ã€ŠMath Is Magicã€‹


 CHAPTER 1: I Hate Math

    "I HATE MATH!!! I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! With all my heart! I HATE IT!"

    The elderly Vector, rolled up in his reddish blankets to shield himself from the cold, muttered these words with fury.

    ¡°Damn cold!¡±

    The sound of cars speeding by prevented him from getting any sleep.

    ¡°Damn cars!¡±

    It had been three days since the snow had stopped falling from the cloudy sky, completely coating the city and its streets in a deep white.

    ¡°Damn snow!¡±

    Lying on the sidewalk of one of these noisy streets was Vector. Despite taking refuge under a bridge with his blankets, he couldn''t stop shivering from the cold. His face was pale, his lips purple, framed by a long and disheveled white beard, while his nose and ears stood out in red.

    As if that weren¡¯t enough, he was hungry, and his stomach growled in protest.

    ¡°Damn hunger!¡±

    The prolonged fasting for days had pushed his old and frail body to the brink.

    ¡°Enough! I can¡¯t take it anymore!¡± cursed the old Vector. ¡°I can¡¯t take it anymore: I absolutely must eat something!¡±

    However, apart from a small bottle of water, he had nothing to satisfy his hunger.

    Consequently, he decided to stretch out his right hand toward the cardboard cup sitting on the ground next to him and check the results of his usual week spent begging on the streets.

    ¡°Let¡¯s see how many coins I have: 1¡­ 2¡­ 3¡­ Hmm, what comes next? Tsz, damn it! Fuck math!¡±

    Furious and with a trembling hand, the old Vector simply took all the coins from the cup and stuffed them into his right pocket, the one that wasn¡¯t torn. Then, slowly, he withdrew his arm and returned entirely under his reddish wool blankets, shielded from the cold and the snow blown under the bridge by the icy wind.

    ¡°Tsz, it doesn¡¯t matter. With this money, I should still be able to buy something tomorrow. Bread, perhaps? Maybe, if I¡¯m lucky, I¡¯ll even find some expired jam among the trash of some bar!¡±

    At the thought of being able to eat, especially something sweet, an unconscious smile spread across his wrinkled face.

    But at that moment, while he was daydreaming about the next day¡¯s breakfast, the old Vector began to feel increasingly tired, and little by little his eyelids started to droop against his will.

    However, these symptoms were not due to sleep at all!

    After a while, the old Vector began to gasp due to sudden difficulty breathing. His eyes, fixed on the now deserted street, could see nothing. His vision was slowly becoming hazy, until he almost completely lost sight.

    ¡°Shit! Am I¡­ dying?!¡± grumbled the old Vector, his voice deep and intense. ¡°Well, it¡¯s better this way. After all, I couldn¡¯t wait to end this shitty life!¡¯

    A few minutes later, the gentle snowfall turned into a full-blown blizzard. Ice crystals reached under the bridge, violently carried by the fierce wind. In no time, Vector found himself buried beneath a thick layer of snow.

    Although these extreme circumstances were testing him, the old Vector remained under his blankets. Unfortunately, he didn¡¯t even have the strength to get up and look for a better place to take shelter. Not that there was actually one at that late hour of the night.

    So, curling further into his two blankets, which vainly tried to protect him from the cold, the old Vector had now given up on that idea.

    ¡°I think... my time has come...¡±

    As to be expected at the point of death, a flurry of memories flooded the mind of the old Vector.

    ¡°So it¡¯s true that your whole life flashes before your eyes, huh?¡±

    With his gaze fixed on an invisible horizon, Vector admired the distant memories of his youth, spent with his parents.

    Or at least, until their presence.

    ¡®Mom¡­¡¯

    Suddenly, when Vector was only 5 years old, she completely disappeared without a trace. The police quickly speculated that she had been kidnapped, accusing a criminal organization that, at that time, was abducting people to dismember them and sell their organs on the black market.

    The badly mutilated bodies of the victims were numerous, and, as in other cases where the bodies were unrecognizable, Vector¡¯s mother¡¯s body could not be identified, leaving him unable to honor her with a decent burial.

    ¡®Dad¡­¡¯

    He loved math like no other! So much so that he named his son Vector, after the vectors used in math.

    But apart from his son, there was only one thing he loved more than math: his wife.

    After losing the woman of his life, he completely immersed himself in his mathematical studies. His goal was to win a Fields Medal in honor of his wife.

    After 10 years, he finally made a very important discovery in the field of mathematics, with which he would surely win the prize. However, shortly after, the father was brutally murdered.

    Vector still remembered that day very well. Coming home from school, he found his father in his study, sitting at the desk with his head buried on the table, pierced by a knife.

    Surely, Vector would have preferred not to witness that gruesome scene.

    Only later, thanks to the police investigation, it was discovered that the perpetrator of the crime was none other than one of his friends and colleagues, eager to greedily claim the prize and the glory that would come with it.

    The award was nevertheless given to Vector¡¯s father in memory of his unjust and cruel death. The money associated with the award was donated to charity.

    After losing his parents, Vector was left alone and was shortly after placed in an orphanage.

    At that point, he decided to graduate and find a job to support himself and pay for college.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    ¡®Yes, now I remember¡­ I longed to get into some literary university or a culinary academy to become a chef.¡¯

    But his dreams were quickly dashed against a harsh reality¡­

    In elementary and middle school, he had always managed to get by by cheating during math tests, passing the years without too many problems.

    In high school, however, paid for with the little money inherited from his father, the supervision during tests became stricter, and he failed every single year.

    ¡®It wasn¡¯t my fault, but math¡¯s!¡¯

    Even now, in fact, Vector was unable to perform simple and basic calculations like additions and subtractions. He couldn¡¯t even count!

    With these poor skills, likely due to a serious problem with dyscalculia, it was obvious that he failed every time to pass his math exams, and consequently, also those in physics. In chemistry, however, he managed to keep up with the average by studying the theoretical part well.

    For this reason, he desperately tried to obtain a medical certificate. But his lousy school didn¡¯t provide such a free service, and relying on a specialist required a lot of money.

    In no time, he definitively dismissed the idea of obtaining a medical certificate for dyscalculia and persevered alone in his studies despite this problem.

    As a result, Vector ended up failing and being forced to continually repeat the first year of high school.

    At the age of 18, he was thrown out of the orphanage. For the next 2 years, he rented a studio apartment with the little money inherited from his father that he had left.

    In the meantime, after 5 years of continuous failures, he was prevented from continuing his studies.

    ¡®At that time, I was 20 years old. I no longer had the money to continue paying for my education, and the high school I was attending wouldn''t have admitted me at that age anyway.¡¯

    With no money left, he could no longer pay the rent for his shabby studio apartment.

    Thus, having no place to live, Vector''s life began its rapid decline into misery.

    He tried in every way to find a way to earn a living, working part-time in some pizzeria or restaurants as a waiter. By then, Vector was still living on the streets.

    But every time he found a job, he was fired the same day he was hired. And the reason for this was easy to guess: Vector confused the table numbers, the pizzas, and sometimes couldn¡¯t even count how many coins to give in change.

    All of this made the customers angry with him, putting him in the terrible position of seeming incapable of completing any task. Consequently, his bosses quickly framed Vector as a useless burden, a nuisance to be rid of as soon as possible.

    After a month of continuous firings, Vector simply stopped looking for a job, surrendering and accepting the miserable fate that awaited him.

    For 60 years, he had to live on the streets, in absolute poverty, eating no more than 3 times a week.

    ¡®Damn! What a miserable life I¡¯ve had! But it¡¯s not my fault¡­¡¯

    The old Vector gritted his teeth in anger and frustration, rubbing them together. With that series of horrible memories, he was left with a sense of bitterness in his mouth.

    ¡®If it weren¡¯t for math, I wouldn¡¯t be here! I¡¯d probably be home, lying in a nice double bed, with a beautiful blonde wife by my side and surrounded by the love of my children and grandchildren.¡¯

    Once he finished daydreaming, however, he immediately contradicted himself:

    ¡®No, wait! Even before that¡­ If it weren¡¯t for math¡­ my father would never have been killed!¡¯

    Vector tried to focus one last time on the road ahead of him, illuminated by the streetlights, before giving up and finally closing his eyes.

    Tears of sadness for his horrible past life flooded his eyes, against his will.

    Finally, suppressing the instinct to cry, one last thought accompanied his final breath.

    ¡®Fuck you, Math!¡¯

    Then, Vector completely lost consciousness, and gradually the sensation of cold began to dissipate until it completely disappeared.

    At that moment, the old man lost all sensation of having a body, and any attempt to reopen his eyes and see something was in vain.

    ¡®Ah, am I dead?!¡¯ he wondered, almost unconcerned.

    For the next few minutes, wherever he was, only silence reigned.

    ¡®Is this hell? Or maybe, there¡¯s no afterlife at all?¡¯

    A few seconds later, he regained the sensation of his body.

    It was then that he felt something soft covering him entirely, from head to toe.

    ¡®This is¡­ my blanket? Wait, how is that possible?!¡¯

    Vector was astonished, almost stunned by the soft sensation brushing against his body.

    After all, he had just died, hadn¡¯t he?

    ¡®Maybe I jumped to conclusions too quickly, and I wasn¡¯t really dying. Could that be?¡¯

    But he didn¡¯t care much about the details. What mattered to him at that moment was to get up and go buy some bread for his long-awaited breakfast.

    Having made this decision, Vector tried to stand up, to put his things back in his backpack, as he did every day, and begin his routine as an old vagrant.

    But despite his many attempts, he couldn¡¯t move a single muscle.

    ¡®Really?! Am I so tired that I can¡¯t even pull the blanket off me? What kind of joke is this?!¡¯

    He tried again, with no success.

    With this new attempt, however, Vector realized something: he couldn¡¯t move not because he lacked strength, but because his body wasn¡¯t responding to his commands at all.

    ¡®What¡¯s going on?! It¡¯s like I¡¯m paralyzed¡­¡¯

    As if that wasn¡¯t enough, lying beneath the blanket that covered his face and prevented him from opening his eyes, he couldn¡¯t see anything.

    ¡®Damn it! At this rate, I¡¯ll die of starvat-¡¯

    It was at that moment that he noticed some sudden changes.

    ¡®How strange. Now that I think about it, I¡¯m not hungry anymore. How is that possible? And the cold? Where did it go? Even if it¡¯s stopped snowing, it¡¯s still midwinter! Besides, this blanket doesn¡¯t feel like wool at all. Velvet, maybe? Did someone switch my blanket without me noticing?! No, that can¡¯t be it. Oh, for crying out loud, what the hell is going on?!¡¯

    There was no time to piece together all his doubts and questions, as a loud noise, like two doors forcefully thrown open, suddenly broke the silence of the place where Vector was.

    ¡°Stop, Ginevra! There¡¯s nothing more we can do!¡± said a deep, masculine voice.

    ¡°I know, Arthur, I know very well!¡± cried a feminine voice, filled with anger and frustration, while she sobbed. ¡°But what exactly am I supposed to do?! Accept my son¡¯s death without even seeing him once?!¡±

    At that question, there was no reply from the man named Arthur.

    The two of them, meanwhile, seemed to be hurrying toward where Vector was lying. The sound of the woman¡¯s heavy heels echoed alongside her half-choked sobs.

    Suddenly, a few seconds after their arrival, the footsteps stopped right next to Vector.

    ¡®Dead son?! What is this lady talking about? Did she smoke something by chance?!¡¯

    Other quick footsteps reached the place where Vector was.

    ¡°Mum, stop please!¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s no need!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll only make yourself suffer more!¡±

    Three feminine voices, almost identical, belonging to what seemed to be young girls, shouted one after the other before stopping next to Vector.

    ¡®And now, who the hell are these?!¡¯

    There was a brief moment of silence, during which the atmosphere grew tense and full of anticipation, before Ginevra, with a voice full of emotion, began to speak:

    ¡°I understand your concern, my daughters. And yours too, dear. But please try to understand me! My son was born just last night, and I haven¡¯t even had a single chance to hold him! Don¡¯t you find it unfair for a mother?!¡±

    No one dared contradict her.

    After a short silence, the woman named Ginevra spoke again:

    ¡°Allow me¡­ to admire his angelic face, just once! Then, we can proceed with the announcement of his death, and finally, his proper burial.¡±

    Once more, no one spoke when Ginevra finished talking.

    Vector, however, upon hearing those words, could only be dumbfounded.

    ¡®Wait a minute¡­ Are they talking about me? I¡¯m supposed to be her son?! Dead?! What exactly is this lady talking about? And I¡¯m not dead at all!¡¯

    Suddenly, the velvet blanket draped over Vector¡¯s body was lifted into the air, finally revealing his face, which was turned upward.

    The air that brushed against his cheeks was warm, and the breeze blowing was no longer cold and harsh.

    The sun now warmed the right side of his body, flooded with a bright beam of light.

    ¡°Oh, my dear son¡­¡±

    In those few words was a heart-wrenching lament, from a woman who had lost a great part of the value of her life. An unconditional love, broken by the sudden death of her son.

    ¡®Oh, finally, they got that damned blanket off me!¡¯

    A couple of drops of water fell onto Vector¡¯s forehead, slowly sliding down the bridge of his nose to his eyes, still closed.

    ¡®Damn it!¡¯

    Having water in his eyes was certainly an uncomfortable sensation for him. Just like when taking a shower and some soap gets in your eyes by accident.

    Well, not that he was actually used to taking showers¡­

    Unable to use his hands to rid himself of the annoying itch caused by the slow descent of those drops, he blinked twice. Then, with a slow, rigid movement, as if it were his first time doing it, he lifted his eyelids.

    ¡®Oh, shit!¡¯

    A bright light blinded him, making it impossible to see for the first few seconds. After a bit of effort, though, he managed to focus his vision and closely examine his surroundings.

    ¡®Good! Now I can finally figure out where the hell I am! But more importantly, understand what the hell is happen-¡¯

    At that moment, interrupting his thought, five pairs of wide-open eyes were staring at Vector, just inches from his face. They looked at him partly with amazement, partly with disbelief and unease, but ultimately with immense happiness reflected in their expressions.

    At this sight, Vector frowned.

    ¡®What the hell are you looking at exactly?!¡¯

 CHAPTER 2: Mirac Strongold

    In the center of the group of those five people stood a woman with long, wavy auburn hair that reached her shoulders. Dressed in an elegant, pale white gown and wearing a sort of golden crown, the woman was presumably Ginevra, or so Vector guessed.

    To her right were three young girls who were nearly identical to each other! Triplets, also with brown hair and dressed as elegantly as princesses.

    ¡°Oh Mother Nature!¡± Ginevra exclaimed, quickly retracting the hand she had used to remove the blanket draped over Vector, covering her mouth as she tried to hold back her tears.

    With a voice trembling on the edge of sobs, she turned to the man on her left, addressing him as he continued to gaze incredulously at Vector:

    ¡°Arthur¡­ Tell me, a-am I¡­ dreaming?! Is it possible that our son is-¡±

    Suddenly, before she could finish speaking, the man lifted Vector¡¯s body into the air. As he did so, a broad smile brightened his face.

    ¡®Hey, what are you doing?!¡¯ Vector thought to himself, surprised and frowning as he stared at the man holding him up. ¡®Put me down immediately, you jerk!¡¯

    ¡°I-Incredible!¡± Arthur stammered, astonished but joyful. ¡°This isn¡¯t a dream, nor an illusion! Ginevra, my dear: our son has returned to life!¡±

    The news caused Ginevra to step back in shock, while the three girls remained motionless, staring at the newborn like marble statues.

    ¡°H-How is this possible?¡± asked the girl on the far right.

    ¡°Our little brother¡­ Is he really alive?!¡± asked the one in the middle, incredulous.

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe it!¡± cried the last one, on the left of the trio, as she burst into tears.

    At that moment, Ginevra could no longer hold back, and tears began to flow freely from her as well.

    This time, however, they were tears of joy.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know how any of this could have happened, my daughters. But it no longer matters!¡± Ginevra added, simply happy to have her son back alive.

    Drying the last of her tears, she extended her arms toward the man holding Vector.

    ¡°Arthur, please, let me hold my beloved son!¡±

    Without needing to be told twice, the man with black hair, a short beard, and green eyes¡ªalso wearing a golden crown¡ªhanded Vector over to the woman at his side.

    ¡®Leave me alone, damn it!¡¯ thought Vector, glaring irritably at both Arthur and Ginevra.

    The old man¡¯s quick instinct, in a desperate attempt to free himself from those strangers, was to gesture wildly with his hands and arms, without any sense. Like an octopus, he decided to wave his limbs in the air at great speed.

    But when he tried to do so, finally realizing he could move his body again, he noticed that his arms were shorter than usual. His fingers and hand, too, were miniature¡ªfour or even five times smaller than before. Moreover, his skin was healed: no longer wrinkled like that of a grumpy old man, but tender and smooth like that of a child.

    ¡®I know I¡¯ve already asked myself this too many times¡­ But seriously, what the hell is going on here?!¡¯

    As he examined his small, fragile hands, slowly rotating them to better analyze the backs and palms, the woman named Ginevra stroked his face with gentle, loving gestures. Occasionally, she would kiss him, then sniff him, then kiss him again, all while moving around the room, dancing merrily and spinning occasionally.

    ¡®Stop, woman! At this rate, you¡¯re going to make me throw up!¡¯

    After another couple of spins, the woman suddenly stopped.

    ¡®Thank you¡­¡¯

    After slowly regaining his vision as the world around him stopped spinning, Vector examined the spacious rectangular room where he found himself along with those five strangers.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    In the right corner, near the door, there was a tall, large oak wardrobe with partially open doors, revealing numerous children¡¯s clothes hanging inside.

    The room was bright, flooded with sunlight streaming in through the tall, arched windows framed by heavy white velvet curtains, drawn back to let in the warm, golden rays of the day.

    The walls were simply painted a deep, uniform blue¡ªa color that conveyed calmness and depth, without distracting with decorations or unnecessary details.

    The floor was made of polished wooden planks, creaking underfoot and giving the room a sense of sturdiness and warmth.

    The high ceiling was painted with a night sky filled with golden stars. Solid gold candelabras hung from the ceiling, suggesting an ambiance of warm, soft lighting once night fell.

    In the center of the room was a cradle, where Vector had remained trapped and unable to move, under a white velvet blanket until the arrival of those five strangers.

    Examining it closely, he noticed the cradle was made of carved wood and decorated with golden floral motifs, drawing attention to this undoubtedly expensive piece of furniture.

    To Vector, the room alone was a clear and sufficient indication of the wealth and power of what was likely a noble family.

    The three girls, standing by the cradle, wore long white silk gowns with discreetly shimmering hems under the sunlight. Their looks, filled with astonishment, were fixed on Vector, almost transfixed, as the natural light highlighted the purity of their attire and the elegance of the jewelry adorning them.

    ¡®What the hell are you staring at, little brats?¡¯

    Annoyed by their intense stares, Vector shifted his attention slightly to the right, finally resting it on the man with black hair and the virile features of his face.

    Beside the cradle, dressed in military attire, the man named Arthur stood tall with his imposing figure. His pristine white uniform was adorned with medals and rank insignia, suggesting a high status and a possible prominent role in the army.

    ¡®His eyes are such a pale green¡­¡¯

    Overall, the entire room exuded an atmosphere of ancient royalty¡ªa place where the sun illuminated not only objects but also the prestige and history of its inhabitants, reminding Vector of an era when kings and queens ruled vast lands.

    ¡®These people must be really rich!¡¯

    Still held in the embrace of the woman with dark brown eyes, Vector found himself on the shorter side of the room, facing a mirror framed by an intricate golden border.

    The reflected image showed a lost and bewildered child.

    ¡®Wait a second¡­ That¡­ THAT WOULD BE ME?!¡¯

    Looking at himself in the mirror, Vector noticed a small amount of black hair on his little head, very different from the white hair he¡¯d had in the snowy storm. His eyes, previously just dark, had now turned a deep green with a few brown specks here and there¡ªhazel eyes, to be precise.

    Moreover, his face was no longer wrinkled and marked with deep lines, the results of a long life spent in misery. Instead, his face was smooth, and his cheeks so plump that anyone would be tempted to pinch and play with them.

    ¡®Wow, I even look adorable to myself¡­ Wait, what am I saying?! I don¡¯t have time for this!¡¯

    Taking a deep breath, as much as his new little lungs would allow, Vector resumed reflecting on what truly mattered in that moment:

    ¡®First of all, I need to understand, once and for all, what the hell is happening! Why am I suddenly a child? Where exactly have I ended up? And these people¡­ are they the family of this child? If so¡­ No, wait. Now that I think about it¡­ This is my family! Because, after all, I am the child! That would explain why this woman and man keep referring to me as their ¡°son.¡± But even so, how can all this be explained?!¡¯

    Lost in that sea of thoughts, Vector furrowed his brow, trying to make sense of the absurd situation he found himself in. But once again, he came up empty.

    Meanwhile, the dark-eyed woman, still holding the child, returned to the others at the center of the room.

    ¡°Oh, my son! You have no idea how happy we are to see you alive and well!¡± exclaimed Ginevra, hugging Vector lovingly in her arms.

    ¡°Indeed!¡± replied Arthur, taking the newborn and lifting him into the air once again.

    ¡°Darling, please be careful! He¡¯s still too little, and something could happen to him again,¡± Ginevra cautioned, worried about her son.

    ¡®Exactly, you jerk!¡¯ Vector cursed internally. ¡®Listen to her and let me go!¡¯

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, my dear!¡± Arthur reassured her.

    Then, with an excited look, he locked eyes with Vector, addressing him with a broad smile:

    ¡°You, my son, are my hope. And at the same time, you are our greatest pride! Resurrected from the dead, you are a true miracle!¡±

    Vector frowned.

    ¡®If you don¡¯t put me down, I swear I¡¯ll throw up on you, little jerk!¡¯ cursed the beloved newborn, puffing his little nose in a completely adorable act.

    ¡°Aww, how cute!¡± exclaimed one of the three triplets, the one on the left.

    ¡®You stay out of this, little brat!¡¯

    After a moment of admiration and smiles directed at the small newborn, Ginevra addressed the man, almost impatiently:

    ¡°So, dear, what do you plan to name him?!¡±

    The three young girls simultaneously craned their necks toward Arthur, ears open wide, curious to hear the answer. After all, during all the months Ginevra had been pregnant, Arthur had never revealed to anyone the name he had chosen for his son, even after his death.

    ¡°You want to know his name, do you?¡± the man asked rhetorically, smiling at his wife before turning his enthusiastic gaze back to Vector, still lifted in the air. ¡°In all the seven realms of Harmony, he will be known as the ¡®Risen Prince¡¯: my dear princesses, and my dear queen, I present to you Mirac Strongold! Son of the impetuous King Arthur Strongold, and future twelfth sovereign of the Flame Kingdom of the Strongold dynasty!¡±

    Once he finished his long declaration, Arthur¡¯s voice, strong and virile, echoed deeply against the walls of the room.

    The woman named Ginevra burst into tears of joy once again, while her three daughters helped her wipe her tears.

    Meanwhile, an unconscious smile graced Vector¡¯s small, thin lips as he reflected on the name just announced by King Arthur:

    ¡®Mirac Strongold? Yeah, it doesn¡¯t sound bad, I must say¡­¡¯

 CHAPTER 3: New Body, New Family, New Life

    { 3 DAYS LATER¡­ }

    ''Alright, let''s try to summarize what I''ve figured out!''

    Vector was lying in the cradle, mulling over recent events and, as he did every day, mentally taking stock of the situation.

    ''It seems I''ve ended up awakening in the body of a newborn baby. This happened after my death in my old body. So... should I assume I''ve been reincarnated?!''

    But even assuming an absurd event like this was true, Vector had no idea how or why it had happened.

    ''Is there a reasonable explanation behind all this? Or should I just assume it happened purely by chance?''

