forces himself to inhale slowly through his nose, his exhalation carrying the weight of multiple universal timelines colliding in his consciousness.
His gaze dissects Johan with clinical precision—searching for tells, for the subtle indicators of deceit he’d memorized since childhood: the slight lift of Johan’s left eyebrow before a particularly creative lie, the way his fingers would tap against his thigh when plotting regicide. But this Johan’s body language reads entirely different, like a familiar instrument playing an unrecognizable melody.
Meanwhile, Alaric’s arms tighten around Carlton’s waist with the gentle but unmistakable pressure of someone trying to restrain a feral cat without alerting it to the restraint. His imperial smile remains fixed in place—the same diplomatic expression he uses when foreign dignitaries suggest unfavorable trade agreements or when the royal chef serves undercooked pheasant.
"That’s right, Johan," Alaric confirms with practiced nonchalance, as if discussing the weather rather than dynastic expansion. "The royal children will increase to eight people... or maybe more if it’s multiple babies again." His voice carries the particular blend of pride and existential terror unique to rulers contemplating both their expanding bloodline and the corresponding expansion of the royal education budget.
Johan’s smile blooms across his face with the radiance of a thousand suns, somehow managing to make the corridor’s expensive lighting seem inadequate by comparison. The genuine happiness in his expression creates another layer of cognitive dissonance for Carlton, who finds himself mentally comparing this smile to the one Johan wore while ’accidentally’ pushing their childhood tutor down a flight of stairs, and then accused him.
"Congratulations, Your Majesty Emperor and Empress," Johan offers with a courtly bow so perfect it could be used as an instructional model at the Royal Academy of Etiquette. "May the eighth imperial baby be born safely and in good health."
He pauses, straightening to his full height as his silver eye meets Carlton’s frost-laden gaze. Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of the old familiar teasing that transcends universal boundaries—and his lips quirk upward at one corner. "If this keeps up, you’re really going to give birth to a village..."
Alaric’s smile radiates with the specific brand of smug contentment unique to men who have simultaneously conquered multiple kingdoms and secured genetic immortality. His hand moves across Carlton’s still-flat abdomen in reverent circles, treating the imperial womb like a sacred artifact that happens to be conveniently portable.
"There are still some people who want me to have concubines to strengthen the kingdom and produce additional heirs," he announces, his voice carrying just enough volume to ensure every advisor within earshot experiences individual discomfort. His golden eyes sweep across the corridor, lingering meaningfully on several nobles whose proposals for political marriages now wither under his gaze. "But I don’t need anyone else. Carlton alone fulfills everything—both power acquisition and heir production."
The statement lands with the subtle diplomatic nuance of a siege weapon. Several advisors visibly flinch, particularly Lord Hemsworth, whose seventeen-page proposal suggesting a strategic marriage alliance with the Northern Principality now feels like incriminating evidence against him.
"C-congratulations, Your Imperial Majesties," stammers Councilor Veridia, her complexion matching her emerald robes as she recalls her impassioned speech just last month about "diversifying the imperial genetic portfolio." She clutches her ceremonial staff like it might save her from drowning in this sea of imperial favor gone wrong. Behind her, Baron Telmont—who once compiled a detailed dossier of eligible princesses complete with fertility lineage charts—suddenly develops an intense fascination with the ceiling’s architectural features.
"Most fortuitous news, indeed," offers Duke Randalford, executing a bow so deep it borders on structural risk to his aging spine. His voice carries the particular strained quality of someone who, three council meetings ago, suggested that "perhaps seven heirs is sufficient" and "exploration of alternate dynastic strategies might be prudent."
The corridor transforms into a competitive arena of enthusiastic felicitations, each advisor trying to out-congratulate the others as if the intensity of their good wishes might erase their documented history of concubine advocacy. Lord Kittridge—infamous for his "Seventeen-Point Plan for Imperial Bloodline Optimization"—now smiles so broadly that a court physician discretely monitors him for facial muscle strain.
Alaric absorbs their discomfort like a connoisseur savoring a rare vintage, his smile never wavering as he gently inclines his head in acknowledgment. With the casual efficiency of a man accustomed to dissolving unwanted gatherings, he lifts his hand in a gesture both gracious and unmistakable. "Your continued service to the crown is valued," he intones with imperial warmth that somehow doesn’t reach his eyes. "However, I’m certain your numerous responsibilities await your attention elsewhere."
The dismissal, wrapped in velvet though it may be, triggers a mass exodus that would impress migration experts. Nobles and advisors backpedal with remarkable synchronicity, their ornate robes swishing against marble floors as they perform retreating bows. Several bump into each other in their haste, creating a bottleneck of brocade and panic at the corridor’s end.