    He fell silent for a moment, staring at the starry ceiling and the golden chandeliers above his head.

    ''Tsk, it doesn''t matter!'' he finally exclaimed inwardly. ''What''s done is done. And frankly, for now, I don''t care at all about how I reincarnated. Or even the reason, if there is one. Let''s just focus on this life!''

    However, before he could do so, Vector had made another startling discovery: the memories of his past life were all incredibly vivid!

    He remembered everything: every step taken, every sneeze, every single face he had encountered. EVERYTHING, down to the smallest details!

    Even the most distant memories, like the sensation of the amniotic fluid surrounding him when he was still in his mother''s womb, were etched in his mind.

    ''It''s nothing short of unsettling¡­'' he reflected, feeling a shiver run down his spine. ''Could it be due to my reincarnation? Well, since I can''t explain it now, I''ll simply add it to the list of mysteries to solve sooner or later. Then again, if I think about it, this ability might actually come in handy!''

    This was because, in 65 years, Vector had amassed knowledge in every imaginable field!

    Since his youth, books had been his only true home. The smell of old paper, the silence broken only by the rustling of pages, felt like a soothing touch to his soul.

    In short, he had always loved reading books!

    Even when life forced him to live on the streets, he continued to find refuge among the pages, recovering discarded volumes from passersby or leafing through them quietly in libraries.

    Those austere places, fragrant with old paper and silence, were his sanctuaries. A place where he could immerse himself in reading without spending a penny.

    Without the means to obtain a library card, he read books only within the library, trying to remain unnoticed among the tables and shelves.

    He spent hours and hours leafing through the yellowed pages of old and new editions, until someone noticed his presence and threw him out, annoyed by his smell and unkempt appearance.

    But Vector never gave up! If he was kicked out of one library, he simply looked for another. If necessary, he even changed cities, hoping to find new books to devour.

    Moreover, he had been a man who read anything: from literature classics to science, from philosophy to art, from computer science to foreign language books. In short, everything!

    ''Well, except for math, of course¡­'' he thought, with a tone of self-irony, as if it were common knowledge for the whole world. ''But who cares!''

    With an eidetic memory that bordered on miraculous, Vector retained every word he read from the almost endless volumes he studied, each page engraved in his mind like an indelible imprint.

    This granted him constant access to an enormous amount of information, always available for any future need.

    ''Knowledge is power, isn''t it?''

    With this thought, Vector returned to reflecting on the information he had gathered during that time from the gossip of the maids and butlers working in the royal palace. Apparently, they were all big chatterboxes, who spilled all sorts of secrets to pass the time while completing their tasks. But to Vector, they were nothing more than a rich source of invaluable information!

    ''As far as I understand, on the same night he was born, the child of this body passed away. The cause of his sudden death appears to have been cardiac arrest. Damn, what a depressing way to go, I must say¡­ Anyway: the next morning, I woke up in this child''s body, making it look as though he had come back to life. And probably, the fact that the heart started beating again is related to my reincarnation. Now I understand why everyone keeps referring to me as a miracle! But who can blame them¡­ Furthermore, despite this strange and irrational event, no one in the castle seems inclined to investigate how "the child" magically "came back to life." And the reason behind this is rather odd, if not downright bizarre: if I understand correctly, everyone is calling my resurrection a "Divine Miracle." A gift from a Goddess everyone calls "Mother Nature." How strange: looking at them, I was sure everyone here was Christian, but apparently, I was wrong. Anyway, religious matters aside, I¡¯m glad they don¡¯t want to go into too much detail about the "resurrection"! Who knows what would happen if Queen Ginevra and King Arthur discovered that "I" am not actually their "beloved son"¡­''

    With his heart pounding, imagining the potential horrific consequences if the truth about him came to light, Vector turned his thoughts to one last matter:

    ''The man named Arthur¡­ the father of this child¡­ As he himself said, he is the King and sovereign of the "Flame Kingdom", one of the seven kingdoms of the continent called "Harmony". From this, I can also deduce that I''ve reincarnated into another world, vastly different from the one I lived in. Therefore, there will surely be many things to discover about this new world, completely unknown to me. But again, there''s no rush! Sooner or later, as it has happened so far, all the information will reveal itself in time. Returning then to the matter of King Arthur¡­ He never had a son: never! According to the gossip of some maids, King Arthur also married three other noble women besides Ginevra, and consequently spent many nights with them. All in the hope of obtaining a male heir for his throne. But even so, King Arthur was never successful in his endeavor. This explains why, after ten years of continuous efforts, he was so excited and happy to see me alive again!''

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    Moreover, despite the other wives, Queen Ginevra continued to be the King''s one true love.

    From Vector''s perspective, and as a servant had already hypothesized the day before while discussing it with a colleague while changing his diaper, King Arthur would surely divorce his other three wives sooner or later.

    After all, King Arthur had now achieved his goal of having a son and a male heir to the throne, and, not feeling any true love for them, he would no longer have needed his other wives.

    ''I almost feel sorry for those three¡­ Wait a minute! Speaking of the number "three": I almost forgot that those brats live also here at the castle!''

    With that term, Vector was referring to the three twins, daughters of Queen Ginevra and King Arthur, and thus the sisters of that child''s body.

    ''Camilla, Veronica, and Michelle¡­ They''re all seven years old, if I''m not mistaken. Even though they''ve come to see me almost every day, I still can''t match names to faces. Damn, how could I?! I mean, they''re practically three peas in a pod! Huh, damn brats!''

    The reason Vector kept calling them that was simple enough: as a cranky old man, he detested spoiled children!

    In his past life, he could never tolerate how children addressed their parents just to get what they wanted. And when they didn''t, they cried and complained non-stop, even in the streets, often disturbing the public peace and everyone nearby.

    ''Damn ungrateful brats!''

    In short, he loathed spoiled kids and pampered offspring. And those three girls, with their ridiculously elegant outfits at such a young age, with the way they carried themselves and the way they spoke, seemed just that.

    ''Maybe I''m wrong, and maybe one day I''ll change my mind. But until then, those brats won''t have my sympathy!''

    After what could have been a huff, a loud sound from Vector''s stomach took him by surprise.

    ''Hmm¡­ I think it''s time.''

    Taking a deep breath, filling his small lungs with as much air as possible, Vector took a moment to clear his throat. Then, with all the strength he had, he screamed as loudly as he could, almost as if intending to rupture someone''s eardrums.

    ''In these three days, I''ve learned that this technique is the most effective way to call them when I''m hungry. I''ve named it "Infantile Scream"!''

    Taking a breath now and then, lowering and raising the pitch of his voice, Vector continued to scream for a couple of minutes.

    ''Come on, hurry up! It''s rather embarrassing to have to scream like this¡­''

    Right after he thought this, the sound of doors flying open cut through Vector''s deafening cry, though he did not stop.

    Peering through the gaps between the vertical slats of his wooden cradle, Vector managed to glimpse the two people he had successfully summoned according to his plan.

    "Hurry, hurry, hurry! My son is hungry!" exclaimed Ginevra, rushing toward the cradle.

    Beside her, a maid with long, reddish hair and rectangular glasses with thick black frames was trying to keep up. Her dark, deep eyes, resembling polished obsidian, sparkled with determination, reflecting her firm will to help the Queen.

    Like all maids, she wore a Victorian-style maid''s dress, consisting of a high-necked black bodice with a small white collar and long, fitted sleeves, finished with lace cuffs.

    The white apron, made of cotton or linen, was wide and decorated with lace along the edges, almost completely covering the front of the dress. The contrast between the black bodice and the white apron, along with the modest lace finish, lent the ensemble a somber and impeccable elegance.

    Despite the heels, both were running: Ginevra dashed forward without minding the wavy hair falling over her face or the golden crown that threatened to fall with each step. The woman with reddish hair, meanwhile, lifted her long servant''s skirt with one hand and skillfully balanced a silver tray holding a bottle filled with fresh milk with the other.

    "I''m coming, my Queen!" she called out, breathless, remembering to close the doors behind her.

    With every step she took, she was full of energy, her light and agile feet dancing across the floor, while her gaze immediately fixed on the crying newborn.

    Arriving first, Queen Ginevra gently lifted the newborn, Vector, into her arms. Gazing calmly at her child''s face, she moved gracefully to a chair in front of the mirror and sat down. Then, with an almost seductive motion, she drew out her large breast from her refined orange gown.

    "Maybe this time it will work¡­" Ginevra finally added, her voice filled with a barely audible note of regret, as she glanced at the servant joining her.

    ''Oh damn! Here we go again¡­'' thought Vector, staring at the woman''s nipple.

    In the past week, despite the Queen''s many attempts, Vector had always refused to nurse that way. After all, he had the mentality and consciousness of an old man, always quite embarrassed by the sight of the Queen''s breast.

    Thus, Vector would keep his small mouth closed, preventing her nipples from making contact with his young lips.

    Whenever this happened, Ginevra would simply sigh deeply with sadness, mixed with a bit of frustration. She would then withdraw her breast and, addressing the red-haired servant, take the bottle to feed the newborn, who would accept no other method of being fed.

    So, once again, Vector stared at Ginevra''s breast for a moment, avoiding it in panic by simply turning his small head.

    Then, suddenly, as he glanced at his reflection in the mirror, a thought crossed his mind:

    ''Now that I think about it¡­ It no longer makes sense to keep avoiding this situation! I''m not just talking about being nursed by this woman, or having my diaper changed, or being cuddled before sleeping, or the countless other things that would normally annoy and embarrass me, given my 80 years. I need to understand, once and for all, that this reality, as absurd and difficult to accept as it is, has now become my new life! With a new body and a new family, from this moment on, I will no longer be Vector Arangot. NO! That wouldn''t make sense. From now on, I will be Mirac Strongold!''

    Declaring this internally, Mirac slowly approached his mother''s breast, while she looked at him in surprise.

    ''And, being just born,'' Mirac added, now only a few inches from her nipple, ''there would be no sense in avoiding the normality of my new life!''

    Swallowing nervously, Mirac gathered his courage and, with his toothless mouth, took hold of his mother''s breast, hungrily drinking the milk that flowed from it.

    Meanwhile, Ginevra''s face filled with enthusiasm at the sight.

    "It seems that the young master has finally decided to nurse directly from you, my Queen," said the red-haired servant, standing beside Ginevra and smiling at her.

    ''Oh, be quiet!'' Mirac cursed internally, glaring irritably at the servant, who had once again embarrassed him with himself.

    Ginevra returned the smile, turning to the servant and finally saying a few words:

    "I''m happy too, Carmen¡­" her faint voice dissolved into silence, as an emotional tear ran down her face.

    All the while, Mirac continued sipping his mother''s milk, playfully holding onto her right breast.

    ''I''m sorry to have worried you¡­ mom¡­'' Mirac thought timidly as he sipped his milk and let himself be enchanted by Ginevra''s affectionate gaze.

    The very thought of calling her that way from now on, a term wrapped in sweet shyness, represented a small step toward accepting his new life.

    ''And who knows! Maybe this time, I will have a better childhood¡­''

 CHAPTER 4: Little Exploration

    { 11 MONTHS LATER... }

    In the silence of the room on a warm summer afternoon, the bright sunlight filtered through the red curtains.

    ''Alright, let''s try again!'' Mirac exclaimed inwardly.

    Over the past months, he had spent all his time being fed, playing with his wooden toys, having his diaper changed, and doing countless other things, behaving like the perfect baby he was.

    But recently, the son of the royal Strongold family had started focusing on a new goal: getting out of his crib and exploring the castle!

    ''Come on!''

    With his face lit by a mixture of determination and curiosity, little Mirac gripped the sides of his crib. His chubby fingers clutched the wood tightly, and his lively eyes studied every detail of the edge above him as if planning a daring adventure.

    For the past four weeks, it had been the same story every afternoon: pushing himself up on his still-wobbly legs, Mirac would stand, swaying slightly. The soft mattress beneath his tiny feet made his movements unsteady, but the desire to explore the castle seemed stronger than any obstacle. He had tried numerous times, slipping back, sliding down with a frustrated huff. In short, he had never managed to get over the edge of the crib.

    ''Today''s different, though, I can feel it!''

    With a grunt of effort, he pulled himself up until his chin was over the railing. One foot, then the other, tried to find a foothold, pushing clumsily against the wood. His arms trembled from the strain, but with a triumphant smile and a laugh of victory, Mirac managed to lever himself just enough to get his torso over the edge.

    For a moment, he seemed frozen in midair, caught between fear and the excitement of what was about to happen.

    ''Just a bit more, damn it!...''

    Then, with one last push, he propelled himself forward, landing with a soft thud on the blue carpet surrounding the crib. He lay there, sprawled on the floor, surprised at his own accomplishment, but with eyes wide open with joy.

    Mirac got up on all fours, looking back at the crib now behind him.

    ''Finally, damn it!''

    His heart raced with excitement!

    After about a month, Mirac had managed to escape that ridiculous "wooden cage" that kept him prisoner and prevented him from leaving the room to explore the castle.

    ''I know I said everything would slowly unfold in due time... But damn it, I''m bored to death! I''m not going to sit around here after doing that for over 60 years! And besides, there''s no danger in taking a few steps to stretch my legs, right?''

    Wasting no more time, little Mirac moved on to the second part of his plan: he crawled quickly, pushing forward with hands and knees that hit the floor at an eager pace. His hazel eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he passed his scattered toys and the familiar corners of the room.

    His goal was clear: the slightly open door!

    ''Hmph, just as I thought! She left it ajar again...''

    With this thought, little Mirac referred to his personal maid, Carmen, who always left the door slightly open whenever she came to him. It was barely ajar, just enough so she could hear any cries of hunger or nighttime whimpers from the young Prince.

    ''But it wouldn''t have happened if I hadn''t cried three times a day for the last three weeks! Damn! How embarrassing...''

    Swallowing the bitter feeling at the thought of a probable future nickname, "The Whiny Prince," that the chatty maids would likely use to refer to him, Mirac reached the door.

    ''Well, it was worth it. And now, it''s you and me, buddy!'' the baby finally declared, staring at his last wooden obstacle almost with a sense of challenge.

    Taking a deep breath, Mirac''s tiny fingers gripped the edge of the wood, and with a struggle accompanied by small grunts, he managed to push it. The door opened slowly, letting a beam of sunlight shine on his face.

    ''Ah, damn it!'' he cursed inwardly, blinking to refocus his vision, momentarily blurred by the sunlight. ''That damn sun again!...''

    Regaining his sight, the little Mirac gazed out at a long hallway bathed in the warm afternoon light streaming through the tall arched windows, all lined up in front of him and along the side of the corridor opposite the door. The red carpet adorning the floor looked like a royal path, soft and inviting, running between the black and white marble tiles in a checkered pattern. Each tile reflected the sunlight, creating a dance of light and shadows around him.

    Mirac paused for a moment, eyes wide at the new world stretching out under the golden glow of the sun. It was as if the castle, which usually confined him within the arms of the maids and his mother, was now revealing its secrets.

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    ''Let''s begin!''

    With a giggle of pure childlike joy, little Mirac lunged forward onto the carpet, turning right and moving down the hallway. The softness of the red fabric cushioned each impact, and the warmth of the afternoon wrapped around every movement he made.

    He crawled quickly, almost running on his tiny hands and knees, and every inch he covered on the carpet felt like a victory.

    ''Faster, faster, faster!'' he kept repeating to himself, constantly increasing his pace as he moved forward.

    As he traversed the long hallway, Mirac sensed a solemn and majestic atmosphere. The walls were vanilla-colored, and every corner was an intricate blend of architectural details adorned with complex sculpted designs.

    The coffered ceiling, made of dark oak, was often decorated with royal emblems and floral patterns, while natural light cast shadows that accentuated the depth of the spaces.

    Little Mirac gazed around, enchanted by what he saw.

    ''The architectural style seems Renaissance, similar to that used in French castles of the 16th century.''

    He primarily recalled this knowledge from art history books he had studied in high school. Besides math, and thus physics and sometimes chemistry, Mirac excelled in all other subjects!

    ''Modestly, a wasted genius...''

    The carved wooden doors on the right side of the corridor were all closed, looking distant and mysterious.

    ''These should be the guest rooms. Wow, how many are there?!'' Mirac wondered, without stopping as he continued his exploration.

    Turning his gaze to the left, toward the many arched windows, the little adventurer looked up. But all he could see was the clear blue sky typical of a summer afternoon. It stretched vast and bright above him, a sea of warmth and light reflecting the liveliness of summer.

    ''I heard that the main part of the castle, where my room and my family''s rooms are located, has three floors. King Arthur''s three wives, whom he has somehow not yet divorced, and their other daughters also live here. But I''ve never seen them. Hmph, those snobs! Not that I care or am bothered that they haven''t come to visit me¡­ Anyway, from what I understand, the maids, butlers, and everyone else who works in the castle live in the apartments in the side wings of the palace.''

    As he advanced along the long corridor, occasionally glancing left and right, Mirac noticed something else:

    ''Like in my room, there don''t seem to be any electrical outlets in the hallway walls. The presence of candelabras instead of the usual lamps leads me to assume that, in whatever world I''ve ended up in, technology isn''t as advanced as I know it! Now that I think about it, I''ve never heard the maids use words like "vacuum" when cleaning or "washing machine" when doing the laundry.''

    However, living his second life with a primitive level of technology didn''t seem like a tragedy to young Mirac.

    After all, having lived on the streets in his previous life, he hadn''t used phones, computers, or other conveniences of the 21st century in years. For this reason, he didn''t miss them.

    Though, as a child, when he still lived with his parents, he had been quite obsessed with computers.

    ''I really wanted to learn how to program a video game...''

    Thinking back, there were so many things Mirac would have liked to do and learn in his past life. All dreams lost once he began living on the streets, in poverty and misery.

    ''Tsz, no use thinking about that now!'' he thought, shaking his head to chase away those melancholy thoughts. ''With my new life, I can chase my dreams again!''

    * * *

    Mirac continued crawling for a while longer, unstoppable, until he came to yet another carved door. This one, however, unlike the others, was open! Or rather, slightly ajar.

    The little explorer stopped as soon as he noticed it, carefully observing the oak wood. Then, with some effort¡ªthough less than before¡ªhe pushed the door, which opened without resistance.

    ''Let''s see what''s hiding behind here...''

    Before him, a majestic room opened up: a large library, nearly two stories high, with shelves rising up to the ceiling. Every wall was lined with books, their worn leather covers and golden titles glinting in the sunlight. Despite the vast amount of flammable material and the presence of many arched windows, several brass candelabras were lit, casting small, soft flames.

    Mirac stood wide-eyed, amazed and captivated by the impressive sight before him: his senses were overwhelmed by the intense smell of old paper and worn leather, while his gaze drifted over the endless volumes, seemingly filled with stories from distant eras.

    Every detail, from the wood grain of the shelves to the golden gleam of the titles, seemed to whisper a secret, making the entire space feel alive and pulsating¡ªa place where time seemed suspended and unknown knowledge reigned supreme.

    Growing up and living in the castle, who knows how much new information he could gain, Mirac thought, from this cathedral of words.

    ''He he he¡­ I can''t wait!''

    Just past the entrance, directly to his right, he spotted a figure hidden behind a book, sitting behind what appeared to be a solid wooden counter. Whoever it was, they seemed almost camouflaged among the pages, as if wanting to blend into the knowledge held within the text.

    Mirac observed the figure closely for a few minutes.

    ''Probably the librarian...'' the little explorer guessed, trying to glimpse the absorbed face hidden behind the book, but with no success.

    All he could see were the person''s hands holding the book, with fingers pressing into the cover and occasionally turning the pages.

    It was clear that the so-called "librarian" was completely absorbed in reading, so much so that they hadn''t noticed the open door or the little intruder who had just entered.

    Moreover, regardless of their gender, the person at the counter wore a long black robe with golden patterns embroidered on the wrists, torso, and around the collar. It was evident that the garment was nothing less than an expensive product of a skilled tailor, who had surely been guided in its design by many years of experience.

    As he analyzed the so-called "librarian" more closely, Mirac''s small hazel eyes finally fell on the book they were avidly reading.

    The book''s golden title was elegantly engraved on the upper part of the burgundy leather cover. Around it, a golden frame wound in intricate scrolls and flame-inspired patterns, creating a rich and refined effect, as if it held precious knowledge.

    In the center of the frame, a stylized drawing of a flame came to life with simple, flowing shapes: red, orange, and yellow intertwined harmoniously, giving the impression of a fire burning gracefully. This detail created a fascinating contrast, sure to catch the eye of anyone who loved books.

    With excitement shining in his eyes, Mirac read the title and the supposed author, the latter inscribed a bit lower in smaller but equally golden letters.

    "Advanced Magical Arts of Fire"

    "Armin J. Bellsing"

 CHAPTER 5: Unsolved Mysteries

    Mirac read and reread those words, over and over again, making sure he hadn''t misread anything.

    But upon reading the title for the third time in a row, Mirac noticed something highly unsettling:

    ''These letters¡­ This language¡­ They aren''t the same as in my old world! It''s absurd: without any effort, it seems I can read and understand the meaning of the words!''

    Caught off guard by this revelation, Mirac took a moment to think it over and analyze it more carefully and calmly:

    ''If I think about it, this is rather unsettling! When I read the words, I feel like I understand them, but at the same time, I don''t. It''s as if my old language is clashing with the new one, like a tug-of-war in my Wernicke''s area. Furthermore, I assume my family, and everyone working here in the castle, have always spoken using this language, which is completely foreign to me. And yet, since my rebirth, I never noticed! Not until I saw the words written down. I wonder if, until now, I''ve been thinking and talking to myself in my old language or this new one. Even now, I''m unsure! But now that I''ve noticed it, I feel that from now on, I''ll be able to clearly distinguish which of the two languages I''m using. With that settled, I shouldn''t have any issues conversing with others in the future. At the same time, though, this discovery is incredible! My mind seems to automatically understand this new language, even though I''ve never seen it, studied it, or heard it distinctly from the other until now! And if it weren''t for my vocal cords not being fully developed yet, I''m sure I could already speak it like a true native speaker!''

    All these thoughts, almost contradictory to each other, put Mirac in a serious inner conflict. After the revelation, he didn''t know whether to smile with excitement or assume an expression of distress.

    ''But returning to the core of the matter¡­'' thought little Mirac, wanting to conclude his long analysis once and for all. ''How is any of this possible?! Could it be some kind of "hereditary memory"? But that wouldn''t make any sense! After all, this body belongs to a newborn who died on the very night he was born! He shouldn''t have had time to acquire any linguistic knowledge. So, he can''t logically be the source of this "hereditary memory" of mine. Assuming that''s even what it is¡­ Tsz, damn it! Another dead end¡­''

    As usual, Mirac tried to find a logical explanation for that strange phenomenon, but, once again, he was unsuccessful.

    He decided to set that enigma aside for the moment, just as he had done with all the others so far, waiting for the tools and information needed to solve them.

    And it was precisely in this way that, during his first 11 months of life, little Mirac had identified four main enigmas that he wanted to solve one day:

    The first was HOW he had resurrected in this other world¡­

    The second, assuming there was a reason, was WHY he had resurrected in this other world, and not, for example, in the normal one where he had previously lived¡­

    The third was to discover how Mirac had retained an eidetic memory of his entire previous life¡­

    ''The fourth mystery, then, is understanding how I can read, write, comprehend, and presumably speak this new language without ever having studied it¡­''

    Despite the myriad of unanswered questions, young Mirac was in no hurry to find answers to his questions. Not that he could realistically manage it right now.

    ''Finally, I wouldn''t be surprised at all if I discovered that all these mysteries are somehow connected...''

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    After this supposition, young Mirac took a deep breath to calm his mind after the long analytical process.

    Then, he turned his hazel eyes back to the book belonging to the presumed librarian, which remained still in place, anchored to the numerous pages just inches from his face.