Lord Hemsworth, in particular, moves with the desperate velocity of a man who suddenly remembers urgent business in another province—preferably one beyond the immediate reach of imperial memory. The corridor empties with the swift efficiency of a tavern when the bill arrives, leaving only a lingering cloud of expensive perfumes and political anxiety.
The servants follow suit, evaporating from their posts with practiced invisibility. Among them scurries the unfortunate maid who, mere minutes ago, found herself drafted as an unwilling supporting actress in Kastiel’s impromptu palace drama. Her eyes remain downcast as she hurries past, though she steals one final glance at the assembled royal spectacle—mental notes already forming for the breathless recounting awaiting her in the servants’ quarters. This particular Tuesday will dominate kitchen gossip for months to come, possibly earning its own nickname in staff folklore.
Within moments, the grand corridor stands vacant except for the royal family and their immediate circle, the space suddenly expansive without its crowd of hovering courtiers. The absence of witnesses brings a subtle shift to the atmosphere—like a theater after the audience departs, leaving only the actors to drop their performative masks.
The corridor, now cleared of its political detritus, becomes a vacuum chamber for the charged particles of familial tension. Carlton’s attention narrows to a laser-focused beam, ignoring the retreating nobles as completely as if they’d phased into another dimension. His gaze locks onto Johan with the particular intensity of someone encountering a potential threat dressed in familiar skin—like finding your childhood teddy bear suddenly equipped with venomous fangs.
Johan returns this scrutiny with escalating bewilderment, his silver eye widening fractionally as he processes Carlton’s expression—a complex emotional cocktail that cycles through frost-laden suspicion, shock, discomfort, and most disconcertingly, the faintest trace of scientific curiosity. It’s the same clinical interest Carlton displays when encountering a new species to catalog before potentially turning it into formal wear.
The atmosphere between them crackles with unspoken tension, each man measuring the other through entirely different reference points—like two astronomers observing the same constellation but working from completely different star charts.
With the last courtier’s footsteps fading down the distant marble hallway, Johan’s posture relaxes by approximately three degrees—the exact amount permitted when transitioning from "addressing the imperial couple formally" to "speaking with family who could still technically have you executed". His mouth quirks upward at one corner—the specific asymmetrical smile genetic to the royal bloodline when they’re about to say something inappropriate at a state function.
"Cousin," Johan drawls, his voice dropping to the particular register reserved for family teasing, "why are you looking at me like that?" He tilts his head, blue hair cascading like a waterfall under moonlight. "Your expression right now precisely matches when you were studying cendrawasih birds with murderous intent while planning Austin’s hat during your second trimester. Should I be concerned about becoming a fashion accessory for the eighth imperial offspring?"
Carlton’s left eye twitches with such precision it could be calibrated as a timing device. His mind performs frantic mental calculations, adding "endangered tropical birds" to the ever-expanding list of exotic creatures this alternate version of himself apparently hunts for sport while gestating royal heirs: giant anaconda (✓), lion (✓), bear (✓), crocodile (✓), rhino (✓), python (✓), wolf (✓), and now, apparently, endangered tropical birds (✓). The mental spreadsheet of "Pregnancy-Induced Murder Hobbies" now extends to multiple columns, organized by species and trimester.
A flash of existential exhaustion crosses Carlton’s features as he actively decides against inquiring about the kingdom’s apparently robust exotic animal importation infrastructure. The mental image of the royal grounds as some sort of impromptu safari park—complete with pregnant Carlton stalking through underbrush with determination and hunting gear—threatens to derail his already tenuous grip on this reality’s logic.
Despite every instinct screaming for caution, Carlton notes the genuine warmth in Johan’s silver eye—entirely devoid of the calculating malice that characterized his cousin in the original world. This Johan’s gaze contains none of the subtle indicators that historically preceded assassination attempts or court scandals. No finger twitching toward hidden poison rings. No meaningful glances toward conveniently placed trapdoors.
Carlton’s shoulders lower by approximately 1.3 centimeters—the royal equivalent of relaxing one’s guard from "imminent death" to merely "probable inconvenience." His voice emerges flat as freshly polished marble, but lacking its previous arctic temperature.
"That’s... because your impression is so different from what I remember." His eyes narrow slightly, head tilting with the particular angle that has made junior courtiers confess to crimes they hadn’t even committed. "Alaric still didn’t tell you that I lost my memory of the past eleven years?"