    * * *

    "Advanced Magical Arts of Fire"

    "Armin J. Bellsing"

    After reading the title and author one more time, for the seventh time in a row, Mirac assumed a somewhat dubious expression as he slipped back into a reflective bubble:

    ''What kind of story is this?! Advanced Magical Arts of Fire? Seriously? Is this oddball some aspiring pyrokine? Hmph, what an idiot!''

    But immediately after insulting him, Mirac returned to pondering the strange title of the book, linking back to a few key points:

    ''"Divine Miracle"¡­ "Gift of Mother Nature"¡­ Now that I think about it, anyone who saw me in the first weeks of my life said similar things. Beyond religion, I wonder how much this world differs from the one I lived in, not just in language and technological level. In fact! Considering that now everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, is possible, without any restraint on human logic¡­ Could it be that¡­''

    Mirac swallowed nervously, but also with excitement, barely managing to finish that thought.

    ''In this world¡­ I repeat, completely unknown to me¡­ Could it really¡­ exist magi-?!''

    But before he could finish his sentence, Mirac was caught off guard when someone grabbed him from behind and lifted him into the air.

    ''Damn it! Have they discovered me?!''

    Thin hands, with long, soft fingers, grasped little Mirac by the sides. He was wearing nothing but his diaper, and because of this, he could feel a soft contact on his exposed skin.

    ''These hands¡­'' thought Mirac, with his feet dangling as he desperately tried to move and free himself from the grip. ''Yes, I''m sure! I know with absolute certainty whose they are! So far, she''s the only one I''ve seen in the castle with painted red nails¡­''

    With a slow movement of his neck, similar to those in horror movies when the monster is revealed behind the protagonists, Mirac turned around to make sure he really understood who was behind him.

    And indeed, he hit the mark!

    "UEE UEE!" chirped little Mirac, instantly adopting the demeanor of a sweet, few-month-old baby.

    It was while uttering those two simple "syllables" that he referred to his red-haired personal servant: Carmen!

    Needless to say, though, speaking in that childish way had always embarrassed him during all the months he had spent in this new life. And all this despite the fact that it was the only way Mirac could effectively express himself, given the limited capacity of his young vocal cords.

    In conclusion, it was obviously too early for him to speak properly, and the fact that he was an old man reincarnated in a child''s body didn''t change that. Human physiology, therefore, remained the same as in the other world.

    ''Tsk, what a nuisance!'' Mirac complained inwardly, while smiling at his servant who was still holding him high in her hands.

    But he slightly widened his eyes upon seeing Carmen, who had always been calm and relaxed, now furious.

    "Oh, for goodness'' sake, Young Master! We''ve been looking everywhere for you! You can''t just wander around the castle whenever you please. You''ve made me worry!" exclaimed the red-haired servant, her brows furrowed, her tone revealing how much she had been concerned for little Mirac, who had run away from his room.

    The so-called "Young Master," with no way to verbally apologize, adopted a regretful expression, lowering his gaze to the ground and clasping his hands in front of his exposed little belly.

    ''This should work. Secret technique: Infant Flattery!''

    With this so-called "secret technique," Mirac was fairly confident, about 90%, that he could escape future reprimands from Carmen and any possible punishment from her. After all, she had been authorized by the Queen herself to do so, should the need arise.

    For him, when Ginevra was away fulfilling her role in the family, Carmen was like a second mother. Sweet and kind, but strict when necessary.

    ''Please, let it work!¡­''

    After a minute of being in front of that sweet sight, the servant''s previously furrowed brows relaxed, and her face lit up with a smile.

    "Oh, Young Master¡­ You really know how to win forgiveness. You make me so tender-hearted!" Carmen finally exclaimed, taking the baby and holding him tightly in her arms.

    ''Hmph, my sweetness is unmatched!'' he praised himself.

    Then, while still holding little Mirac, the servant slowly closed the library door and turned back toward the room of the little mischievous explorer.

    ''In all of this,'' thought Mirac, surrendering and collapsing onto the servant as he was being taken back to his cradle, ''the librarian hasn''t moved an inch. I can''t tell if he''s incredibly focused on reading his book, or if he''s just an idiot who hasn''t realized anything at all...''

 CHAPTER 6: First Birthday Party (1)

    { 26 DAYS LATER¡­ }

    ''In-Incredible!'' Mirac stammered internally, his eyes widening in disbelief as he gazed, mouth open, at the scene before him.

    At the heart of the castle, the grand reception hall was lavishly and opulently adorned to celebrate young Prince Mirac''s first birthday.

    The vanilla-white walls, adorned with paintings depicting scenes of battles and noble courts, were illuminated by golden chandeliers that cast a warm, radiant glow.

    Through the large arched windows, there was an enchanting view of the night sky, studded with countless stars that sparkled like diamonds on a dark velvet canvas.

    The polished stone floor was covered with richly decorated red carpets, along which the noble guests moved with elegance.

    In the center of the hall, positioned parallel to each other, two large and long tables of carved wood were laden with culinary delights: succulent roasts, finely decorated pastries, and exotic fruits, while tall glasses of wine and pitchers of mead sparkled under the candlelight.

    Servants and butlers, dressed in uniforms even more elegant than usual, distributed small gifts and sweets to the guests, who chatted and laughed, enjoying the abundance and the festive spirit that filled the hall.

    Along the walls, groups of musicians in colorful attire played cheerful melodies with violins, harps, and a grand black piano in the center of the orchestra, creating a lively and joyful atmosphere. In one corner, an artist was painting the scene, capturing the moment in a work of art that would commemorate that special day forever.

    As expected, at the center of attention was none other than the birthday boy himself!

    Dressed in an elaborate outfit of light-blue velvet, Mirac was seated on a throne adorned with gems and fine fabrics, placed at the end of the hall to give him a full view of the celebration.

    Around him, elegantly dressed, the five principal members of the royal family welcomed the guests. Each guest, after offering their wishes to young Mirac¡ªoften accompanied by a wrapped gift¡ªwould bow respectfully to him and the royal family.

    ''All¡­ all of this¡­ is for me?!'' Mirac wondered, stammering inwardly as his eyes took in the towering pile of gifts accumulating near his throne and the expansive hall decorated for the celebration.

    In his previous, miserable life, Mirac¡ªor rather, Vector¡ªhad never had a birthday party. For over 65 years, since his father''s death, no one had ever cared to celebrate him. Not even at the orphanage!

    For Vector, there had never been cakes, wishes, or gifts: only loneliness and regrets.

    For this very reason, Vector felt a deep sense of gratitude and joy for this celebration.

    His new parents had taken care of every detail with love and dedication, filling the hall with joy and color. It was a luxury that VECTOR had never known and now, as Mirac, he savored it with a heart overflowing with emotions he had never felt before.

    ''Thank you¡­'' Vector thought, addressing his new parents in his imagination with a voice trembling and full of emotion. ''I''ll make sure to enjoy this night to the fullest!''

    With this new resolve pulsing in his heart, Mirac, like a true child, turned a wide smile to his parents standing on his left.

    "Aww¡­ Look how adorable he is, Arthur!" exclaimed Ginevra, noticing her son''s happy expression and giving her husband''s shoulder a little tap in her excitement.

    "You''re right, dear," replied Arthur, turning to her and then smiling affectionately at their child.

    "He seems quite happy," observed one of the three triplets, standing in line to the left, just after the King and Queen.

    ''Michelle?'' Mirac guessed, still unable to distinguish his sisters precisely.

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    Each time he tried, he always lacked concrete clues to support his guesses.

    "Can you blame him? After all, the first birthday is always the most important," explained another sister.

    ''Veronica!'' his youthful instinct suggested this time.

    "True! Especially when it''s for the ''Risen Prince!''" concluded the last, presumably Camilla.

    Mirac''s smile almost faded as he remembered the presence of his three sisters, at whom he cast a slightly annoyed glance.

    ''Did they really have to be invited too?''

    But after all, even if they acted a bit like spoiled princesses, Mirac had started to feel a bit fond of them over the course of the year.

    ''Every now and then, even though it was only a few times, they came to visit me and kept me company by playing with me. Should I thank them by rewarding them in some way? Maybe I could stop calling them "little brats" and switch to a term that''s more "soft and delicate." But which one?!''

    After a thoughtful moment, glancing out of the corner of his eye at his three sisters, Mirac felt an idea emerge in his mind. A shy smile spread across his face.

    ''Maybe¡­ B-Big sisters?!''

    The word seemed funny to him, a bit out of place, considering he was many years older than they were.

    Yet, it warmed his heart: after all, in his previous life, he had never known the affection of a sister or brother, and now, discovering this new kind of bond thrilled and moved him, almost without him realizing it.

    ''Yes... That should work!''

    Pleased with his stroke of genius, Mirac chuckled to himself, covering his mouth with his small hands.

    * * *

    The evening continued, and an incessant stream of guests and dignitaries took turns before the throne, coming to pay homage to the royal family with bows and practiced smiles.

    Mirac, seated on his miniature throne, initially enjoyed observing the continuous flow of faces, fascinated by the attention directed towards him.

    However, as time went on, the amusement faded, replaced by a sense of annoyance at the monotony of those repeated gestures.

    Many of those well-wishes, he perceived, were not sincere at all: behind every kind word was the shadow of a subtle calculation, a banal attempt to ingratiate themselves greedily with the King and the royal family.

    After an hour, now bored and indifferent, Mirac turned his gaze away from the guests and directed it toward the windows. The night sky attracted him more than the empty words of the courtiers.

    The stars shone in a deep black mantle, and he lost himself in them, staring at an invisible horizon. As the celestial lights sparkled, Mirac let his thoughts drift:

    ''From what I''ve gathered, listening to my parents, the body of this child was born on March 13. Today, however, is the 14th of the same month. I imagine, therefore, that everyone considers the day of my birth to be that of my "resurrection," ignoring the true date.''

    Gazing intently at the stars, Mirac continued to reflect to himself:

    ''Peacock¡­ Southern Cross¡­ El Dorado¡­ The constellations are the same as those in my old world. I assume, therefore, that the celestial bodies and stars in the universe are identical to those of my previous life. The moon is the same as well. They may have different names, but aside from that, nothing seems to have changed. However, having not yet seen any maps of this world, I''m not sure that the countries are the same as those I knew. The landmasses might have different shapes. Therefore, I shouldn''t assume that the so-called continent ''Harmony'' corresponds to a country or a nation in my world.''

    Little Mirac, to check how much time had passed since the party and how long was left until the cake cutting, looked towards a grandfather clock hanging high on the right wall.

    ''Oh right, I almost forgot: I can''t read the time from clocks with hands. Tsk, cursed math!''

    After emitting a sound similar to a huff of anger, since he still couldn''t really do that, Mirac slipped back into his thoughts:

    ''Another aspect to reflect on is TIME. It seems to flow just like in my old world. Moreover, living up to today, I''ve noticed that the annual division is identical to that of the Gregorian calendar: the hours, days, months, and seasons are all the same! But if I think about it, I wonder how such a thing is possible. Given the strange language and religion of this world, I expected a dating system to be completely different. Could Pope Gregory XIII somehow have existed in this other world? Or is it just a coincidence that the calendars are the same?''

    He paused for a moment, lost in his thoughts, his eyes wandering as if searching for the answer written in the air.

    ''Hmm... No, they''re too identical to be a mere coincidence! And the first hypothesis is also unlikely to be true.''

    Mirac yawned, a sign of fatigue and boredom in the face of the continuous stream of well-wishes from the guests.

    Unbeknownst to him, the time for cutting the succulent cake was fast approaching. But with nothing else to do while waiting, Mirac returned to his bubble of reflection:

    ''Still referring to the year I have lived here, I have clearly noticed the absence of holidays such as Christmas, Easter, Holocaust Remembrance Day, or Independence Day. This fact, rather obvious and predictable, gave me the absolute certainty some time ago that the history of this world is completely different from the one I know. Therefore, with a different religion, language, history, and who knows how many other different things, why is the annual division the same as in my old world?''

    Perhaps Mirac was getting lost in an unsolvable riddle, mulling over a detail that might actually prove to be unimportant.

    But just when he was about to let it go, a sudden and bold idea crossed his mind: a crazy theory, but strangely the most plausible, no matter how absurd it might seem.

    ''Could it be that... the calendar was introduced by someone like me? Or rather... by someone who was reincarnated into this world just like I did?!''

 CHAPTER 7: First Birthday Party (2)

    Mirac''s heart was pounding, almost in sync with the rhythm of the pendulum marking the seconds in the grand hall. His absurd theory, even though it was only a theory, had shaken him to the core, igniting a flame of excitement mixed with unease.

    ''I can''t believe it! Could it really be true? Is it possible there''s someone else, besides me, who has been reincarnated in this world? And perhaps, that very person somehow introduced the Gregorian calendar? It would make perfect sense. I know I shouldn''t jump to conclusions, but at the same time, I have to remember that now ANYTHING is possible. Therefore, I shouldn''t dismiss this possibility either. But if someone else has truly been reincarnated, when could it have happened? Perhaps centuries ago, or maybe just a few years ago. I have no way of knowing. And what if it was more than one? Maybe many others, at different times, each leaving subtle traces that now elude my understanding.''

    His gaze grew more intense, while the splendor and noise of the party seemed to fade into a distant background, like a transparent veil separating him from the rest of the world.

    His small fingers drummed nervously on the armrest of the throne, while his eyes, filled with an unusual intelligence for a child his age, carefully scanned the surroundings.

    ''Good¡­ Very good!'' Mirac finally thought, smiling, calming himself, and resuming a more childlike demeanor. ''I''m satisfied with today''s discoveries. As time goes on, I''ll have the opportunity to delve into the details and verify their authenticity.''

    At this point, despite telling himself he wasn''t in any rush and that everything would gradually reveal itself with time, Mirac couldn''t contain his impatience! His eyes sparkled with excitement, and the growing smile on his lips betrayed his rising enthusiasm.

    Every observation of the party seemed like a clue to analyze, and the thought of beginning his investigations filled him with a lively energy.

    His mind was already projecting itself toward the incredible adventures and future discoveries.

    ''I can''t wait!''

    * * *

    Without Mirac realizing it, the moment he had been waiting for had finally arrived: the cake cutting!

    ''Finally!''

    In the center of the hall stood an imposing, towering white multi-layered cake, adorned with intricate sugar roses and golden pearls that sparkled in the light of the chandeliers.

    The soft layers alternated between rich creams and glossy icing, giving off a delicate scent of vanilla and almond that filled the air, drawing the admiring gazes of the guests.

    Each layer was perfectly balanced, with thin streaks of berry jam adding a touch of color to the pure white of the cream covering the dessert.

    Ginevra and Arthur approached the sweet masterpiece with grace, lifting a knife decorated with the royal family''s seal and slowly cutting through the soft layers as the hall filled with applause.

    ''Oh come on, how long is this going to take?! Hurry up, I''m hungry!''

    Mirac couldn''t hold back any longer! His gaze was hungry and full of hope as he dreamed of the moment he''d finally taste that long-awaited dessert.

    In front of him, a small table had been carefully prepared, soon to be graced by his beloved slice of white cake.

    ''I can''t wai-!''

    But his long wait was abruptly cut short when Carmen approached and handed him a plate with a different slice of cake: plain, pale, missing the sumptuous decorations, and completely devoid of honey, chocolate, or any of the gourmet ingredients his eyes had craved.

    Mirac looked at his sad slice with a near-disappointed expression, holding back a sigh as he watched everyone else enjoying the richly adorned cake.

    ''What the hell is THIS supposed to be?'' he cursed inwardly, his face expressing, one way or another, that very thought.

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    Carmen, the red-haired servant, quickly noticed his disinterest. Trying to break the awkwardness with a smile, she came closer and looked at the boy, hoping to encourage him:

    "Oh, are you not hungry by any chance?"

    ''Of course I am!'' he thought back at her. ''But what kind of joke is this cheap knockoff?''

    With a dismissive gesture, he pushed the plate with the cake slightly forward.

    Carmen sighed deeply, almost in disappointment, and pulled the plate back toward the little birthday boy, trying to persuade him:

    "Come now, young sir, eat! This cake was specially prepared just for you. We used healthy, easy-to-digest ingredients, and made sure it wasn''t too hard or dry to avoid any choking risks."

    But Mirac stayed motionless, the plate untouched. His eyes, usually bright with curiosity, were dull and judgmental. With a firm motion, he pushed the cake away from him again.

    Seeing this, Carmen huffed, her face showing clear exasperation. Her tone, which had been gentle, immediately became more severe:

    "Oh, come now, young sir! You shouldn''t be throwing a tantrum!"

    With a quick turn of his head, Mirac set his small eyes on the red-haired servant, scrutinizing her as if she were some horrid traitor and his arch-enemy:

    ''Stop lecturing me when you''re not the one who has to eat this pathetic excuse for a cak-!''

    Suddenly, however, Mirac interrupted himself, struck by a thought that forcefully made its way into his mind.

    ''Wait a minute¡­ Am I throwing a tantrum? Over food?! Of all people, ME?!''

    He brought his eyes back to his slice of cake and almost bit his lips. Anger and pride clashed inside him.

    Then, his mind was flooded with memories of his past: days spent rummaging through trash, begging with an empty gaze for a few coins.

    ''How could I have forgotten all of that so quickly?!'' he asked himself, struck by his own arrogance. ''Living in luxury for just one year has already spoiled me so much? The old me would have been grateful even for a piece of dry bread! But now, I dare to complain about a slice of cake?!''

    Clenching his fists under the table, Mirac realized his ingratitude. His eyes, which had been filled with disappointment, grew shaded with a hint of remorse.

    Gazing intently at his plate, he finally became aware of how childish and foolish his behavior had been.

    ''You must never forget your humble origins... VECTOR!''

    Then, with a determined motion, Mirac pulled the plate back in front of him. He looked at the slice of cake for a moment, as if to challenge it, then grabbed a piece with his small, chubby hands. He sank his teeth into the dessert, biting eagerly, and an explosion of familiar flavors filled his mouth, sweeping away any remaining hint of petulance.

    Mirac ate with a nearly wild hunger, as if each bite were a tribute to his past and the hard work of anyone who had prepared the cake.

    Crumbs flew across the table, cream stuck to his rosy cheeks, and fruit filling spread uncontrollably on his elegant clothes, staining his white shirt with spots of the same color.

    However, Mirac paid no attention to any of this: at that moment, all that mattered was the food in his hands, which he devoured with the same voracity of someone who knew very well what it meant to suffer from hunger.

    The little boy got his fingers, face, and even his hair messy, leaving traces of cake everywhere. The scene was a mix of clumsiness and genuine happiness: he looked more like a puppy than a child.

    After finishing his slice of cake, Mirac smiled, satisfied and finally full: not just in body, but also in spirit.

    Next to him, on his right, Carmen watched him with a look that mixed affection and surprise.

    "I''m glad you liked it," the woman said with a smile, addressing the little birthday boy as she cleaned him up with a napkin.

    Mirac returned the smile, showing his few little teeth.

    "You must be little Mirac!" suddenly exclaimed a male voice, interrupting the exchange of smiles between Carmen and the boy.

    They both turned in unison, their gazes immediately fixed on the figure of the man who had just arrived.

    ''And who the hell is this supposed to be?!''

    In front of Mirac stood a man with a fascinating and imposing appearance. His long blonde hair, shining like gold in the sun, framed a face that exuded kindness and serenity. His blue eyes, intense and attentive, seemed to gently scrutinize the world around him, conveying a sense of peace and understanding.

    His figure was tall and robust, giving off an air of solidity without appearing threatening. He wore a crisp white suit, elegant and simple, complemented by a cloak of the same color that gracefully cascaded down to just touch the floor. The white shoes, perfectly in harmony with the rest of the outfit, added a touch of freshness and modernity to the look. Their glossy surface caught the light in a captivating way, creating a subtle and refined contrast with the pristine white of the clothing.

    Mirac estimated that the man was around 25 to 30 years old, an age reflected in his confident yet relaxed posture.

    On his chest, he wore a golden emblem depicting a stylized flame that shimmered slightly in the light, an enigmatic symbol that immediately captured the attention of anyone who might look at it.

    Seeing the crest, Carmen''s eyes widened in surprise and disbelief.

    "You are¡­" she began to say, but the words caught in her throat, as if the name itself were too significant to pronounce without hesitation.

    The man smiled at her with disarming warmth, one of those smiles that could put anyone at ease.

    Then, with a formal gesture, he placed the palm of his right hand on his heart, while the other politely tucked behind his back in a pose of elegant respect.

    Finally, with a calm and deep voice, he addressed them, slightly bowing his torso:

    "Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Armin J. Bellsing."

 CHAPTER 8: First Birthday Party (3)

    Mirac frowned, trying to remember where he had heard that name before.

    ''Armin J. Bellsing? It sounds familiar¡­''

    His thoughts intertwined for a moment until, in a flash of understanding, he opened his eyes wide, struck by a sudden revelation.

    ''Of course, how could I have forgotten? Armin J. Bellsing¡­ It''s the same name that was on the book the librarian was reading! If I remember correctly, it was titled "Advanced Magical Arts of Fire." So, is he the author?''

    Mirac looked at the man with a mix of amazement and curiosity, his little heart beating faster at the thought of possibly discovering, one way or another, the contents of the book.

    Meanwhile, Carmen politely returned the bow of the blond-haired man.

    "N-No way!" she exclaimed, her gentle voice overwhelmed with excitement. "It''s an honor to meet you, Sir. Armin!"

    ''Apparently, he must be someone really important!'' Mirac hypothesized, watching Carmen stammer.

    There could be no other explanation. Out of all the guests present, he was the only one whose presence had Carmen visibly flustered and thrilled.

    Armin rose gracefully from his bow, shifting his gaze from the servant to little Mirac.

    "I apologize for not coming earlier," he explained gently, addressing them both. "Unfortunately, I was held up by some guests who noticed my presence."

    ''Are you trying to brag about it?''

    "For this reason," Armin continued, "I want to extend to you my warmest and most heartfelt wishes, my dear ''Risen Prince.''"

    Having said this, the blond-haired man bowed again, just as he had before. But this time, the gesture was directed solely at the young guest of honor.

    ''Tsz, I don''t care about your wishes!'' Mirac scoffed inwardly. ''I''ve already had enough of those. Instead, hurry up and tell me more about your book and who you are!''

    Carmen gasped, then bowed once more toward the important guest.

    "Thank you!" she exclaimed. "I''m sure little Mirac is also deeply grateful for your kind wishes."

    ''Hey! Don''t say things I don''t actually think!''

    The blond-haired man, having finished his bow, continued speaking:

    "Unfortunately, I didn''t have time to buy him a gift¡­"

    ''Of course you didn''t!'' thought the guest of honor, rolling his eyes.

    "However, I still have a surprise for the little Prince."

    ''A surprise?!'' he wondered, intrigued.

    Armin si turned and stepped down from the raised platform where the throne stood, gesturing to follow him with a wave of his hand.

    "Please, come with me."

    Carmen picked Mirac up in her arms and, without hesitation, followed the man with the long blond hair.

    As they walked through the grand hall, the crowd parted to make way for them, bowing and greeting the little celebrant with smiles and admiring glances.

    The voices rose in a quiet chorus of well-wishes and honors, and Mirac, though comfortably seated in Carmen''s arms, felt himself at the center of everyone''s attention.

    Among the faces greeting him, Mirac managed to catch sight of his family: his mother, father, and sisters, scattered and engrossed in conversations with other nobles, apparently unaware of his passage.

    Their sparkling garments shone under the chandelier lights as they spoke animatedly with pleased expressions.

    Yet Mirac couldn''t focus on the greetings or the general excitement. His mind was captured by a single thought: what would the surprise Armin mentioned be?

    With each step, he drew closer to the mystery and its answer, fueling his immense curiosity.

    ''Wow! I want to have a cape too when I grow up!'' thought Mirac, admiring with a hint of envy the white fabric that hung powerfully and elegantly over the man''s shoulders.

    At the end of the path, Armin stopped in front of the large balcony, located on the opposite side of the throne.

    "Here we are," announced the blond-haired man with a smile, as he opened the wide glass doors.

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    As he did so, the fresh air immediately filled the hall, carrying with it the sweet scent of flowers that adorned the castle''s entrance. As Mirac gazed beyond the balcony, he was able to catch a glimpse of the dense forest surrounding the castle. The high, distant walls seemed to encircle that sea of green, like an ancient boundary marking the world beyond its gates.

    The supposed balcony, instead, turned out to be a large white stone terrace, framed by a cement balustrade decorated with floral patterns.

    On the shiny marble floor, large pots of exotic plants were arranged, their brightly colored flowers emitting a delicate fragrance that blended with the crisp night air.

    Among the plants, there were also small lanterns hanging, their faint golden glows adding a warm brightness, casting soft, flickering shadows on the walls and floor.

    A full moon, pale and luminous, dominated the horizon, casting its glow on the towers and spires of the castle silhouetted against the starry sky.

    Just beyond the entrance, Mirac felt the cool breeze caress his face, a pleasant and relaxing sensation, as if all the fatigue and tension accumulated throughout the night had vanished in an instant.

    The lights of the party behind him seemed distant, almost far away, while the darkness and tranquility of the night enveloped him.

    Armin, standing in the center of the terrace, let himself be surrounded by the night''s silence, inhaling the fresh air that caused his long white cloak to ripple.

    Only then did Mirac notice that the same symbol from the crest was also imprinted on the cloak, in the same golden color.

    After a deep breath, Armin slowly turned toward Carmen and little Mirac, who had remained aside behind him.

    "I kindly ask you to take a few steps back," Armin said, gently guiding them back to the terrace''s entrance.

    ''What is he planning to do?'' Mirac wondered.

    Armin remained still for a moment, his gaze fixed on the horizon, his body surrounded in an aura of calm and concentration.

    His profile, faintly illuminated by the dim light of the moon, revealed a subtle, almost imperceptible smile, which Mirac could barely make out.

    ''What the hell is he smiling about?''

    As his eyelids lowered, the man immersed himself in silence, allowing a deep breath to fill his chest and then leave it.

    From his right hand, open and raised before him, with the palm facing his body, a small flame began to appear, shimmering in the silence. Slowly, it danced between his fingers, like a lively and untamed little creature, struggling to escape his grasp, yet remaining bound to his hand in a perfect balance of control and freedom.

    Mirac''s eyes widened, unable to look away.

    ''What?! How did he do that?!'' he wondered, stunned, his heart pounding wildly.

    The flame grew larger, crackling and shifting colors in a hypnotic swirl: the fiery red blended into golden yellow, the cool blue merged with bright orange, and here and there, green and purple sparks flickered, as if the flame itself were alive and constantly transforming.

    Armin raised the hand with which he had been working, closing it completely and gathering the flame into a single, pulsating sphere, filled with energy and light.

    Suddenly, he reopened his eyes and, with a quick and fluid movement, spread his hand. In an instant, the flame lifted into the air, speeding away into the night sky with impressive speed, soon blending among the stars.

    The tongues of fire split into a cascade of sparks, shooting upwards and far ahead of the castle.

    The flames erupted in the darkness, eventually painting the sky with vivid and spectacular explosions: incandescent flowers of red and gold bloomed one after another, followed by spirals of blue and green intertwining, lighting up the night as if they were fireworks.

    Each explosion was accompanied by a deep, vibrating sound that echoed through the air, while the sparks slowly descended like falling stars.

    Mirac watched in awe, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide. In that moment, he was completely absorbed by the wonder, unable to reflect on what Armin had just done.

    Meanwhile, drawn by the sudden glow, much of the crowd inside the hall rushed toward the windows and the entrance to the terrace.

    Nobles and servants crowded together to admire the spectacle, their faces painted with wonder and astonishment.

    Exclamations of surprise and applause were heard as the fireworks continued to explode in the sky, painting the night with colors never seen before.

    "Incredible!"

    "Look, mom!"

    "Such magnificent colors..."

    "Strange though... I had no idea that fireworks were scheduled."

    "Now that I think about it, I didn''t know either."

    Amid the growing background murmur, many guests turned their gaze toward the terrace, focusing on the man with blonde hair.

    As soon as they noticed the golden crest on his white cloak, their eyes widened in surprise.

    "That symbol..."

    "These fireworks..."

    "Of course, I''m sure of it! It belongs to the Bellsing family!"

    "What?! Really?! So he..."

    "He''s the firstborn of the family: Armin J. Bellsing!"

    At the revelation, which spread through the crowd like an oil stain, a growing murmur of surprise began to take hold, rising sharply from the background of conversations in the hall.

    "What?! Armin J. Bellsing?!"

    "I can''t believe it..."

    "It''s really him! The ''King of Flames!''"

    "Unbelievable!"

    "I absolutely have to ask him for an autograph!"

    "I hadn''t even noticed he was here at the party."

    "But what''s he doing here? From what I''ve heard, I thought he had retired to the Rospnit Volcano Chains..."

    "Yeah, me too!"

    "I actually have some friends who know him personally. And all of them speculate that, in just a few years, he will achieve Perfect Sintony with Fire!"

    "W-What?! You''re kidding, right?!"

    "Perfect Sintony with Fire?!"

    "But if that''s the case, he''d technically reach the same magical level as an Elemental Angel!"

    "Exactly! And at that point, it wouldn''t be impossible for him to replace the current Fire Angel!"

    Slowly lowering the arm with which he had worked, Armin turned towards the ecstatic crowd and bowed respectfully, as applause erupted around him.

    Then, with a confident stride, he walked back toward Carmen and Mirac, both of whom were stunned and speechless in front of the magnificent spectacle.

    "I''m glad you liked my ''surprise,''" Armin explained, addressing the little birthday boy with a sweet smile painted on his face. "Next time we meet, I promise I''ll show you flames even more beautiful and grand than these."

    Mirac, however, remained still and motionless, almost lifeless. His gaze was lost in the sky, while the fireworks continued to dance.

    Amid the crowd, still in Carmen''s arms, Mirac had gathered a great deal of useful information about the identity of the man with blonde hair. From this, he would certainly be able to derive further details about the world in which he lived.

    However, instead of doing what he usually did¡ªimmediately getting to work analyzing the new information he had just gathered¡ªone thought dominated Mirac''s mind, summing up everything he had discovered with the fireworks:

    ''I¡­ want to learn MAGIC too!''

 CHAPTER 9: Late Guest

    { 6 YEARS, 2 WEEKS, AND 4 DAYS LATER¡­ }

    It was around eight-thirty in the morning.

    Mirac was standing in front of the castle entrance, in the wide atrium. He wore a light blue velvet tunic, adorned with thin golden embroidery along the edges and sleeves. His black, knee-length trousers revealed white stockings that ended in shiny, well-maintained black ankle boots.

    The enormous wooden doors, tall and imposing, stood as guardians of the main entrance. Carved with intricate patterns of rosettes and noble crests, the doors were reinforced with sturdy iron studs and adorned with golden handles, gleaming even in the sunlight. The impressive wooden structure conveyed a sense of authority and grandeur, reflecting the majesty of the entire castle.

    The hall, on the other hand, was vast and airy, with a marble floor laid out in a black and white checkerboard pattern. The red walls were adorned with tapestries and shields, while at the center of the high vaulted ceiling hung a large crystal chandelier that sparkled like a constellation of suspended lights.

    The tall, narrow windows, framed by heavy dark red velvet drapes, allowed a soft light to filter through, illuminating the space with a golden glow.

    On either side of the entrance, two finely decorated terracotta vases caught the eye of anyone passing by. Each vase was adorned with sculpted reliefs of leaves and flowers, painted in shades of green and gold that enhanced their beauty.

    The tall plants emerging from these containers were lush and well-tended: evergreens with dense, glossy leaves created a vibrant contrast with the cool brown of the terracotta vases. Their branches intertwined in an elegant, orderly pattern, adding a touch of freshness and liveliness to the solemn atmosphere.

    To Mirac''s left, Carmen stood with the impeccable posture of someone accustomed to discipline, her gaze fixed on the imposing wooden doors. Every now and then, she would glance to her left, at the young Prince, but her demeanor remained composed and watchful.

    Meanwhile, Mirac nervously drummed his fingers against his leg, his gaze fixed on the massive wooden doors that showed no sign of opening.

    Every now and then, he shot irritated glances at the emptiness of the hall, hoping that time would hurry up out of sheer whim. The hours spent standing in front of the entrance had brought him to a state of exasperated impatience, a bad mood worsened by his constant yawning.

    The silent, orderly calm of the hall stood in stark contrast to the growing annoyance building inside him, increasingly difficult to ignore.

    "Oh, come on, when is he going to arrive?!" Mirac burst out, unable to hold back his frustration any longer.

    Carmen slowly turned towards him, her gaze reproachful, with her hands clasped in front of her.

    "Young Prince, such language is not appropriate for one of your stature."

    Mirac looked at her defiantly, casually picking his nose with his pinkie.

    "Oh yeah?! Really?! Even when I''m forced to wake up at six in the morning to receive someone I''ve never seen or met?"

    Carmen raised an eyebrow, maintaining the calm that her role required.

    "The rules of courtesy of the Kingdom of Ardorya require that the guest be welcomed with respect and patience, even if he or she is late. It is part of our protocol."

    "More than a latecomer, he just seems like a retard to me..." Mirac retorted, not even bothering to lower his voice.

    Carmen gasped with anger, blushing furiously as she turned back toward Mirac, her gaze as hard as the stones of the atrium.

    "Young Prince! Your behavior is unacceptable! If you continue like this, I will be forced to report everything to His Majesty the King and the Queen. And stop picking your nose immediately, thank you!"

    Mirac sighed, lowering his hand with a bored gesture. He had no intention of arguing with Carmen, because he simply didn''t feel like it. But frustration gnawed at him, and the weight of the tedious wait was unbearable. The atrium seemed to swallow him, amplifying every bit of his impatience.

    Then, as if a thought had suddenly exploded in his mind, Mirac widened his eyes.

    "Wait a minute! I didn''t invite him. So why the hell do I have to wait for him?"

    Carmen nodded, her expression understanding yet firm.

    "You are right, young Prince. The invitation was sent by the King himself. However, due to his commitments, the responsibility of receiving him was entrusted to you. Consider this an opportunity for growth, a small training for the future."

    Mirac rolled his eyes, biting his tongue to hold back another complaint.

    ''So they''re dumping all the work on me, huh?'' he thought, yet again burying his silent rebellion beneath another unwanted duty. ''And then, why did I have to come here to wait for him since seven in the morning, if his arrival was scheduled for eight?! It doesn''t make any sense at all!''This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    But then, slowly, the large wooden door creaked open, almost without a sound.

    Mirac and Carmen turned in unison, their gazes fixed on the man emerging from the shadows of the entrance.

    ''Finally!'' Mirac thought, with a sigh of relief.

    Through the door entered a tall, slim man who looked to be around forty years old. His gray, disheveled hair was scattered messily over his sweaty forehead, which glistened slightly from the exertion.

    He wore round, iron-framed glasses that framed his lively, dark eyes, while his thick eyebrows seemed to move in rhythm with his heavy breathing.

    All of this added a touch of disarray to his already chaotic and unkempt appearance: black trousers held up by a leather belt, a half-buttoned lilac shirt with sweat-stained armpits, and a black tie hanging loosely around his neck. His black dress shoes were untied, one of them even completely open.

    A medium black hammered leather shoulder bag hung from his shoulder. The rectangular-shaped bag, with rounded corners, featured an adjustable iron chain strap and a zip closure, with an inner pocket and two open compartments.

    Once he had closed the doors behind him, the man paused for a moment to observe the surroundings and the people in front of him, taking a moment to collect himself.

    ''Even running, he still managed to be late? What a phenomenon!'' Mirac thought ironically.

    Afterward, the man who had just arrived entered clumsily, while trying to catch his breath.

    "Apologies for the delay-" he started to say, but before he could finish the sentence, he tripped on his shoelaces and fell to the ground, almost face-first.

    In the chaos of the fall, the bag opened and a myriad of books scattered on the floor. The man let out an embarrassed laugh as he tried to get back on his feet.

    "Augh! What a pain..." he murmured, massaging his head.

    "Oh, did you hurt yourself?" Carmen exclaimed, crouching down beside him and starting to pick up the books.

    "Uh... No no no, I''m fine, thank you!" he replied, trying to mask his embarrassment with a nervous smile.

    Carmen put the books back into the man''s bag and handed it back to him, carefully adjusting the strap on the guest''s shoulder.

    Without saying a word or showing any emotion, she then began to straighten him up with the same meticulousness as someone taking care of a lost child: she bent down to tie his shoes with quick, precise movements, then moved on to the tie, gently pulling it to straighten it and give it a more dignified appearance. Finally, she took care of the wrinkled shirt, buttoning it carefully all the way to the top and adjusting the collar, restoring a minimal sense of composure to the man.

    The latter stood there with his mouth agape and allowed himself to be helped, his expression a mix of embarrassment and gratitude.

    "Th-Thank you very much!" the man finally said, as Carmen stepped back and returned to the side of the young Prince.

    Mirac, who had been watching the scene with wide-open eyes, was left speechless.

    ''Did I really wait all this time for a weirdo like him?'' he thought, as a mix of disbelief and disappointment crossed his face.

    The man cleared his throat, trying to dispel the embarrassment of his clumsy entrance with a cough.

    "Ahem, as I was saying... Apologies for the delay," he said, bowing slightly with a touch of embarrassment.

    "Don''t mention it. No trouble at all," replied Carmen, returning the gesture with a formal bow.

    ''Yeah, we really enjoyed waiting for two hours!'' thought Mirac, but he held back, merely sighing in silence.

    Carmen shot him a glare, almost as if sensing the young Prince''s thoughts, and Mirac, caught red-handed, responded to her stare with a fearful expression.

    Under the pressure of that silent judgment, he bowed as well.

    "Hello, and welcome, Mr... Uhm..." Mirac began, not really knowing how to continue.

    "Oh, right! You haven''t been told anything yet, young Prince," intervened Carmen, turning first towards Mirac and then towards the man.

    "I-In this case, it''s better to introduce myself¡­" he said, placing a hand on his chest in a solemn gesture.

    With another bow, he introduced himself:

    "My name is Vincent Shirkenn. From this day and for the next eight years, I will be your private teacher. It is an honor to meet you, young Prince..."

    ''Private... teacher?'' thought Mirac, confused. ''It''s a joke, right?! Oh yes, of course: an April Fool''s joke! Oh no, I almost forgot. They don''t celebrate that day here¡­''

    Carmen, noticing the little Prince''s confusion in the meantime, bent slightly toward him to clarify the situation:

    "After your seventh birthday, His Majesty the King decided to entrust your education to Professor Shirkenn."

    Mirac looked at the newcomer with a mix of disappointment and disbelief. The idea that such a clumsy man could be his teacher terrified him.

    ''Well... I''m definitely screwed!''

    Noticing his distress, the servant with reddish hair tried to reassure him, whispering in his ear:

    "Don''t worry, young Prince. Professor Shirkenn may seem a bit odd, but don''t be fooled by appearances. He is one of the best teachers in the Kingdom of Ardorya, a true expert in many disciplines. His methods have shaped some of the brightest minds in the kingdom. His Majesty the King chose him personally, knowing there is no better teacher to guide you on your path of growth."

    ''As much as I care about you, it''s hard for me to believe you, Carmen...'' thought Mirac, looking at Vincent with skeptical eyes.

    After a moment, he gave in to the inevitable and asked:

    "Alright... But when do the lessons start?"

    Vincent smiled, replying with a subtle hint of pride:

    "Today, young Prince."

    "¡­"

    Mirac sighed, accepting the situation with a resigned expression.

    ''Well, actually, Carmen is right: I shouldn''t jump to conclusions by judging him just by his appearance...''

    Upon reflection, he didn''t want to behave like the people from his old world. There, in fact, his dirty and disheveled appearance was always a reason for judgment, and it almost always excluded him from any place he went to for his needs, like the library or the stores, of course, only when he managed to gather enough money to shop.

    They saw him as someone without money, instead of treating him like a normal person.

    But after all, this is exactly what poverty represents in society: a label, a distinction, an invisible boundary that separates those who have from those who don''t, those who can from those who must struggle to survive.

    Once again, his new luxurious life had almost made him forget these details.

    ''I am grateful to you, Carmen... Like 6 years ago, you prevented me from forgetting my old shitty life!''

    While Mirac was reflecting, the servant with reddish hair turned around and, without further delay, invited them to follow her.

    "Young Prince, Professor Shirkenn... I will take you to the classroom prepared for your lessons."

    The two followed her in silence, walking through the vast corridors of the castle, surrounded by ancient tapestries and imposing statues, while Mirac tried to mentally prepare himself for his new fate under the guidance of the eccentric Vincent.

 CHAPTER 10: Counting Tears

    After climbing the stairs and reaching the second floor of the central part of the royal palace, Carmen, Mirac, and Professor Shirkenn stopped in front of the classroom door. The long corridor, adorned with plants and golden candelabras, seemed to observe the young Prince with a silent warning.

    "Now that we''ve arrived, I''ll leave you alone then," said Carmen, executing a flawless about-face to return to her many duties.

    But after just a few steps, she stopped abruptly, casting a final piercing glance at Mirac.

    "Young Prince¡­ I don''t think it''s necessary to remind you to behave with the proper respect toward Professor Shirkenn, is it?"

    A cold shiver ran through Mirac, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

    ''Damn, when Carmen looks at me like that, she''s really scary!'' he thought, trying to keep a composed expression.

    Without waiting for a response, Carmen walked away with a determined stride, leaving Mirac and Shirkenn alone in a silence heavy with expectation. For a moment, the two stared at each other, a brief instant of mutual appraisal.

    "Alright. Umm¡­ Shall we go in?" said Vincent, attempting to break the awkward silence as he placed his hand on the door''s golden handle, uncertain whether to wait for a cue or to proceed.

    "I''d say the answer is obvious, Professor Shirkenn," Mirac replied in a slightly bored tone.

    With a quick nod and a deep breath, Vincent opened the door, revealing the classroom that would become their daily meeting place.

    "Wow!" exclaimed Mirac, unable to hide his amazement as his eyes roamed eagerly around the room.

    The classroom was a marvel of elegance and attention to detail, perfectly suited to a young Prince.

    The space was a large, bright rectangle, with a light wood plank floor that added warmth and a natural touch to the room. The walls were divided horizontally into two sections: the lower half was covered in dark, polished wood planks, smooth and well-maintained, continuing the natural and inviting theme of the floor. The upper half, on the other hand, was simply plastered in a vanilla-colored shade, similar to that of the palace corridors, helping to reflect the light coming from the windows and giving the room a sober yet sophisticated appearance.

    Tall arched windows dominated the wall opposite the door, flooding the room with natural light and offering a panoramic view of the royal gardens. The lush flowers and plants seemed to sway gently with the breeze, as if cheering on Mirac for his future lessons.

    In the center of the room stood the only desk, entirely reserved for the young Prince. The wood was polished and finished with golden details along the edges, a symbol of refinement and royalty. On the desktop lay a few books, a notebook bound in black leather, and a silver inkwell with a raven feather, ready for the first lesson.

    At the short end of the room, far from the door, a large oak lectern decorated with golden floral inlays dominated, accompanied by velvet-cushioned red chairs. On one side of the table, a selection of leather-bound volumes ranged across history, philosophy, and military strategy texts, promising to guide Mirac through the vastness of knowledge.

    Behind the professor''s lectern, a large black chalkboard framed in dark wood awaited formulas and notes, with white chalks neatly aligned along the edge. Above the board, a decorated bronze clock ticked rhythmically, marking each moment of this new beginning.

    Along the wall opposite the windows, a row of dark wood shelves housed books, ancient maps, and various study instruments: globes, compasses, and brass astrolabes.

    Between the shelves, curious objects could be glimpsed: a small golden telescope, scrolls tied with silk ribbons, glass vials filled with vividly colored liquids, and an ancient globe with unknown continents that sparked the young Prince''s curiosity.

    ''I''ll study them carefully during geography lessons...'' Mirac thought, already imagining himself exploring those mysteries.

    Hanging on the walls, portraits of illustrious scholars and ancient rulers seemed to scrutinize every corner of the room, watching the young Prince with stern eyes.

    ''Am I mistaken, or are they watching me?'' Mirac wondered, though he ignored the strange feeling and looked up.

    In the center of the vaulted ceiling, a crystal chandelier hung elegantly, though more modest than the majestic one in the reception hall, the setting of Mirac''s first and later birthday celebrations.

    The vault itself was a masterpiece: a fresco of dancing flames and wise warriors of the past, who seemed to come to life under the natural sunlight.

    Fascinated, Mirac turned his head, trying to follow the fresco''s intricate lines, and without realizing it, sat at his desk, still absorbed in his contemplation.

    Meanwhile, Vincent closed the door and made his way to the teacher''s desk, carefully setting down his duffel bag.

    ''Wow, I''m surprised he didn''t fall...'' Mirac thought, casting a glance at the professor.

    "So, shall we begin?" Vincent asked, placing his hands on his hips and looking at Mirac with a smile that exuded a certain confidence, in contrast with his initial awkwardness.

    Mirac didn''t respond immediately. He simply tilted his head slightly to the side, as if his silent approval was more than enough.

    Vincent, not paying much attention to the Prince''s lack of words, pulled a parchment-bound document out of his bag and placed it carefully on Mirac''s desk.

    "Young Prince, this is the complete list of lessons and schedules. Every day, from 8 to 13, we will cover a wide range of subjects," said Vincent, almost with pride.

    Mirac grabbed the sheet and, scanning the dense lines of subjects and times, his eyes widened. Every day was packed with lessons: ancient history, geography of the kingdom and the continent, history of military strategies, philosophy, religion, grammar, and even an introduction to magical arts.

    ''Wow, so many subjects to study! Especially considering that, technically, I''m only 7 years old!'' Mirac thought, as a mix of anxiety and excitement stirred inside him.

    Facing those hours filled with such varied subjects, Mirac ran a hand through his hair, trying to hide his nervousness.

    ''On the bright side, though, I''ll finally get to learn a lot about this new world!'' he told himself, staring at the titles with a renewed sense of determination.

    Afterward, Mirac lowered his gaze to the schedule, feverishly searching for the lesson he would have that morning.

    ''Let''s see: Monday... Already second period, since the PROFESSOR arrived late... OH NO!''Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    Before he could finish his thought, Vincent raised his voice with misplaced enthusiasm:

    "Young Prince, let''s begin our first lesson: MATH!"

    "¡­"

    Clenching his teeth, Mirac remained speechless. Or rather, the words swirling in his head were decidedly inappropriate to say out loud.

    ''I hope you''re dragged to the depths of hell, and that there you find no peace in Lucifer''s claws!'' Mirac thought, unable to hold back the wave of mental curses.

    He was definitely exaggerating, but the idea of starting his studies with the subject he hated most was driving him crazy.

    It wasn''t just anger: it was pure disgust, a visceral unhappiness that crawled into every fiber of his body.

    Noticing Mirac''s discontent, evident from the disgusted expression on his face, Vincent asked in a concerned tone:

    "Young Prince, is there a problem?"

    Mirac barely held back the impulsive response bubbling up in his mind:

    ''Yes, damn it! You show up late and think it''s normal to start with MATH?! If I could, I''d sentence you to death right here!''

    He was furious and knew that with the next provocation, he would explode.

    ''Calm down¡­ breathe¡­'' he thought, forcing himself to take a deep breath.

    He needed to be rational: avoiding the lesson would only postpone the inevitable. Moreover, asking to move the math lesson to another day wouldn''t solve anything.

    With this realization, Mirac returned to studying the schedule.

    ''So¡­ Four hours of math per week: two on Monday morning, one on Wednesday from 10 to 11, and the last one on Friday, again in the morning. At least they''re well spread out. And today, given the delay of this oddball, it''ll only be one hour!''

    This discovery was a small relief. He couldn''t have endured two consecutive hours of that subject he hated so much, at least not that morning.

    Vincent interrupted him again, confused.

    "Young Prince?..."

    Mirac, calmer now, smiled with a feigned determination.

    "Alright, Professor Shirkenn! Let''s begin."

    Vincent, confused by Mirac''s reflective silence but smiling with excitement for their first lesson, turned toward the board. He grabbed a piece of chalk and began writing a sequence of numbers from zero to ten, from left to right.

    "They told me that you are very intelligent for your age," commented Vincent as he finished writing the last number.

    ''Hehe, modestly...'' thought Mirac, holding back a smirk as he copied into his notebook what appeared on the board.

    "But still, it''s always better to start with the basics. A castle, to be solid, needs strong foundations, right?"

    After placing the chalk on the edge of the blackboard, Vincent turned toward Mirac, whose gaze was distracted. His eyes were slightly squinted, and his apathetic expression immediately betrayed the student''s desire for the lesson to pass quickly.

    While writing, between one yawn and the next, Mirac immediately recognized the symbols on the board. But not because of his innate understanding of the language of that new world...

    The numbers, in fact, were written exactly the same way as in his previous life!

    And in this regard, Mirac had discovered it a long time ago.

    When he was still a child, by pure chance, he had caught a glimpse of a small notebook with a long shopping list sticking out of Carmen''s skirt pocket.

    ''Another mystery, huh? This is already the fifth one on the list...''

    This was the thought that immediately struck Mirac that day as he carefully examined every detail of the list he could see and read.

    He pondered for a long time on how it was possible, convinced that it couldn''t be just a coincidence.

    This new evidence led him to confirm what he had already suspected: he was now certain that, in one way or another, some knowledge from his old world had been introduced into the new one he had reincarnated into!

    Thus, Mirac immediately connected the mystery of the numbers to that of the Gregorian calendar. He thought it was highly likely that the person who introduced the Gregorian system might have been the same one who brought the numbers. Or perhaps someone from an even earlier time.

    In any case, there was no way to solve that mystery at the moment, so it didn''t make sense to keep racking his brain over a puzzle that, until his first lesson with Vincent, Mirac had almost forgotten.

    "Please, young Prince," said the gray-haired man, his voice respectful yet stern, "repeat after me."

    Vincent pointed to the first number with his finger and slowly moved it from left to right, pronouncing each digit and waiting for Mirac to repeat, though with visible disinterest.

    "Zero."

    "Zero..."

    "One."

    "One..."

    "Two."

    "Two..."

    "Three."

    "Three..."

    "Four."

    "Four..."

    "Five."

    "Five..."

    "Six."

    "Six..."

    "Seven."

    "Seven..."

    "Eight."

    "Eight..."

    "Nine."

    "Nine..."

    "Ten!"

    "Ten..."

    "Good! Now, let''s repeat it a couple of times."

    ''Tsz!'' Mirac huffed, but followed the exercise.

    * * *

    After the third repetition, Vincent stopped, his finger now covered in white chalk dust. He wiped away the numerical sequence and turned back to Mirac:

    "Now try it on your own, young Prince."

    Despite the complete lack of enthusiasm, Mirac dared not disobey for fear of possible repercussions from Carmen.

    ''What''s the point of all this? I''ll never be good at math anyway¡­''

    With that demoralizing thought in mind and his eyes rolling upward, Mirac recited, following Vincent''s instructions:

    "Zero, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten..."

    After pronouncing the last number, Mirac straightened up suddenly, abandoning his lazy position. The shock took him by surprise: his eyes were glued to the now empty blackboard.

    "Great job, young Prince! After just three repetitions with my help, you managed to learn how to count!" Vincent exclaimed, with a proud tone.

    Mirac stared at the blackboard, unable to believe it. His hand, gripping the white quill pen, trembled above the notebook, leaving small smudges of ink on the squared pages.

    "I... I learned how to count?" Mirac murmured, incredulous.

    "Exactly, young Prince," replied Vincent, not understanding the full extent of his statement.

    "Me? I learned to count? ME?!" Mirac repeated, his voice trembling and full of astonishment.

    "Uhmm... Yes, young Prince, that''s exactly right!" confirmed Vincent, puzzled but pleased.

    Mirac continued to doubt it. He thought it might have been just a stroke of luck. So, he decided to try again, counting slowly:

    "Zero, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten..."

    And again: "Zero, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten!"

    Finally, almost shouting: "ZERO, ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE, AND TEN!!!"

    He had not made a mistake, nor was it a fluke: Mirac had truly learned to count!

    "I-I can''t believe it..." he whispered, as his emotions exploded.

    Vincent, noticing Mirac''s trembling and his hands clutching the pages of the notebook, immediately rushed to his side.

    "Young Prince! Are you all right?!" he asked, worried.

    He then tried to comfort him with slow, gentle movements on his shoulder, though they felt awkward and stiff, as if it were his first time.

    Mirac lowered his gaze, releasing his grip on the notebook. He then looked at his hands, where the tears continued to fall, as if confirming what he had just realized.

    "Zero... One... Two... Three, four... Five... Six... Seven, eight, nine... And ten..." he counted the tears, which were actually far more than he could enumerate with the little knowledge he had just acquired.

    Each single tear represented a small victory, a triumph over a past filled with frustrations and failures.

    What had once been an impossible goal throughout his entire life was now finally within reach.

    Yet, Mirac''s mind was overwhelmed by a whirlwind of confusion and astonishment. For a few moments, he stood still, continuing to wonder how this could be possible.

    ''Yeah, of course!'' he thought, as the answer struck him like a lightning bolt. ''How could I not have thought of this before, after all these seven years?!''

    Amazed and almost incredulous, Mirac hypothesized that the cause of all this lay in his new body, radically different from the previous one and equipped with perfect brain functions. No longer limited by cognitive impairments, his brain was completely renewed, finally free from the severe dyscalculia that had tormented him in his previous life, preventing him from grasping even the simplest concepts related to numbers.

    In short, at that moment, everything seemed to have been resolved!

    The first ten numbers, which once were difficult for him to memorize and recite in order, now appeared familiar and easily accessible.

    What once required concentration and effort¡ªcounting to ten¡ªnow occurred smoothly and naturally.

    ''With this new body... Will I really be able to... learn math?!''

    The answer was clear and obvious in itself.

    This realization was, for Mirac¡ªno, better yet, for Vector!¡ªthe most extraordinary discovery of his new life!

    "Young Princ-"

    "Professor Shirkenn..." Mirac interrupted him, wiping his tears with his sleeves.

    Vincent watched him with concern, locking eyes with Mirac, now filled with deep and unexpected gratitude.

    "Thank you!" exclaimed Mirac, a sincere smile lighting up his face.

    Vincent, taken by surprise, nervously scratched the back of his neck and withdrew his hand from the young Prince''s shoulder.

    "Oh, umm... You''re welcome, young Prince... It was a pleasure!"

    "And please, Professor Shirkenn..." Mirac added, lowering his voice.

    "Yes?"

    "Help me count the next tears!" Mirac exclaimed, his voice a mix of innocence and determination, as he smiled at the man who had helped him in an endeavor he never thought he could face.

    Vincent, vaguely grasping the deep meaning hidden behind those words, returned the smile warmly.

    "Of course, young Prince... You can count on me!"

 CHAPTER 11: Stepmothers and Stepsisters

    ''Tsz, how embarrassing¡­ I cried like a baby!''

    It was 13. Mirac and Vincent were heading to the dining hall, having just finished their first day of lessons.

    After an hour of math, where they reviewed the first ten numbers and then studied up to thirty, they had a short ten-minute break. Then followed two long hours of continental language, another break, and finally, philosophy.

    Unfortunately, Mirac hadn''t learned anything new beyond counting to thirty. He already had a perfect command of the continental language thanks to his innate knowledge, while for philosophy, Vincent had only given a simple introduction to the subject, barely touching on the fundamental concepts.

    ''I know I''ve already said it,'' thought Mirac, recalling the schedule card he had struggled to memorize during the two breaks, ''but it''s really a demanding program for someone who''s supposed to be only 7 years old!''

    This was perfectly justifiable, given that, after all, he was the Prince of the Kingdom of Ardorya!

    Preparing to inherit the throne, rule an immense kingdom, command the armed forces, manage strategic resources, and negotiate with other powers¡­ Every aspect of this responsibility required meticulous and advanced preparation!

    Therefore, according to King Arthur, Mirac had to begin preparing for all of this, even though he was only 7 years old!

    ''Isn''t he maybe going a bit too fast?''

    Fortunately, though, Mirac¡ªor rather, Vector¡ªwas an old soul, used to far more rigorous and demanding studies in his past youth.

    ''In comparison, it will be a piece of cake! Or at least I hope so...''

    Walking down the long hallway, Mirac felt the cool spring breeze brush against his face, lazily drifting in through the half-open windows and carrying with it the distant fragrance of the gardens.

    Once at the end, they turned left and continued along a shorter corridor that ran along the short side of the royal palace.

    At the end of this hallway, they descended a staircase of white marble, covered by a red carpet that cascaded majestically down the wide, low steps. Although the staircase was spiral, it completed only one turn, bringing them back toward the main corridor.

    ''Wait a minute! Now that I think about it¡­ Why would this oddball be having lunch with us?'' Mirac wondered to himself, glancing at Vincent out of the corner of his eye.

    However, he was too fascinated by the grandeur of the castle to notice Mirac''s puzzled gaze.

    ''Well, never mind... Most likely, I''ll find out later at lunch,'' the young Prince hypothesized, shifting his scrutinizing gaze away from Vincent.

    After finishing the stairs and reaching the first floor, they arrived at the long main corridor. In the middle of it, a large staircase split into two separate flights that, with a U-turn, led to the entrance hall.

    From there, reaching the dining room was easy: they simply had to take the corridor to the right of the main entrance.

    Once inside, they found the entire royal family patiently waiting for their arrival. Each member was already in their usual place, as always.

    King Arthur and Queen Ginevra were seated at opposite ends of the long, perfectly polished white wooden table, which extended parallel to the wall where the double central door was set.

    On either side of the table, seven seats per side: three occupied by Mirac''s sisters, all close in age, seated impeccably with their backs straight, their long curly hair framing their carefully groomed faces. Every movement they made was measured, as if even their breathing followed a strict protocol.

    On the opposite side, equally composed but with dark and probing looks, sat King Arthur''s three wives.

    Next to them, occupying the next four seats, sat the daughters, each a unique reflection of their mother.

    The first wife, a blonde woman with blue eyes, sat beside her eldest daughter, who shared her golden locks and the same icy gaze.

    The second wife had long brown hair and eyes of the same color, a harmony of shades reflected in the daughter next to her, although the latter had her father''s light-colored eyes.

    The last of the wives, with a bob of black hair and piercing blue eyes, sat near the Queen. Her two daughters, both with the same hairstyle, displayed different irises: one blue, the other green, a sign of heterogeneous beauty.

    The stepsisters seemed to be around 10 or 12 years old, while the stepmothers cleverly concealed their age with a beauty that made them appear younger. Even so, Mirac was quite sure they were at least 30 years old.

    Moreover, in all of his new life, Mirac had never interacted with any of them! He didn''t even know their names, and frankly, he didn''t care. More than anything, he was surprised that his father, after seven years, had still not made the decision to divorce them.

    But, among all the wonderful and incredible things he could discover in that new world, this detail interested him very little.

    As soon as they entered the room, the twelve people present turned in unison toward Mirac and Vincent, staring at them with sharp, scrutinizing gazes.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    The man with gray hair, struck by a sudden panic under the weight of those judging eyes, visibly flinched. He hesitated for just a moment before awkwardly bowing, his torso bent in a forced gesture of deference.

    "G-Good afternoon¡­ Your Majesty! A-And to you too, Queen Ginevra! A-And to everyone present in the room. I-I present myself: my n-name-"

    Arthur interrupted him with a gesture of his hand, raising his palm with a disarming elegance that left no room for argument.

    "There''s no need, Professor Shirkenn," Arthur said calmly, withdrawing his hand to rest it back on the table with a measured gesture. "Everyone has been informed of your presence here at the castle, including my family. As agreed, please take a seat with us."

    The King indicated with a slight wrist motion the empty seat at the corner near him, across from his blonde daughter.

    Vincent swallowed nervously, then walked toward the chair which, like all the others, was white with a tall backrest. As he sat down, he tried to compose himself with a dignity that seemed to elude him.

    Mirac observed the scene with an expression mixed with embarrassment and disbelief.

    ''Did I really cry in front of someone like him?'' he thought, barely holding back a sarcastic smile.

    With an exasperated expression, Mirac also moved into the rectangular room, flooded with sunlight coming through the five large arched windows on the side opposite the entrance.

    Finally, he took a seat in the corner near his mother, while one of his sisters sat on the left, although he hadn''t bothered to figure out which of the three it was.

    After a brief moment of waiting, seven maids, including Carmen, and seven butlers entered in an orderly line, serving the meal with elegance and precision.

    Each dish was carefully arranged, from the finely decorated china to the mirror-polished silverware, and the aroma of delicious dishes filled the air, completing the scene with a touch of discreet opulence.

    Vincent began to sweat coldly when Carmen placed the plate in front of him, thanking her with stammering and awkward words.

    ''I still don''t understand why the oddball is here with us...'' thought Mirac, as he mashed the mashed potatoes with his silver fork.

    Anyone at that moment was asking themselves the same question.

    After all, why was that man sitting with them in the dining room reserved exclusively for members of the Royal family?

    It''s well known that those who work at the palace eat in separate areas reserved for the staff.

    So, why make an exception for him?

    Noticing the confused looks of his family directed at Vincent, the King didn''t hesitate for a moment to explain the reason for his presence at the table.

    In short, King Arthur was so eager to stay constantly updated on his son''s education that he had arranged with Vincent to attend the royal family''s dinners right after lessons, from Monday to Friday.

    And indeed, there he was!

    During these lunches, Vincent was supposed to explain in detail how each lesson of the day had gone, highlighting strengths or weaknesses, in order to adjust the program according to the needs.

    "So..." Arthur added to finish his explanation, cutting his steak in half. "How did it go today, Professor Shirkenn?"

    Meanwhile, Mirac froze. The spoon hung suspended in midair as he was about to bring a bite of mashed potatoes to his mouth.

    ''Shit!''

    The thought that Vincent could recount every detail, especially what had happened that morning, terrified him!

    If he mentioned his tears, Mirac feared he would become the laughingstock of everyone.

    He tried to warn Vincent with a glance, hoping he would catch the message.

    Vincent, however, was already speaking:

    "Your Majesty, I will be honest: the young Prince..."

    ''Son of¡­'' thought Mirac, holding his breath.

    "...is a true genius!" exclaimed Vincent, his eyes full of pride, addressing Mirac across the table.

    ''...a good woman!'' Mirac concluded mentally, switching from an insult to a sweeter thought in order to show respect for the mother.

    Fortunately, Vincent made no reference to Mirac''s crying. Instead, he focused on how attentive, quick to learn, and brilliant the young Prince was at understanding new subjects.

    Mirac didn''t know whether he was doing this out of pure pity, or if he had decided to reserve the events of that morning for the two people who had lived through it.

    But at that moment, he couldn''t care less about going into details. What mattered to Mirac was that his reputation was intact!

    As the praise continued, the reactions at the table were varied: the three wives and their daughters remained impassive, continuing to eat without interrupting their etiquette.

    The twins maintained the same formal attitude, but the one sitting next to Mirac barely whispered:

    "Great job, little brother..."

    Her tone was cold, but Mirac knew that the sisters followed protocol with extreme discipline, not allowing any emotions to show.

    "Thank you, Michelle..." Mirac whispered, always guided by the instinct that allowed him to recognize which sister he was speaking to.

    After Vincent finished speaking, Arthur''s face lit up with immense pride.

    "Oh Mirac, I am so proud of you!" exclaimed his mother, placing a hand on his shoulder and then affectionately stroking his face.

    Suddenly, a deep and genuine laugh echoed through the room.

    "I expected nothing less from my son!" added the King, laughing.

    Mirac gave Vincent one last glance, almost with gratitude, and sighed with relief.

    ''Well... it ended well! From now on, though, keep that secret until the grave, you weirdo!''

    Relaxed, Mirac brought another forkful of mashed potatoes to his mouth, savoring each bite with renewed pleasure.

    * * *

    After lunch, Mirac returned to his room, a tidy and well-furnished space with a dark, finely carved wooden desk dominating the short side opposite the bed. On it were notebooks, books, an inkpot filled with ink, and a white quill, study tools that Mirac had come to know well.

    He sat at the desk and began doing his homework: rewriting all the numbers from zero to thirty five times, and doing the same for the alphabet of the continent''s language. The quill, in his hands, seemed almost alive as it traced letters and numbers on the notebook.

    "Tsz, stupid homework!" Mirac muttered, as his white quill wrote once again, as if it had learned what to write on its own.

    Finally, for philosophy, Mirac had to reflect on a short passage by a certain "George Rassing," read by Vincent in class.

    The author of the passage was a contemporary philosopher and general of King Arthur''s third army, dealing with ethical issues on the battlefield during conflicts and wars.

    But Mirac couldn''t care less about any of this...

    ''Swords? War? What do I need that for exactly?! I... want to learn magic-''

    Mirac was interrupted in the middle of his thoughts by a gentle knock on the door.

    "Come in!" Mirac exclaimed, without looking up from the page, continuing to write with evident frustration.

    The door opened, and Carmen, the maid with reddish hair, entered with a professional expression.

    "Young Prince, your fencing lesson will begin shortly," she explained, slightly tilting her head in a gesture of respect.

    Mirac huffed, a look of frustration crossing his face. In fact, he had almost forgotten that at 16, as his father had told him during lunch, he would have his first fencing lesson.

    ''How many things do they plan to reveal to me at the last moment?'' he thought as he stood up from the chair with a sigh, following Carmen to the designated training area.

    Thinking back to lunch as he descended the stairs, Mirac clearly remembered that King Arthur had already mentioned his instructor.

    Among the numerous praises and recommendations the King had made to impress his son, who seemed uninterested, one particular statement had deeply struck Mirac:

    "Among all the seven kingdoms of the continent Harmony, there is no doubt that the Great Knight Leonard is the second most skilled and powerful with the sword!"

 CHAPTER 12: Lunge, Parry, Counterattack

    The training ground was located outdoors, at the back of the castle, nestled between the majestic royal residence and the vast garden that stretched to the horizon. This rectangular, spacious, and well-maintained area was surrounded by tall wooden fences reinforced with metal, designed to ensure safety during exercises.

    The terrain, well-leveled but not completely smooth, featured occasional tufts of wild grass sprouting between stones and patches of sand, giving the field a natural and slightly uneven appearance. This type of flooring had been intentionally chosen to prepare fighters to train on various types of surfaces and to simulate the most realistic battle conditions.

    At the center of the training area stood several straw targets and wooden dummies, now splintered and marked with deep wounds.

    In one corner, an array of swords and shields was neatly arranged on wooden racks, ready for use. The variety of swords, some ancient and adorned with golden inlays, others simpler and more functional, underscored the importance of training in courtly life.

    Fortunately for Mirac, who had no intention of tolerating further delays, the instructor was already present, positioned at the center of the field with his body turned three-quarters toward the entrance gate. His gaze wandered over the flowered horizon of the garden, as if he were pondering something distant.

    "Oh, young Prince!" Leonard exclaimed, startled by Mirac''s arrival. He hurried to approach, his stride confident and his face animated by a respectful smile.

    "Have a good lesson, young Prince," said Carmen with a slight bow before moving away to resume her duties.

    As Leonard approached, Mirac took the opportunity to study him closely.

    The instructor had medium-length brown hair with unruly strands falling over his forehead, framing a youthful face marked by experience. His blue eyes shone with sharp determination, and his fair complexion highlighted the refined features of a man who appeared to be in his thirties.

    The uniform he wore exuded an aura of authority and tradition. Made in a deep red, a color closely associated with the military realm of the Kingdom of Ardorya, the fabric¡ªsturdy yet surprisingly light, likely wool¡ªwas designed to withstand the harsh conditions of military environments.

    Every detail was not merely decorative but carried specific meaning tied to the wearer''s rank and role: the high, stiff collar was edged with a black trim, a color associated with the highest ranks. The epaulets were adorned with golden braids, a distinctive symbol of the significance of his position.

    The numerous golden buttons, finely decorated and arranged along the jacket, created a striking visual effect, giving the uniform a ceremonial appearance. The cuffs, finished with a black trim and an elegant fold, added an extra touch of sophistication. The discreetly hidden side pockets ensured functionality without compromising aesthetics.

    The long trousers, of a simpler design, were black and matched perfectly with the calf-high boots, also black, which looked practical and durable.

    As he approached, the Grand Knight kept his hand on the iron hilt of his longsword, which protruded from the black leather sheath secured to his right side. The hilt, visible above the sheath, gave the weapon a menacing yet elegant appearance, reflecting the value the weapon held for him.

    Once he was a step away from Mirac, Leonard bowed respectfully, his posture perfect and deferential.

    "It is an honor to train you personally, young Prince. I promise I will not disappoint you!" he declared with a mixture of eagerness and pride at the task entrusted to him.

    Then, as if struck by a sudden realization, he started slightly:

    "Oh, forgive me! I forgot to introduce myself: my name is-"

    "There is no need, Grand Knight Leonard," Mirac interrupted him, halting his bow halfway. "King Arthur has already spoken to me at length about you during today''s lunch."

    Leonard smiled, relaxing slightly.

    "I am glad to hear that, young Prince. If that is the case, I will do my best to live up to your expectations!"

    Finished speaking, Leonard stepped back and picked up two wooden swords resting on a nearby rack. He examined them carefully before handing one to Mirac.

    "To start, we''ll use this," Leonard said. "It''s a wooden sword, perfect for the first lessons. Heavy enough to let you feel the movement, but safe enough to avoid accidents."

    Mirac took the sword with some reluctance, feeling its light but noticeable weight in his hands. The polished wooden hilt was smooth to the touch, and the weapon seemed almost harmless compared to the real sword hanging at Leonard''s side.

    "It''s not what I imagined," Mirac admitted, lifting the sword with both hands and examining it. "It feels... like a toy!"

    Leonard smiled, clearly amused.

    "Do not be deceived by appearances, young Prince. Swordsmanship is an ancient art, and before wielding a real sword, one must learn the fundamental movements, control, and discipline. Every great swordsman started here, with a wooden sword."

    "Even you?" asked Mirac, though he already knew the answer.

    But every now and then, he had to do it: pretend to be surprised and raise his eyebrows, to mask his true mental age and make the image of a 7-year-old child more believable.

    Leonard nodded with a smile.

    "Exactly! It all starts from this moment. But before focusing on striking, we must discuss how to hold a sword."

    Leonard positioned himself beside Mirac, gripping his own wooden sword.

    "Observe my posture. The position of the legs is the foundation of everything. Left foot forward, right foot back, knees slightly bent. This will give you balance and stability."

    Mirac tried to mimic the instructor, but his movements were stiff and uncertain. Leonard stepped closer, gently adjusting the position of his legs and arms.

    "Well done! Now grip the sword with both hands: your dominant hand, the one you write with, should be just above the handle, while the other hand goes at the base. The grip should be firm but not too rigid. Also, remember that you must feel the weapon as an extension of your body."

    Mirac tightened his grip on the hilt as suggested, trying to find a balance that was neither too tight nor too loose. Leonard observed carefully, patiently correcting every mistake.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    "Much better! Now, let''s begin with a simple lunge. Point the sword forward and push it in a smooth motion, keeping your body steady. The lunge is one of the simplest strikes, but it requires precision."

    Mirac lifted the sword and attempted the lunge, but the movement was clumsy and imprecise. The tip of the sword didn''t go where he intended, often ending up off-center.

    Leonard watched without intervening immediately, allowing Mirac to experience the mistake.

    "Don''t worry if it''s not perfect on the first try," Leonard said encouragingly. "No one was born with a sword in their hand. Every mistake is a step forward toward improvement. Let''s try again, more slowly this time."

    "All right!" replied the young Prince, this time with a hint of genuine enthusiasm.

    Mirac repeated the motion, carefully following the instructor''s guidance. He felt the weight of the sword pulling on his arm, the tension in his muscles, and the need to coordinate every part of his body to execute a single fluid gesture.

    "Tsz!" Mirac huffed, frustrated at his inability to master the movement as he desired.

    After a few more attempts, his frustration began to rise quickly, but Leonard''s patience encouraged him not to give up.

    "Very good, you''re improving! Every movement, even the smallest one, has a purpose. Now, try to hit that target in front of you."

    Mirac looked at the target indicated by the instructor: a simple circle of straw positioned a few steps away.

    ''All right, you little bastard, it''s you and me!''

    He took a deep breath, trying to piece together everything Leonard had taught him in just a few minutes.

    He lunged again, this time with greater conviction. The tip of the sword struck the target¡ªnot perfectly at the center, but close enough to bring a smile of satisfaction to Leonard''s face.

    "Excellent, young Prince! This is just the beginning, but it shows that you have the determination needed to improve. It''s not just about strength, but about the mind and body working in unison."

    Mirac lowered the sword, his heart pounding.

    ''Damn! This is way harder than I thought¡­''

    As Mirac caught his breath, Leonard stepped closer.

    "Shall we continue?" the instructor asked, ready to move on to the next lesson.

    Mirac nodded, gripping the sword with renewed enthusiasm.

    "Let''s continue!"

    Leonard''s face lit up as he saw Mirac''s fighting spirit.

    "Good. Now we''ll move on to parry and counterattack exercises," Leonard explained, approaching Mirac. "In battle, knowing how to defend is just as important as knowing how to attack. The sword is not just an offensive weapon: it''s also our shield."

    Gripping his wooden sword firmly and taking a steady stance, Leonard continued with an encouraging smile:

    "Now, young Prince, I want you to strike me with your sword, from any direction you desir-"

    Mirac didn''t waste another second. Without waiting for the instructor to finish speaking, the young Prince lunged forward, delivering a decisive and quick strike with his sword.

    He wanted to understand how skilled and fast the "second strongest swordsman in the world" was with a sword, studying his reaction instincts. And what better way to do it than by trying to strike him when he least expected it?

    Mirac launched the attack with determination, but without the necessary speed to catch his opponent off guard, making it ineffective.

    Indeed, Leonard''s response was lightning-fast: his sword moved with surprising fluidity, drawing a brief but precise line through the air, and with disarming simplicity, he intercepted Mirac''s strike.

    A confident smile tugged at Leonard''s lips as the wood of the two swords met with a sharp sound.

    "Not bad, young Prince," said Leonard in a teaching tone, lowering his guard as Mirac stepped back. "But swordsmanship isn''t just about strength or speed. It also requires precision and control. Let me show you."

    Leonard took a step back, rotating the sword with fluid movements.

    "Parries are divided into categories, each designed to intercept an attack from a specific angle. Each parry has a number associated with it, making it easier to learn and remember. For example," he raised his sword in a high position, angled to deflect a downward strike, "this is the fourth parry. Perfect for deflecting blows aimed at the head."

    Leonard lowered the sword.

    "Now, young Prince, I will attack, and you must parry with what I just showed you. When you think you have the chance to counterattack, do it."

    Mirac nodded, trying to hide the growing excitement and anxiety within him.

    "Alright!"

    Without hesitation, Leonard sprang into action.

    With a fluid motion, Leonard raised his wooden sword and delivered a downward strike. The sound of the wood slicing through the air made Mirac flinch, but the young Prince reacted instinctively, lifting his sword to parry, trying to imitate the fourth parry that his master had shown him.

    Although Leonard had controlled the force of the blow, the impact was enough to force Mirac to bend his knees and lower himself to maintain his balance.

    ''Damn, what strength!'' thought the young Prince, tightening his grip on the hilt to avoid losing hold of it.

    Leonard smiled, the calmness of his face a stark contrast to the intensity of his movements.

    "Very good! But remember, the parry is not just for defense. It should also give you the opportunity to react."

    Before Mirac could respond, Leonard attacked again, a similar blow from above. This time, the young Prince was more prepared. He raised his sword with determination, stopping the attack with enough force to make his arms vibrate, but without losing ground.

    "Better," Leonard commented.

    ''But now, let''s see how you handle this...'' thought the knight as he raised his sword once more.

    But instead of bringing it down, Leonard changed direction mid-swing, delivering a quick sideways strike.

    Mirac, caught by surprise, barely managed to bring the sword into the correct position: vertical, close to his face, and perpendicular to the ground. The sound of wood clashing against wood rang out clearly.

    ''Oh, that was close!'' thought Mirac, breathing heavily. ''I was lucky, but I can''t keep going like this!''

    Limiting himself to just blocking the blows, without ever taking the initiative, would have prevented him from counterattacking.

    Mirac was fully aware of this, just as he was aware that the speed of his small, young body was too slow to approach Leonard without the latter easily reacting in time, as he had done before.

    Thinking about it carefully, the only possibility that came to his mind was to catch Leonard by surprise.

    But this time, for real!

    To do this, Mirac waited for that brief instant when the knight, as always, would withdraw his sword after the attack to prepare for another strike. All of this was to deliberately avoid clashing with the direct resistance of his Master, who would certainly block any attempt.

    As soon as Leonard''s blade began to retreat, Mirac seized the moment. He followed the knight''s sword movement and pushed it away with such ease that even a seven-year-old child like him would have been able to do it.

    Leonard''s sword swung horizontally in a wide half-arc.

    Finally, as planned, Mirac lunged forward, aiming for Leonard''s exposed chest, his body tense in an instinctive defense.

    However, Leonard was already prepared: his blade met the tip of Mirac''s sword with a sharp sound, blocking the blow with impeccable precision.

    In an instant, and with a decisive motion, Leonard forcefully pushed his student''s weapon, forcing the latter to step back a few paces.

    Mirac immediately regained his stance, his hands gripping the hilt as he had been taught, ready to continue.

    However, when he looked at Leonard, he caught a look of genuine admiration.

    "Good job!" the knight exclaimed, lowering his sword. "Your reflexes are quite impressive!"

    Mirac relaxed his muscles, lowering his guard as he caught his breath.

    "Oh, really?!" he asked, almost blushing at the compliment.

    Leonard calmly set his wooden sword on the ground, the tip touching the earth while his hands gripped the hilt.

    "Unfortunately, though, reflexes alone will never be enough," Leonard said. "Sometimes you might lose sight of the enemy. They could be hiding in the shadows or moving silently between the trees, ready to strike. Or, it could be that the confusion of the battlefield distracts you, clouding your senses. In those moments, strength, speed, reflexes, and mastery of the sword won''t be enough to save your life."

    His expression grew serious, his eyes fixed on the disciple.

    "Remember, young Prince... If you want to survive, do as you did today: always trust your instincts!"

    Mirac swallowed, feeling a sense of danger and foreboding in those words.

    ''Wow, how creepy!'' he thought, his eyes widening slightly. ''But, he''s not entirely wrong...''

    Leonard carefully observed the expression of the young prince, as if he wanted to be sure that his words hadn''t had too heavy an effect. After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat and said:

    "Umm... I hope I haven''t frightened you, young Prince. That wasn''t my intention¡­"

    Mirac, still shaken by the force of that speech, took a step forward and smiled.

    "No, Master, don''t worry. It takes much more to scare me."

    The Master, visibly relieved, nodded without saying a word, while an amused smile appeared on his lips.

    "Oh, really? Heh, well then," Leonard said at last, raising his sword again. "If that''s really the case, let''s continue."

    Without wasting any more time, they resumed their training, both unaware that they were being watched by someone.

 CHAPTER 13: Revelations Beneath the Stars

    For the next forty minutes, Mirac repeatedly performed every movement he had learned¡ªthe fundamentals of the thrust and the parry¡ªwhile Leonard watched him closely, correcting every minor mistake.

    But the instructor, visibly satisfied and amazed, hardly had to intervene, noticing the rapid progress of the young Prince.

    "Great job!" exclaimed Leonard enthusiastically. "I''d say we''re done for today."

    Mirac, completely exhausted and sweating, collapsed on the ground, desperately trying to catch his breath.

    But just as he thought it was over, Leonard added:

    "Oh, I almost forgot... Before we finish, do 50 push-ups, 50 sit-ups, 50 squats, and finally, 20 laps around the fence."

    Mirac barely lifted his head, staring at the instructor with wide, incredulous eyes.

    "W-What? D-Did I hear that right?" he asked, vainly hoping that his exhaustion had played a cruel trick on him.

    "Exactly, young Prince! It is essential to train the body, making it strong, agile, and resilient, in order to face longer and more intense battles. It wouldn''t make much sense to improve sword technique with poor physical condition, would it?"

    "Y-You''re not wrong..." Mirac admitted through clenched teeth, trying to suppress his discomfort.

    ''But my body is falling apart!'' he thought bitterly, but held back the words.

    He didn''t want to seem like a spoiled child, and the idea of complaining on the first lesson seemed just as inappropriate.

    He had no choice: he couldn''t refuse the Grand Knight''s orders.

    With a deep sigh of resignation, Mirac began the exercises, facing each push-up and sit-up as if they were another battle. Every muscle in his body protested, but the young Prince didn''t stop, driven by the desire not to appear weak.

    * * *

    Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to him¡ªalthough, in reality, only an hour and a half had passed since the start of the training¡ªMirac was able to rest.

    With slow, heavy steps, he dragged himself toward a tree that stood near the training field, where he collapsed at its base with a groan of relief.

    He was alone, surrounded only by the silent nature.

    The soft, fresh green grass seemed to welcome him like a blanket, gently enveloping him, while a warm breeze made its way through his hair, causing it to move in the same direction as the leaves.

    "Damn, I''m completely worn out!"

    Mirac''s body was destroyed: every muscle, tense and contracted, burned with an exhaustion never felt before. His arms were as heavy as lead, while his legs, trembling and out of control, seemed to refuse to support him for another minute.

    Even his breath, labored and broken, had become a challenge: his lungs expanded slowly, struggling to recover from the storm the training had unleashed within him.

    He could feel the cold sweat on his forehead, his heart still pounding in his chest.

    But what pierced him more than the physical pain was the awareness that this torment would become his new daily routine!

    Every afternoon, at 16, from Monday to Friday, Mirac would have to train with the sword, as established by King Arthur.

    An unrelenting cycle of fatigue and discipline.

    No more carefree afternoons spent chasing butterflies, drawing fantastic landscapes, spending time with his family, resting in the shade of the garden trees, or playing with Betty, the royal family''s dog.

    And unlike his studies with Vincent, which would end after eight years, there was no deadline for his lessons with Leonard.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

    Mirac tried to comfort himself, repeating that there was no way to avoid it. That thought, however weak, seemed enough to lighten his heart a little, as he tried to find a positive side to the day.

    "Now that I think about it, I have to admit that handling the sword turned out to be quite... interesting. Maybe even a bit fun," he murmured, almost surprised by his own words.

    Despite the fatigue and exhaustion the training had brought, there was something in the act of holding the sword, feeling its weight, and trying to master it, that fascinated him, as if it were slowly awakening a new side of him.

    "Also, thanks to today''s training, I''ve learned to count up to 50," he added ironically to himself.

    After taking a moment to deeply inhale the fresh oxygen around him, Mirac slowly closed his eyes, letting that positive thought give him a brief respite.

    But just as he was giving himself over to that moment of relief, another thought suddenly struck him, interrupting his rest.

    "Dammit, I almost forgot: I still have to finish my homework!" he exclaimed, with a frustrated groan, staring up at the blue sky.

    But he was too tired to get up, let alone head to the castle.

    After such an exhausting day, it wasn''t just Mirac''s body that was exhausted: his mind was also pleading for a break.

    He thought it would be better to rest a little before returning to his room and tackling the homework, prioritizing Continental Language and Philosophy, which were due the next day.

    "The Math homework is for Wednesday, right? If so, I still have time to do it tomorrow," he muttered finally, letting go of any pretense of resistance.

    Little by little, his thoughts grew slower, like waves crashing with less and less force on the shore. A gentle rustling of leaves surrounded him, and the chirping of birds sounded like a sweet distant song.

    The coolness of the grass beneath him was so comforting that he didn''t even notice when his eyelids fully closed. His breathing became steady, and the exhaustion of the day gave way to a light sleep, gently rocked by the caress of the wind.

    * * *

    ''Mirac... Mirac... Mirac...'' a voice repeated, an echo distant yet at the same time close, as if vibrating directly inside him. ''Mirac... Mirac... MIRAC!''

    Suddenly, Mirac opened his eyes.

    "Who called me?!" he was about to ask himself, but the words faded in his mind, smothered before they could even take form.

    The thought itself seemed to dissolve as his eyes settled on what surrounded him.

    ''What the hell...?!''

    He was left speechless.

    Mirac found himself suspended in a place that seemed to belong neither to time nor space.

    There was only an infinite void that seemed to belong to nothing.

    The ground beneath him was invisible, yet he didn''t fall, as if the very air itself held him in some surreal balance. The sky above him was as black as ink, dotted with white stars that shone like gems, giving the impression of a distant and elusive dream.

    Beyond the starry sky, there was nothing, not even a sound. But a strange energy permeated that infinite silence, as if the void itself were filled with a mysterious presence.

    Despite the disorientation, Mirac couldn''t ignore the allure of that nighttime landscape, which seemed to defy every physical law.

    Driven by an irresistible curiosity, he decided to explore that cosmic place, seemingly infinite.

    However, he soon realized that every attempt to move was completely useless: he couldn''t perceive his body, nor see it. His arms and legs didn''t respond to his commands. He tried to move his hands, to shift his feet, but his body seemed to refuse to obey.

    It was as if he were trapped in a limbo, aware of his own existence, but without a physical body through which to experience it.

    A disorienting, almost transcendental sensation.

    ''What kind of dream is this?!'' Mirac wondered, or perhaps he only thought it, unsure whether those thoughts were his own or instilled by that mysterious place.

    Slowly, taking shape from a white mist, a glowing white inscription appeared before him, suspended in the darkness of the starry sky.

    Each word shone with its own light, and although it had no voice, Mirac perceived the message as if it had been whispered directly into his mind, as strong as it was gentle.

    [ Everywhere, Math is the language of the Universe ]

    [ And from both, you have been chosen... ]

    The words seemed carved into the air, emanating an aura of solemnity as they floated slowly.

    ''Math? Universe?''

    Reading those words, Mirac was overwhelmed with confusion, his mind twisting in a desperate attempt to make sense of those enigmatic phrases.

    He stood still before those white letters, paralyzed in his strange, bodiless existence.

    In the real world, he would have at least taken a step back, surprised and confused by the mystical vision unfolding before his eyes.

    But here, there was nothing he could do: only watch helplessly.

    Right after their appearance, the two phrases slowly faded, dissolving into a white mist that seemed to dance before Mirac''s eyes. The mist thickened progressively, as if it were about to take on a new form.

    And indeed, from that metamorphosis, new writings appeared, emerging from the mist with surprising clarity, one after the other.

    [ For the very first time ever, today you have comprehended Math... ]

    [ Your Mind now understands Math ]

    [ All the requirements have finally been successfully met! ]

    [ Now, you are ready to embrace your Sintony... ]

    Mirac mentally widened his eyes¡ªor rather, what he could widen in that incorporeal form.

    Surprise overwhelmed him, a flood of questions exploded in his mind.

    But it was the last phrase that shook him to his core, more than any other.

    ''What the hell¡­?!''

    A cold shiver ran through his essence, as if something inside him had reacted to those words even before his consciousness could process them.

    [ From now on, you are in Sintony with Math ]

 CHAPTER 14: Grudges Towards Math

    The sensation of a strangely familiar energy slid down his back, leaving him breathless for a moment.

    ''Sintony with Math? What the heck is that?!'' he wondered, his heart seemingly racing even though he couldn''t feel its beat.

    As if the dream was aware of his confusion, the writings began to transform again. The mist reorganized with almost mechanical precision, taking on a new form.

    [ Today you learned: to Count ]

    [ Counting: The process of listing the natural numbers (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8...) in an orderly sequence to determine the quantity of objects in a set or to enumerate elements. This process is the foundation of arithmetic and basic numerical operations ]

    [ Math is proud of you! ]

    [ Math wants to reward you... ]

    And after a few seconds of waiting, the mist thickened once more, forming other mystical writings in front of him:

    [ Congratulations! ]

    [ You have obtained- ]

    But the writing didn''t have time to finish.

    A sudden, sharp pain overwhelmed Mirac.

    But not in the dream. No!

    It was real, concrete, tangible, and it seemed to be coming directly from his head.

    Something had struck him.

    And whatever it was, not only had it caused him head pain, but it had also woken him up.

    Like a sudden rip, the night sky abruptly vanished. The stars that had been sparkling around him moments before dissolved in the blink of an eye, taking away the dreamlike writings that danced in the air with their ethereal glow.

    Everything vanished suddenly, leaving him in a void of confusion and pain.

    Finally, Mirac opened his eyes, finding himself abruptly thrust back into the real world.

    The fresh grass beneath his hands felt sharp, and the rough trunk of the tree pressed against his back.

    With a muffled groan, Mirac sat up abruptly, instinctively bringing a hand to his head. His fingers found a small, throbbing bump, and a grimace of pain crossed his face as he tried to massage it.

    "Ouch!" he grumbled, massaging the sore spot. "What the heck was that?!"

    His gaze drifted down to the ground to his left, where he saw the object that had probably struck him: a red apple, perfectly round and shiny, lay on the grass next to him.

    "An apple? Where the heck did that come from?" he muttered in confusion, instinctively looking up.

    As soon as he did, Mirac got an immediate response.

    "An apple tree?!" he exclaimed, surprised, observing the branches laden with red, shiny fruits, hanging like heavy clusters swaying gently to the rhythm of the wind. "Wow, I didn''t even notice! Well, I guess I must have been too tired to pay attention."

    As the pain in his head gradually subsided, Mirac lowered his gaze back to the apple. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands with a raised eyebrow, as if it might somehow provide him with an answer.

    "What on earth did I just dream?!" he wondered aloud, the memory still vivid in his mind.

    The black starry sky...

    The mysterious writings...

    And those messages? What did they mean?

    Despite the apparent absurdity of the dream, Mirac couldn''t shake the feeling that it was something more than just a simple fantasy.

    Those words, laden with a meaning that eluded his understanding, kept echoing in his mind like a persistent reverberation.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Everything he had seen couldn''t simply be reduced to a simple dream caused by fatigue or his fertile imagination.

    There was definitely something bigger, something that Mirac still couldn''t explain, but that he felt clearly inside himself, like an invisible thread that tied him to that mysterious event.

    After getting up to head toward the castle and go up to his room, Mirac began to analyze aloud every detail of what had appeared in the dream.

    "Math is the language of the Universe¡­ From now on, you are in Sintony with Math¡­" he repeated quietly, slowly enunciating each word. "Math-"

    Suddenly, Mirac stopped, his eyes wide open as if struck by a lightning bolt of realization. His heart started pounding hard in his chest, echoing with an intensity that nearly made him stagger.

    "Wait a minute! M-Math?!" he exclaimed, bringing a hand to his forehead. "Damn it, how did I not realize this detail right away!"

    Mirac stood still for a moment, feeling his emotions boil in his blood. The more he thought about it, the more his fists clenched, while the tension grew so much that he could feel the weight of the apple in his hand.

    "From all the messages that appeared before me in the vision, one thing seems certain: in one way or another, Math is involved in all of this!" he declared firmly, even though that realization burned inside him, deeply irritating him.

    But at the same time, it confused him even more, because he couldn''t understand how something like this was possible.

    Like... had "Math" really tried to communicate with him? It sure seemed that way.

    But if that was really the case, who or what was this "Math"?

    In his old world, Math was nothing more than an abstract discipline, a logical concept, a series of equations and theorems to study and apply.

    But here? Could it really represent a tangible Being?

    A supernatural entity?

    A GOD?

    Certainly, Mirac hypothesized, it must have been something or someone powerful enough to pull him into that transcendental vision.

    And this being, paradoxically, seemed to be called "Math."

    Therefore, the question immediately sprang to Mirac''s mind, sharp and insidious:

    ''Could this be the same MATH that had ruined my previous life?!''

    Given all the strange events he had experienced, such a wild and absurd possibility couldn''t be ruled out. But the very thought seemed unthinkable to him, a reality so far from what he had hoped to build for himself.

    At this thought, every fiber of his being seemed to rebel strongly against this reality, so unexpected and unbearable.

    "Tsz! Damn it! It''s true that I cried today, but it was only because of the emotion! Not because I FORGAVE Math!" he thought, remembering the tears he had shed after finally learning to count.

    However, the more he tried to justify those emotions, the more the irritation inside him grew, untamable, like a fire raging mercilessly.

    "But then, how dare it even tried to talk to me?! It has absolutely no right to do so!" he burst out, his heart pounding heavily in his chest.

    A moment later, another thought crossed his mind, and his anger exploded again.

    "No, wait a second... Could it be that... Math wants to ruin my life again?!" he snarled, furious, furrowing his brow in anger. "Damn it, screw you, Math!"

    Frankly, though, Mirac didn''t even know who or what he was referring to at that moment.

    But his anger, now uncontrollable and powerful like a wave crashing over him, had to be released somehow.

    Soon after, breathing deeply and relaxing his fists, as if trying to calm himself, Mirac thought:

    "From my past life, I''ve definitely learned that nothing good ever happens when Math is involved! Therefore, the best idea is definitely to not get further involved in all of this!"

    He stopped for a moment, thinking in silence, as if he were ready to make a definitive decision.

    "Yeah, I''ve decided! I''ll ignore what just happened and move on with my life, like nothing ever happened!"

    The sound of his own voice, so firm and certain, gave him a small sense of relief. But, despite his conviction, the feeling that something much larger was at play seemed unwilling to leave him completely.

    Still, he did his best to ignore that thought.

    "I will not allow Math to ruin this life as well!" he exclaimed with determination, like a challenge against the fate that seemed intent on breaking him.

    But behind those words, there was another goal that Mirac wanted to protect at all costs: to finally live a peaceful, calm, and worry-free life.

    A life in which he could live well...

    To eat without worrying about starving¡­

    To sleep peacefully under a safe roof, with soft blankets to warm him in winter¡­

    To love and be loved by his family¡­

    A simple, comfortable life, without any kind of problems.

    And Mirac¡ªalong with Vector¡ªwas willing to do anything to protect that fragile future he dreamed of: even to smother his immense curiosity, the one that had always pushed him to seek answers, to explore the unknown.

    Now more than ever, that curiosity tormented him, driving him to investigate the vision that kept lingering in his mind.

    But despite the persistence of his thoughts, Mirac seemed to resist.

    Because he was ready to give up even his own nature, just to live in peace.

    "Better safe than sorry, right?" he murmured, with a smile that carried both resignation and bitter realism.

    Then, like a sudden wave, another thought hit him, almost as if it were meant to wake him up and distract him from his long reflection.

    A thought as trivial as it was urgent, pulling him back to his daily life, full of more concrete problems.

    "Ahhh..." he sighed, scratching his head in frustration. "Damn it! As if that wasn''t enough, I just remembered I still have to do my homework!"

    He sighed again, trying to push the irritation away.

    "I''d better hurry up, then. If I finish before dinner, I can finally lie down on my bed and rest. After a day like this, my body and mind definitely need it!"

    A practical thought, simple, far from complications.

    Shaking his head, he tried to shake off the lingering images of that supernatural vision that continued to torment him, attempting to bring himself back to the reality he knew.

    Then, he resumed walking, his steps steady, but his heart still heavy.

    His hand, without even thinking too much, brought the apple to his mouth, and the fruit split under his bite with a satisfying sound. The fresh, sweet juice wrapped around his tongue, and a wave of warmth flooded his mouth, giving him a moment of pure pleasure.

 CHAPTER 15: Instant Counting

    Upon reaching the back of the castle, Mirac caught sight of Carmen in the distance, her posture perfect as always.

    Behind her, the heavy wooden door had just closed with a soft creak that seemed to echo in the cold air.

    ''Who was she talking to?'' Mirac wondered, scrutinizing carefully.

    But unable to make out the figure that had just dissolved into the shadow of the door, Mirac gave up on his curiosity.

    Instead, with his usual slow but steady step, Mirac approached Carmen. The red-haired servant, sensing his presence, turned gracefully toward him.

    "Good evening, young Prince," she said with her courteous smile, lowering herself slightly in a gesture that radiated respect and propriety. "How was your training with Grand Knight Leonard?"

    Mirac shrugged, trying to appear more relaxed than he truly felt.

    "It went well¡­ everything''s fine," he replied, his voice neutral but slightly strained, betraying the thoughts he didn''t want to reveal.

    Upon further thought, Mirac realized it was wiser to avoid talking about his vision.

    He didn''t even know if it was something beautiful, something to be "proud" of, or something absolutely horrible that he needed to hide.

    As a precaution, Mirac decided simply not to tell anyone, while inside him, irritation grew, fueled by his disdain for Math, which had given him yet another problem to think about.

    Carmen tilted her head slightly, observing him with a look that combined curiosity and a veiled concern. Her eyes seemed to probe him, as if trying to read beyond the surface.

    "Young Prince, are you alright?" she asked, her tone gentle but attentive. "You seem... troubled."

    Mirac looked away, forcing a smile and putting on an expression he hoped would seem convincing.

    "Yes, yes, Carmen... I''m just a little tired, that''s all."

    However, Carmen was not easy to deceive. In her eyes, there was a sharp intuition, honed by years of observation and tact.

    With her usual delicacy, she placed a hand on his shoulder, a gentle but reassuring touch.

    Then, as if guided by some maternal instinct, she began to massage his shoulders slowly, trying to ease the tension she clearly felt in his young body.

    Mirac didn''t resist, surprised by the gentleness of the gesture. Little by little, his body began to relax under that soft touch, and the invisible weight pressing down on him seemed to ease, at least partially.

    "Is it better?" Carmen asked, continuing to smile, her eyes shining with understanding.

    "Yes, much better, thank you!" he replied sincerely.

    For a moment, a small smile lit up the young Prince''s face.

    For some reason, he couldn''t help but smile, feeling that small gesture like a caress to his turbulent soul.

    He didn''t know whether it was the warmth of Carmen''s hands or the simple sweetness of her company. But at that moment, Mirac felt a little more at peace and relaxed.

    However, a sudden sound interrupted them.

    A clear and piercing cry, similar to that of a bird of prey, seemed to come from above.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    Slowly, they both instinctively looked up.

    A group of birds was flying above the castle, their slender bodies slicing through the sky in perfect harmony. The feathers, white, red, and gold, shimmered in the light of the setting sun like intertwined threads of silk.

    Their movements, so fluid and synchronized, captured Mirac''s attention, and he remained staring at them with a more relaxed expression, almost captivated.

    Carmen, who had immediately noticed Mirac''s interest, smiled.

    "Those are the Siliums. A very particular species of bird," the servant said, slowly bringing her hands back in front of her. "They usually live in warm areas, like the Desert of Shakh. That''s why it''s very rare to see them! Especially here, in this part of the Ardorya Kingdom."

    Mirac nodded, listening with apparent attention, but something was stirring in his mind that he couldn''t quite define.

    As Carmen spoke, a sudden piece of information invaded his mind, clear and vivid, as if it had emerged from nowhere.

    His mind, though unable to grasp the reason, couldn''t ignore it.

    Meanwhile, Carmen continued:

    "Besides their shimmering plumage, one of the peculiarities of this species is that their flocks are always made up of-"

    "Forty-four birds..." Mirac murmured, almost without realizing it.

    Carmen stopped, surprised.

    "Oh, did you already know, young Prince?" she asked with a hint of curiosity.

    "Um, yes¡­" Mirac improvised, trying to hide the source of the answer. "Professor Shirkenn explained it to me today¡­"

    But in reality, that was a lie!

    No one had ever told him about the Siliums, let alone the number of birds in their flocks.

    And yet, that certainty seemed to have emerged spontaneously within him, undeniable and without any apparent source.

    ''How did I know that?'' he wondered, trying to maintain a neutral expression.

    He lowered his gaze, confused, but a reflection in the window caught his attention. He found himself staring at it for a moment, mesmerized.

    In that indistinct reflection, as he quickly glanced at the other ground-floor windows¡ªthose he could see from his position¡ªanother thought leaped into his mind, clear and inexplicable:

    ''Thirty-five windows on the ground floor¡­''

    Mirac pressed his lips together.

    He didn''t remember ever counting the castle windows!

    And yet, that certainty was there, rooted, absolute. As if he knew something he had never learned.

    A feeling that was, to say the least, unsettling.

    Without realizing it, he touched his temples, trying to understand:

    ''What the hell is happening to me?!''

    "Young Prince, is everything alright?" Carmen asked, bringing him back to reality.

    Her voice, always calm, was filled with concern.

    Mirac snapped out of it, trying to ignore the inner agitation.

    "Uh, yes, yes, sorry¡­ I was just distracted," he replied, lowering his hand and forcing a smile.

    * * *

    Excusing himself with the need to finish his homework, Mirac gave Carmen a quick nod and hurried toward his bedroom.

    As he climbed the stairs, a new thought slipped into his mind, clear and unavoidable:

    ''Twenty-six steps¡­''

    He hadn''t counted them, he didn''t need to. It was as though the number had formed automatically in his mind, as precise as a calculation already solved.

    Mirac stopped for a moment, looking around with furrowed brows.

    After calming himself and slowing his breath, he continued his ascent, trying to ignore the strange feeling he had.

    Upon reaching the second floor, where his room was located, his gaze absently scanned the corridor.

    ''Seventeen paintings hanging...''

    Once again, that sudden, lightning-fast certainty flashed through his mind.

    * * *

    After dinner, Mirac decided to lie down on the bed.

    It was the most sensible thing to do: try to sleep and put aside, at least until tomorrow, the strange turmoil that was unsettling him.

    The fatigue accumulated throughout the day quickly dragged him into a deep sleep.

    But in the middle of the night, Mirac found himself once again in that endless night sky. There was no ground or walls, only a vast expanse of stars sparkling around him.

    ''Damn it! I was having a nice dream!'' Mirac thought, looking around in annoyance. ''What else do you want from me, Math?!''

    Almost as if in response to his irritation, the white text reappeared before him, right where it had been interrupted by Mirac''s sudden awakening.

    And, unable to turn his view, close his eyes, or make any other movement that might helped him ignore the messages from Math, he found himself forced to read every single word that appeared before him.

    [ Congratulations! ]

    [ You have obtained: Instant Counting ]

    [ Instant Counting: You can instantly know the exact number of objects or elements in any scene or situation with a single glance ]

    [ Current Range of "Instant Counting": 0 ¡ú 50 ]

    Mirac stared at the white, floating text with increasing confusion.

    ''Instant Counting?''

    With that, as if it had completed its task, the starry sky began to retreat again, this time more slowly.

    In the meantime, before Mirac''s consciousness drifted back into sleep, a sudden realization struck him: it was precisely thanks to this unknown power¡ªInstant Counting¡ªthat he had been able to know the exact number of objects around him earlier!

 CHAPTER 16: Between Past and Sin

    { THE DAY AFTER... }

    The morning light gently filtered through the castle windows, while the coolness of the new day seemed to whip the air with a serene calm.

    After a delightful breakfast of fragrant bread, sweet strawberry jam, and fresh milk, Mirac made his way to the classroom.

    His step was determined, but his mind was far from peaceful.

    The silence of the corridors only amplified the turmoil he felt within himself.

    Almost involuntarily, he kept thinking back to the previous day, especially to that mysterious "Instant Counting" which, although inexplicable, seemed to have become inextricably tied to him, like a shadow that he couldn¡¯t shake off.

    Yet, Mirac had never asked for or desired any of this. Neither the mysterious power he now found himself possessing, nor being haunted by Math.

    "Why won¡¯t you leave me alone?" Mirac wondered, his fists clenched in anger, as his footsteps echoed nervously along the corridors.

    Anger rose within him, mixed with a sense of helplessness that he couldn¡¯t dispel.

    Thinking about his ¡°Instant Counting¡± ability¡ªwhich, while walking through the halls, was continuously providing him with information on the number of objects around him¡ªwhy did it have to be him, of all people, to receive it?!

    "Why me, Math?" he thought bitterly, feeling the unbearable weight of that question. "Couldn¡¯t you have just chosen someone else?"

    Despite his turmoil, Mirac couldn¡¯t allow himself to face the day with that inner frenzy tearing him apart. When he reached the second floor of the castle, he forced himself to calm down.

    It wouldn¡¯t be wise to bring that bad mood into the classroom.

    He stopped for a moment, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, letting the cool morning air caress his face and calm his restless thoughts.

    Then, step by step, as he approached his classroom, he felt the weight of frustration gradually lighten, as if the mere thought of diving into books helped him regain a bit of peace.

    Moreover, he was really looking forward to his first two lessons of the day: History and Geography!

    A thrill of anticipation ran through his body, and the excitement coursing through his veins made him ignore both the lingering tiredness and the disturbance still swirling inside him.

    ¡®Finally! I can¡¯t wait!¡¯ he thought, as a smile spread across his face and he tightly clutched the notebooks he had brought for the lessons.

    Up to that moment, Mirac only knew his kingdom¡ªthe Kingdom of Ardorya¡ªand a few superficial facts about the other kingdoms that made up the continent of Harmony.

    But his knowledge stopped there.

    Beyond these superficial facts, he had no idea how the kingdoms were connected, what their histories were, or the origins and characteristics of each kingdom.

    The mental maps he had constructed were full of gaps: he didn¡¯t know the distances, the exact locations, or even the appearance of places he had only heard about.

    The constellations, which Mirac could recognize in the starry skies, along with the four annual seasons, seemed to match those of the southern hemisphere, leading him to assume that at least the Kingdom of Ardorya was located there.

    But after seven years, the young Prince would finally obtain the answers he had long been seeking.

    His questions would find answers, and the world that had so intrigued him would soon be revealed to him. Map after map.

    Chapter after chapter.

    * * *

    Standing before the intricately carved door of the classroom, Mirac felt his heart pounding with a mix of excitement and curiosity.

    ¡®Calm down, Mirac! For now, at least, try to clear your mind!¡¯ he told himself, trying to push away the thoughts of Math that still tormented him.

    Right now, it definitely wasn¡¯t the right time to think about it.

    Taking a deep breath, he raised his eyes toward the classroom door.

    ¡®Let¡¯s go in!¡¯ he thought, turning the handle decisively.

    Once inside, he immediately noticed Vincent behind the desk, busy arranging some papers and clumsily managing a stack of books that was on the verge of toppling over.

    Watching the scene, the numbers of the papers and books flooded Mirac''s mind, but this time, he didn¡¯t seem to grow anxious. Not only to avoid appearing unsettled¡ªas had happened the day before with Carmen, when he had let himself be overwhelmed by unease¡ªbut also because, deep down, he felt he was already getting used to his skill "Instant Counting.¡±

    ¡®He¡¯s not late today, huh? Well, thank goodness!¡¯ thought Mirac, distracting himself with a touch of irony.

    Despite his obvious clumsiness, Vincent wore an expression of seriousness and concentration.

    When he looked up and saw Mirac, a light but determined smile appeared on his face.

    ¡°Oh! Good morning, young Prince!¡± he exclaimed, trying to give his voice an energetic tone but managing only to convey a mixture of enthusiasm and awkwardness.

    Then, with a wink¡ªalthough he barely managed to coordinate his eyelids¡ªhe added in a joking tone:

    "I hope you have done your homework."

    Mirac stood motionless for a second in the doorway, staring at him with a bored expression.

    ¡®If I ever saw someone wink at me like that, I¡¯d probably call the authorities...¡¯ he thought, obviously without voicing his thoughts aloud.

    Then, with a sigh, Mirac lifted the notebook he was holding, drawing Vincent''s attention to it, and replied in an almost indifferent tone:This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    "Yes, Professor. I did the homework."

    As the student took his seat at the only desk in the room, Vincent let out a brief, embarrassed chuckle.

    ¡°W-Well, excellent work then!¡± he stammered, almost as if apologizing for his overly enthusiastic remark.

    Then he rummaged insistently through his bag, pulling out a large book with a thick light blue cover adorned with intricate golden patterns that shimmered in the room¡¯s light. The book looked heavy, both physically and conceptually, and Vincent placed it on the desk with a solemn movement.

    ¡°Ahem! Anyway...¡± he began after clearing his throat. ¡°Today, young Prince, we¡¯ll start with an hour of History.¡±

    ¡°Alright!¡± replied Mirac.

    * * *

    For most of the lesson, Vincent focused on providing a lengthy introduction to the subject, as was appropriate for a seven-year-old.

    His explanations were simple but essential for laying the foundation of concepts fundamental to understanding time and history.

    In the first few minutes, he quickly explained what a "millennium," a "century," and a "decade" were, to prevent future confusion with temporal and chronological placements.

    Mirac, sitting with a stiff posture and a bored expression, couldn¡¯t hide his impatience.

    His eyelids would occasionally close in nervous spasms, clearly revealing his growing frustration.

    ''Hurry up and get to the point!'' he thought, his mind already elsewhere, eager to move on to something more useful and interesting.

    In addition to explaining the terms, Vincent read some excerpts from historians who spoke about the importance of history and why studying it was crucial.

    For example, he quoted a text that emphasized how history helps understand the past and build a better future, and another that highlighted the role of historical memory in preserving culture.

    With his typical clumsy demeanor, Vincent tried to be as clear as possible.

    When the introduction finally came to an end, and unfortunately only a few minutes were left of the History lesson, Vincent approached the blackboard with a white chalk in his hands.

    With a decisive gesture, he wrote a four-digit number sequence.

    ¡°Young Prince, you know what year it is, don¡¯t you?¡± Vincent asked, as the white chalk dusted his fingers.

    ¡°Yes, Professor. If I¡¯m not mistaken, it¡¯s 1414.¡±

    Mirac knew this well, since, not yet knowing how to count in the previous years, he had decided to keep track of time by asking Carmen every year what the current year was.

    ¡°Correct!¡± Vincent exclaimed with enthusiasm, leaving the chalk on the edge of the blackboard and turning to Mirac with a smile of approval.

    The number "1414" dominated the blackboard, written large in the center.

    ¡°You must know, young Prince, that our planet is the Supreme Creation of the Seven Deities,¡± Vincent explained solemnly.

    ¡°Supreme Creation? Seven Deities?¡± Mirac raised an eyebrow, visibly intrigued.

    Finally, the lesson seemed to be getting more interesting.

    ¡°Exactly! But we¡¯ll talk about them in more detail tomorrow, during the religion lesson.¡±

    ¡°Alright,¡± Mirac confirmed, shrugging in a gesture of understanding.

    Vincent continued, not wasting any more time.

    ¡°As I was saying, our beloved planet was created thanks to the power of the Seven Deities. In chronological order, they created the Day, the Night, the Seas, the Winds, the Earth, Nature, and finally, Fire. Together, they created a world where we can still live peacefully today.¡±

    Mirac, fascinated by those words, let out an exclamation of astonishment:

    ¡°I-Incredible!¡±

    ¡°Exactly!¡± Vincent confirmed, his smile lighting up his face. ¡°The Deities represent the pure essence of Magic. But we¡¯ll talk more about that tomorrow in the ¡®Introduction to Magic¡¯ lesson.¡±

    After slowly flipping through the book in his hands, Vincent moved closer to the desk and continued:

    ¡°The creation of the world happened 1500 years ago. But then, why does our calendar mark the current year as 1414?¡±

    Mirac, as if some deep instinct had warned him, sensed that this question was the prelude to an important piece of information.

    His interest grew, and the silence in the room seemed to amplify every word Vincent was about to say.

    ¡°Well, the answer is quite simple, young Prince,¡± Vincent resumed, maintaining the mysterious tone that characterized his explanation. ¡°The number 1414 marks the years that have passed since the defeat of absolute evil, the entity that threatened the very existence of everything we know today: the ¡®Sinner¡¯!¡±

    That exclamation immediately stiffened Mirac¡¯s spine, a shiver of curiosity and unease running through him.

    ¡°The Sinner? And who is that?¡± he asked, his voice uncertain but full of interest, as his gaze fixed on Vincent, seeking an explanation.

    Vincent scratched his head, taking a brief pause as if the thought of what to say was causing him difficulty.

    ¡°Before we talk about her, we need to finish discussing the creation of our planet, young Prince,¡± Vincent finally replied, his face suddenly serious and almost cautious, as if merely speaking about it could summon something evil.

    Mirac sighed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

    Vincent resumed explaining, instantly renewing the smile on his face:

    ¡°As I was saying... When the Divine Work¡ªthe creation of our planet¡ªwas completed, the Deities moved on to creating Life, each using a different method. And from this, humans were born!¡±

    Vincent paused, as if to allow his words to take shape in Mirac¡¯s mind.

    ¡°From the very beginning, all of them worshipped the Gods. As it was only right, of course, since humans immediately recognized in the Seven Deities the source of all things good: love, life, peace...¡±

    But again, Vincent¡¯s smile faded, replaced by a more serious expression, almost thoughtful.

    ¡°But you know, young Prince... Where there is love, there is also hate... Where there is life, there is also death... Where there is peace, there is also chaos... And it is precisely from this that we reconnect to the Sinner!"

    Vincent¡¯s words seemed to tremble in the room.

    But this time, it was not the typical awkwardness of his character making his voice hesitant.

    No! It was something different.

    There was a palpable unease that slithered through his words.

    ¡°The Sinner...¡± Vincent continued, his voice betraying a certain apprehension. ¡°Her origins are completely unknown. But without a shadow of a doubt, she was an incredibly powerful woman, with mysterious powers that no one knows anymore. Before committing her sin, she was known as the ¡®Blue-Haired Witch.¡¯¡±

    ¡°Blue-haired?!¡± Mirac repeated, surprised.

    "Exactly. This is how the ''Seven Sacred Gospels'' describe her. And in these texts, her branded sin is also witnessed: an act of pure madness that no living being would even dare to think about doing!"

    Vincent seemed almost intimidated by the weight of his own words.

    Mirac, now completely absorbed in the story, anxiously asked:

    ¡°And what was her sin?¡±

    Vincent nervously swallowed his saliva.

    ¡°Her Sin...¡± his voice trembling as he responded, ¡°...was daring to challenge and attempt to kill the Gods!¡±

    Mirac was left momentarily speechless.

    Said like that, the statement gave him goosebumps, and the room suddenly seemed to grow colder.

    "T-To kill the Gods? Really?!"

    Mirac didn''t even think such a thing was possible.

    Not that the fact that someone¡ªthe Sinner¡ªhad attempted it was actually definitive proof that it was truly possible.

    But the very idea still seemed unthinkable to him.

    "But... why?!"

    The answer to Mirac''s question, as could be expected, was actually quite predictable.

    ¡°It¡¯s obvious, young Prince: to dominate and rule this world!¡± Vincent replied. ¡°The Seven Deities were nothing but an obstacle to her goal. So, the Sinner decided to challenge them, attempting to kill and get rid of them. But fortunately, the Gods joined forces and were able to stop and defeat her, thus restoring peace. Since then, exactly 1414 years have passed.¡±

    Mirac nodded slowly, trying to absorb all of this new information.

    ¡°Oh... I see...¡± he murmured, still deep in thought.

    Smiling, Vincent seemed pleased to have sparked so much interest, and as he glanced up at the clock, he realized they had gone over the allotted time.

    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s already 9:07! We¡¯ve gone a little past the scheduled time. But it doesn¡¯t matter,¡± he said with a smile. ¡°I¡¯d say we move on to Geography now. What do you think, young Prince?¡±

    Mirac nodded, still lost in his thoughts.

    ¡°Alright...¡± he replied simply.

 CHAPTER 17: Seven Kingdoms, Seven Deities, Seven Elements

    After lunch, Mirac retired to his room to finish the math homework he had left undone the day before.

    However, as his quill moved across the paper, his mind couldn''t stay completely focused on the numbers.

    Not that he actually wanted to, of course.

    At some point, tired of the torture called MATH, Mirac decided to allow himself a small distraction.

    He recalled in his mind the world map he had studied with scrupulous attention, just to relax a bit and review what he had learned during the lesson.

    First of all, Mirac had noticed that, apart from the continent of Harmony, there were no other countries or continents on the planet Earth.

    The continent of the Seven Kingdoms, which occupied the entire eastern hemisphere, had the shape of a large broken wheel, with a gigantic island at the center known as the "Sacred Region."

    This was not a separate kingdom, but a territory under the joint authority of the Seven Deities, the Seven Kingdoms, and the Seven Churches.

    The kingdoms were arranged radially around this center, each occupying a segment of the incomplete circle. The outer coasts of the continent were bordered by seas and oceans, while between the kingdoms and the continent of Harmony stretched a band of water that separated them.

    Starting from the north, moving clockwise, the kingdoms were: Luxendar, Noctara, Kragmar, Verdlith, Ardorya, Fonteya, and Ventaris.

    The kingdoms of Kragmar, Verdlith, Ardorya, and Fonteya were located in the southern hemisphere, while Luxendar, Noctara, and Ventaris were in the northern hemisphere.

    Mirac also remembered the vast expanse of water that separated Ventaris and Luxendar, forming an incomplete circle, and the linear "Strait of Salvation" to the south, between Ardorya and Verdlith. This strait, created by Bluest, the God of the Sea, Storms, and Sailors, served to release the powerful current that circulated around Harmony, as explained by Vincent during the lesson.

    Additionally, Mirac discovered that each kingdom¡ªbesides representing one of the Seven Elements of magic and being under the sacred protection of one of the Seven Deities¡ªpossessed unique characteristics, with landscapes and climates that varied drastically.

    This was everything he had learned during the Geography lesson, before it came to an end.

    And given the amount of new information, Mirac felt quite satisfied.

    * * *

    Finally finishing his math homework, Mirac had some time to start the new assignments for Continental Language, which consisted of writing all the definite and indefinite articles five times.

    For philosophy, on the other hand, Mirac had to expand his preliminary reflection on another short text by George Rassing.

    All of these assignments had come from the three lessons after Geography.

    Fortunately, though, they were all due on Thursday, which meant Mirac still had the next day to complete them.

    * * *

    At 16, just like the previous day, his training with Leonard was exhausting.

    Mirac didn''t learn anything new, just reviewing the basics of sword fighting he had learned the day before, followed by the same series of physical exercises.

    Tired and worn out, he retreated to his room to rest a bit, trying to empty his mind, still crowded with the numbers whispered by "Instant Counting."

    Amidst all of this, he had almost forgotten about the two lessons waiting for him the next day: one on the continent''s religion, and the other on MAGIC!

    * * *

    { THE NEXT DAY... }

    During the second hour of class, Vincent introduced the Divine Pantheon of the Continent, a topic that immediately captured Mirac''s lively attention.

    ~ SEVEN DEITIES ~

    SIRIO, the God of Light and Knowledge, is the radiant guardian of Luxendar, depicted as a luminous being whose presence illuminates everything. Most of his followers are scholars, teachers, and inventors, while his temples, often majestic libraries, house the world''s oldest writings.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    NYRA, Goddess of Darkness and Secrets, watches over Noctara, appearing as a veiled figure who conceals her features from mortal eyes. She is an enigmatic deity, worshipped by spies, assassins, and occultists who seek refuge in the shadows.

    GNEISS, Goddess of the Earth and Mountains, is depicted as a titanic figure with stone skin. She rules over Kragmar, and her power pulses in the bowels of the earth. This goddess is chiefly worshipped by miners, builders, and anyone seeking stability and strength.

    MOTHER NATURE, Goddess of Nature and Fertility, is depicted as a female figure covered in leaves. She protects the Kingdom of Verdlith, and elves and farmers pray to her for lush forests and abundant harvests.

    KAYRO, the God of Fire, Forge, and War, is depicted as a mighty blacksmith and a fearsome warrior. He governs the Kingdom of Ardorya and is especially revered by blacksmiths, artisans, and warriors seeking strength and inspiration.

    BLUEST, God of the Sea and Storms, is depicted as a powerful man capable of hearing the ancient whispers of the ocean. In addition to protecting marine life, he also rules over Fonteya and is worshipped by sailors and fishermen to ensure safe journeys.

    ARYA, Goddess of Wind and Freedom, is an ethereal figure wrapped in light veils blown by invisible breezes. She protects Ventaris, and travelers and explorers worship her for blessings on their journeys.

    * * *

    Later, during the fifth hour, the lesson shifted to the Seven Sacred Elements of Magic, and Mirac''s heart lit up with an enthusiasm he could not contain.

    ~ SEVEN MAGICAL ELEMENTS ~

    LIGHT: Represents purity, truth, and healing. Light mages can create light, heal wounds, shape weapons of light, or protect with barriers of light.

    DARKNESS: Symbolizes mystery, fear, and corruption. Dark mages can manipulate shadows, create illusions, or influence negative emotions.

    EARTH: Represents stability, protection, and strength. Earth mages can manipulate soil, rock, or minerals.

    NATURE: Represents life, growth, and the connection between all living creatures. Nature mages can manipulate plants, communicate with animals, or accelerate natural healing.

    FIRE: Embodies passion, destruction, and also creative strength. Fire mages can manipulate flames, explosions, or heat.

    WATER: Symbolizes fluidity, life, and transformation. Water mages can control liquids, breathe underwater, or heal.

    AIR: Symbolizes freedom, communication, and speed. Air mages can control winds, fly, or manipulate sound.

    * * *

    During the last minutes of the lesson, Mirac raised his arm and, with a mix of curiosity and a shiver of anxiety running through his body, asked:

    "Professor Shirkenn, is it possible for someone to have magic that doesn''t belong to any of these seven elemental categories?"

    With this question, Mirac was clearly referring to himself!

    His Sintony with Math, in fact, did not seem to fit into any way within the traditional classification of the seven elements, and this deeply worried him.

    Perhaps, as he had feared from the very beginning, his Sintony with Math was truly a CURSE?!

    "Yes, young Prince," Vincent replied, maintaining a serious tone. "When someone practices magic, it means they are in ''Sintony'' with one of the seven elements. In this case, we call it ''Elemental Sintony''. If, however, someone is able to connect with multiple elements simultaneously, it is called ''Synergic Sintony''. But besides these two types of Sintony, as you have guessed, there also exist ''Anomalous Sintonies''."

    Mirac''s eyes widened in astonishment.

    "Anomalous Sintonies?" the student repeated, one eyebrow slightly raised, a shadow of confusion in his gaze.

    "Exactly. Any Sintony that is not directed towards one of the seven elements I mentioned earlier is classified as such. In these cases, people manifest ''Specialized Magics'' or even ''Unique Magics'', which are magics that are difficult or even impossible to replicate by those in Sintony to one or more of the seven elements."

    Mirac crossed his arms, leaning back until he was fully resting against the chair''s backrest.

    "I see¡­" he murmured thoughtfully, as his thoughts began to take shape.

    If everything Vincent had explained was true¡ªand it certainly was¡ªthen, Mirac hypothesized, his Sintony with Math had to necessarily fall into the category of those "Anomalous"!

    So, not only had he been unlucky enough to miss out on an Elemental Sintony in favor of an Anomalous one, but it was even tied to Math!

    ''What were the odds of something like that happening to me?!'' he wondered, sighing in frustration.

    Eager for an immediate answer, Mirac straightened up and curiously asked:

    "Professor Shirkenn¡­ How rare are these last two types of Sintony?"

    Vincent scratched his chin, assuming a thoughtful expression, as if he wanted to carefully consider his response before speaking.

    "Synergistic and Anomalous Sintonies? Well, I''m not sure about the exact probabilistic percentages. What I do know for sure, however, is that Synergistic Sintonies with two elements are extremely rare, let alone with three or more! The maximum number of Sintonies a person has ever achieved simultaneously is four. A certain Eldrick Virelith, if I''m not mistaken. As for Anomalous Sintonies, the only example I can give you, though no one really knows what exactly she was in Sintony with, is none other than the Sinner."

    Mirac''s eyes widened in shock, his heart seeming to skip a beat.

    Those words struck him like lightning.

    "R-Really?!" he asked, intrigued. "But Professor, what do you mean by ''the only example'' you can give? Don''t you know any others? Or are you trying to say that, after the Sinner, for over a thousand years, no one has ever had an Anomalous Sintony again?!"

    This hypothesis seemed as absurd as it was unlikely.

    But even if it had been true, just the mere thought of sharing such a unique trait with a figure as feared as the Sinner filled Mirac with a sense of unease and vague anxiety.

    Meanwhile, Vincent was arranging the books in his bag, but his movements, usually clumsy, now seemed deliberately slower and more organized.

    Calmly, he closed the bag and approached Mirac, walking across the silent classroom with measured steps.

    "No, young Prince," he finally replied, his voice unusually calm and composed, as he stopped beside Mirac.

    With a smile that could have been friendly, but conveyed something undefinable, Vincent leaned in toward the boy''s ear.

    Then, in a tone that made the air grow cold, he added:

    "We simply kill them..."

 CHAPTER 18: Syntonics and Chaotics

    Mirac froze at those words.

    The smile he had just started to show vanished, replaced by an expression of disbelief. His hands, resting on the wooden desk, began to tremble visibly as his heart raced.

    ''K-Kill them?!'' he stammered mentally. ''W-What does he mean?''

    A mix of confusion and fear made its way through Mirac''s thoughts as he desperately tried to grasp the full meaning of what he had just heard.

    Vincent, noticing the radical change in Mirac''s expression, instinctively took a step back.

    His usual awkwardness resurfaced immediately: his hands flailed clumsily, and the words that came out of his mouth were hesitant, as if he was trying to correct his mistake.

    "OH! I-I humbly apologize, y-young Prince! I-I didn''t mean to scare you at all..." he stammered, his voice trembling.

    Mirac swallowed nervously, trying to force a smile to hide his discomfort.

    "D-Don''t worry, Professor..." he replied, striving to imbue his voice with a firmness he didn''t truly feel. "It takes much more to scare me!"

    But even as he tried to convince himself of his own words, Mirac couldn''t stop the trembling in his hands, which he quickly hid under the desk to avoid revealing his uneasy state.

    "Oh, thank goodness!" Vincent exclaimed with relief, visibly relaxing. However, deep down, he felt bitterly regretful for the way he had expressed himself earlier.

    The atmosphere between the two seemed to have returned to its usual normalcy, but inside Mirac, the memory of Vincent''s words still deeply troubled him.

    Attempting to shake off his discomfort, Mirac took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts.

    Yet, he knew he couldn''t stop there.

    Though still shaken, he couldn''t ignore the meaning hidden behind Vincent''s words, because he sensed that something of fundamental importance was concealed within them.

    With this determination, Mirac lifted his gaze and decided to continue the conversation:

    "P-Professor Shirkenn..." he began, stammering. "What did you mean earlier by...?"

    He didn''t finish the sentence. There was no need, really.

    Vincent immediately understood what the young Prince was referring to. In fact, even before he spoke, he had already intended to resume the topic and clarify the matter.

    Without hesitation, he cleared his throat and replied:

    "You see, young Prince... When the Sinner was defeated, the magical society divided mages into two categories: the Syntonics and the Chaotics. The former are those who have an Elemental or Synergic Sintony, while the Chaotics are those who possess an Anomalous Syntony."

    Vincent paused, clearly struggling to find the right words to continue, while swaying slightly in place.

    After collecting himself from this reflective state, Vincent continued:

    "With the defeat of the Sinner, a relentless and bloody hunt for the Chaotics was initiated. Even those who had never had anything to do with magic were executed, simply for being related to families that had Chaotics among their members."

    "W-What?!"

    Vincent''s words crept into Mirac''s mind, echoing like an impossible-to-ignore reverberation.

    ''But that''s nothing short of cruel!'' he thought, his heart pounding with rising indignation.

    However, his instinct kept him from saying it out loud.

    It was too risky to openly express his opinion on such a delicate topic, especially without fully understanding the whole story of the hunt for the Chaotics.

    Cautious, he preferred to hide his unease behind a neutral expression.

    Then, calmly, he decided to clarify a doubt that had been troubling him, trying to give Vincent the impression that he was simply curious, not scandalized.

    "So..." Mirac began, his voice measured and careful. "From what you whispered to me earlier... I should assume that the hunt for the Chaotics is still ongoing. Right?"

    Vincent nodded weakly.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    "Yes, young Prince. Their hunt is still carried out by the so-called ''Purifiers.'' These individuals are tasked with identifying the Chaotics, and once they are certain, they have the authority to execute them immediately, without warning. Alternatively, they can arrest them, but in both cases, the result is the same: the Chaotic is removed from all birth registers and immediately added to the list of the ''Sinners of the World.'' After that, they are sentenced to death, with a public execution, and their entire family meets the same fate, without exception. It doesn''t matter what rank or social class a Chaotic is from. Whether they are a noble, a peasant, or even a king or queen, no one is exempt. This law is universal and unyielding, sanctioned by the very Seven Deities who govern our world. No one, no matter who they are, could ever escape their will."

    Mirac felt a knot tightening in his throat, forcing him to swallow nervously once again. He tried to maintain a composed expression, but panic was rising within him.

    "I see..." he finally murmured, with a barely perceptible sigh, standing up from the desk.

    His legs threatened to give way under the weight of those revelations, but Mirac forced himself to maintain his balance as he left the classroom. Vincent followed a few steps behind him, silent and thoughtful, as they made their way together to the royal family''s dining hall.

    Vincent''s words still echoed in Mirac''s mind like a dark omen, etched into his consciousness.

    ''There''s no doubt! I... I have... an Anomalous Sintony!'' he thought, his face contorted into a mask of tension. ''And if that''s true... it means that... that...''

    The voice in his head trembled, hesitant, as if afraid to speak the undeniable truth.

    ''It means that I... am actually... a Chaotic!''

    A wave of panic engulfed him, cold and paralyzing.

    The image of his death¡ªquick, brutal, like that of millions of other Chaotics before him¡ªflashed through his mind.

    The blade of a Purifier, the mark of a Sinner engraved in his name, and then... OBLIVION!

    And also his dear family¡ªthough of royal blood!¡ªwould be burned with him in the fire of condemnation.

    ''Shit! Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! SHIT!!!''

    His breath caught in his throat.

    ''What do I do now?! If anyone finds out, it will definitely be the end for me!''

    Just the thought of it made him freeze.

    Terror enveloped him like a shroud, suffocating him.

    But that wasn''t all!

    Soon, alongside the fear, another feeling joined in, equally powerful, more fierce and corrosive: hatred.

    ''Damn it! It''s all your fault, Math!'' he thought, feeling a wave of anger boil up inside him. ''But I knew it... I knew you would ruin this life too!''

    He gritted his teeth, his hands clenched into fists that began to tremble.

    He wanted to scream, destroy, erase that curse from his existence.

    ''Why me? Why me of all people? Why can''t I have a normal life too? WHY?!''

    But by now, it seemed that fate had clearly made its decision: Mirac would never have the simple life he so dearly wished for!

    The weight of that realization began to crush him, making him waver on the brink of surrender.

    ''But...''

    Suddenly, a stronger, fiercer thought emerged from the depths of his fear. A thought that burned hotter than any other emotion, like a living flame, sweeping away the chill of terror.

    ''I DON''T WANT TO DIE!''

    Mirac''s eyes sharpened, filled with an unshakable determination. His heart, which only moments before seemed about to explode from fear, now beat with a new energy, indomitable and rebellious.

    ''I don''t want to! Not now! Not after miraculously getting a second chance. NO! I''ve already promised myself: I will protect this life... until the end!''

    He took a deep breath, trying to calm the turmoil raging within him. Anger and fear wouldn''t help him.

    With his mind clear again, he realized that he had to be cunning, that he had to hide his secret as if his very soul depended on it¡ªbecause, deep down, it truly did.

    As his thoughts became clearer, Mirac lifted his gaze and let his shoulders straighten.

    His hatred for Math continued to pulse inside him, a poison impossible to root out.

    But that same hatred soon transformed into fuel, a force he would use to protect himself.

    He would not allow that power to be his damnation...

    He would not allow Math to win...

    He would not let anyone¡ªnot even a GOD¡ªtear his second chance away from him!

    Even if the whole world was against him, Mirac would fight!

    ''Whatever happens, it doesn''t matter! At any cost... I''M NOT GONNA DIE!''

    * * *

    After an intense sword training under Leonard''s watchful eye, Mirac was exhausted. Sweat ran down his forehead, soaking his tunic, and his body desperately craved rest.

    However, his mind was too agitated to allow himself any respite. The recent events had raised questions too significant for him to ignore.

    Vincent''s revelation about the fate of the Chaotics tormented him relentlessly.

    During training, however, Mirac reached a crucial conclusion: if he wanted to avoid a tragic end like the one described by Vincent, he first had to figure out how to avoid being discovered!

    And to do that, he posed himself a fundamental question:

    ''How do they identify the Chaotics?''

    His analytical mind immediately went to work.

    His common sense suggested that the Purifiers couldn''t rely solely on false testimonies or presumed clues, as had happened during the Witch Hunts in his old world, between the 15th and 17th centuries in Europe.

    In that historical period, ignorance and superstition fueled unjust and cruel persecutions, but Mirac was convinced that, in the current context, there must be a more systematic and reliable method to identify the Chaotics.

    ''Maybe they use a magical instrument...'' he speculated, trying to imagine what arcane knowledge or advanced mechanisms could lie behind such a hunt. ''If that''s the case, I must absolutely find out what it is! Only then will I be able to avoid it, especially in case of future investigations on me!''

    However, Mirac didn''t want to wait for the next History or "Introduction to Magic" lesson to get the information he so desperately needed.

    This was because, as they were descending the stairs, Mirac clearly sensed that Vincent was reluctant to talk again about the Chaotics.

    It was therefore likely¡ªif not certain¡ªthat he would never have another opportunity to address the matter directly with him.

    But in any case, Mirac needed answers, and as soon as possible!

    He had to learn everything he could about the Chaotics, without risking drawing suspicion.

    So, determined to uncover the truth, he decided to undertake an independent search.

    He had to find the answers on his own, in a place at the castle where information was kept and easily accessible even to a child like him.

    In a place where he could find what he wanted, and much more: the Royal Library.

 CHAPTER 19: The Royal Library

    After changing out of his sweaty clothes, Mirac moved silently through the castle''s corridors, heading toward the royal library.

    It had been seven years since he last set foot in the library, and the memory of its location had faded, reduced to a collection of hazy fragments. The only thing he remembered clearly was that it was on the second floor of the castle, just like his bedroom.

    ¡°It should be around here somewhere, if I¡¯m not mistaken¡­¡±

    He advanced cautiously along the corridors, trying to recall the route he had taken as a child.

    After a few minutes of searching, Mirac noticed a door that stood out slightly from the others.

    Looking more closely, he recognized several familiar details: the golden handle, the intricate woodwork design, and its spatial placement within the castle.

    ¡°This must be it! Let¡¯s give it a try,¡± he murmured to himself, a faint smile curling his lips.

    Before hesitation could take root, Mirac grasped the handle and turned it decisively.

    A soft creak filled the air as the door swung open, revealing a faint golden glow that seemed to greet him like an old friend.

    But before he had time to examine the room¡ªbeyond the closest shelves near the entrance¡ªa deep, authoritative voice, charged with unexpected vigor, shouted:

    ¡°Damn it! Before entering, you knock!¡±

    Mirac spun sharply to his right, his heart pounding from the sudden reprimand.

    At the wooden counter to the right of the entrance sat an old man, draped in a long black robe of shiny, silky fabric, adorned with intricate golden patterns depicting arcane symbols. The cuffs, collar, and a sash wrapped around his torso were embroidered with gold thread, lending him an almost regal air.

    The skin of his face, thin and wrinkled, bore the marks of a life spent among scrolls and forgotten volumes, each wrinkle a testament to the passing years. His white beard, coarse and flowing down to his chest, intertwined with strands of sparse, silvery hair peeking out from beneath a medieval linen cap adorned with small embroidered details.

    ¡®It¡¯s him! The librarian from seven years ago! Or at least I think so..¡¯ hypothesized Mirac, a spark of astonishment mixed with a shiver running down his spine.

    However, unlike the first time he had seen him, the old man¡¯s meticulous attention was not focused on the book he held firmly in his hands. On the contrary, his gaze was fixed on Mirac¡ªpiercing and annoyed.

    His eyes, the color of aged bronze and framed by black, round glasses, gleamed with an inquisitive light. His silvery eyebrows, furrowed in a stern crease, heightened his scrutinizing expression, making every move Mirac made feel like an invisible interrogation.

    ¡°Wait a moment!¡± the old man began, his eyes widening in surprise. ¡°You, you are...¡±

    The words hung in the air, as though the thought itself had slipped away.

    Sensing the moment of uncertainty, Mirac decided to take control of the situation.

    ¡°I am Mirac Strongold!¡± he proclaimed with a voice both firm and youthful, pride resonating in every word. ¡°Son of King Arthur Strongold and Prince of the Kingdom of Ardorya!¡±

    There was no real need for him to introduce himself so formally. Simply stating that he was the Prince would have sufficed.

    But the thought of making such a theatrical declaration amused him, as if it were a small rehearsal for future official ceremonies.

    However, noticing the librarian¡¯s irritated expression, Mirac quickly added:

    ¡°Oh, right! I almost forgot¡­ I apologize for not knocking and for any disturbance I may have caused.¡±

    To further emphasize his words, Mirac modestly bent his torso in an elegant bow, attempting to soothe the old man¡¯s irritation.

    The latter, observing the gesture, seemed to calm his anger.

    A simple huff accompanied his response.

    ¡°Hmph! Apology accepted, young Prince¡­¡± he said indifferently, before turning his attention back to the book in his hands, its yellowed pages worn with time.

    On the counter beside him lay a bronze monocle, its surface catching the light of the setting sun, and an ink-stained quill, clear symbols of a life spent in ceaseless pursuit of knowledge and wisdom.

    ¡°Uhm¡­¡± Mirac began hesitantly, searching for the right words. ¡°You¡¯re the librarian, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    The old man tore his gaze from his book, rolling his eyes with a clearly irritated expression.

    ¡°Yes, exactly¡­ You guessed it. I¡¯m Matthew Plantagenet, the royal librarian.¡±

    His voice was dry, his lack of enthusiasm almost tangible.

    Once again, Matthew plunged back into his reading, flipping the pages with the fervor of someone who lived in a world of words.

    ¡®I see his obsession with reading hasn¡¯t changed one bit in seven years...¡¯ Mirac reflected, a hint of irritation rising as he watched the man wholly absorbed in his book.

    Struggling not to sigh and maintain his composure, Mirac simply shrugged, trying to ignore Matthew''s distant and absorbed demeanor. Frustration simmered inside him, but he forced himself to remain patient and polite.

    ¡°Umm, excuse me...¡± he resumed, careful not to sound too intrusive, his voice dropping slightly. ¡°May I come in and have a look at the books?¡±

    For the umpteenth time, Matthew broke from his avid reading and fixed the young Prince with a gaze that throbbed faintly with annoyance.

    "I remind you that you are the Prince! You can enter wherever and whenever you want..."

    With that, he returned to his book, as if the only world that mattered was the one contained between its pages.

    ¡®Huh! What a grumpy old man...¡¯

    Letting out a deep sigh, Mirac crossed the threshold of the door he had hesitated to pass under the librarian¡¯s piercing, scrutinizing gaze. With a decisive motion, he closed the door behind him, feeling a shiver of freedom.

    ¡°Well then, I¡¯ll be on my way¡­¡± Mirac said vaguely, his words drifting in the silent air as he ventured into the library.

    However, he received no reply from Matthew, who remained engrossed in the pages of his book, as if nothing could distract him from that world of paper and ink. Ignoring him again, Mirac didn¡¯t wait for an answer and continued deeper into the vast library.

    As he walked, the air around him grew increasingly saturated with an enveloping scent: a blend of ancient paper, aged leather, and beeswax, which teased his nostrils, awakening the memory of his first visit as an infant.

    The red walls, entirely lined with dark wooden shelves, rose dizzyingly toward the ceiling, so high that they made one feel lightheaded. Massive wooden stairs wound along the tracks, ready to lead anyone who wished to explore the oldest volumes, kept high like inaccessible treasures.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

    In every corner of the library, heavy oak desks seemed to invite him with their austere elegance, offering a place where one could immerse themselves in reading.

    But before doing so, Mirac had to find the right book! The one he had come all the way for.

    ¡°Alright! Let¡¯s begin the search.¡±

    Irresistibly drawn to the books, Mirac lightly brushed his fingers over a row of leather-bound tomes, their covers bearing the unmistakable marks of time. Their rough surfaces conveyed a sense of ancient wisdom.

    ¡°Marvelous!¡± he murmured to himself, a smile lighting up his face as he gazed at the immense variety of volumes, each one different in size and color.

    Walking between the shelves of the "Magic" section, he gently slid his hand along the spines of the books, carefully observing each possible choice.

    For every title that caught his attention, he began to softly pronounce its name, as if savoring the sound and imagining the secrets each book might hold.

    ¡°Magical Zoology... Chronicle of the Seven Journeys... Runes and Arcane Languages...¡±

    After several minutes of exploration, he came across books that told the complete history of the Kingdom of Ardorya, others that delved into the study of potions and alchemy, and still others that covered the geography and biomes of the seven kingdoms.

    But unfortunately, nothing seemed focused on the Chaotics and their hunt.

    ¡°Psychology of Magical Creatures... Arcane Magic...¡±

    Suddenly, Mirac stopped. His finger landed on a book with a golden cover, its title shining in bright white letters, almost unnaturally vivid despite the centuries the volume had behind it.

    With a smooth motion, he pulled it from the shelf and lifted it before him. He stared at it for a moment, rereading the title to ensure he hadn¡¯t made a mistake.

    ¡°CLASSIFICATION of SYNTONIES¡±

    Mirac sighed, scratching his head.

    ¡°This isn¡¯t exactly what I was looking for. But, well, I have to start somewhere, right?¡±

    Quickly, he made his way to a nearby table by the window, not far from the shelf, where the sunset light gently filtered in, caressing his face.

    He grabbed a chair, sat down on the soft red cushion, and placed the book in front of him. The volume, surprisingly thin, seemed ideal for a quiet and focused read. Taking a deep breath, he opened the first page and dove into the book.

    * * *

    The beginning of the book was a general introduction to Magic, with a vague explanation¡ªsimilar to what Vincent had given him¡ªabout the division of Magic into the Seven Elements.

    So, nothing new.

    But just a little further in, Mirac came across something he hadn¡¯t learned yet.

    ~ SEQUENCE of SYNTONIES ~

    The Degree of Sintony of an individual¡ªif not also the Magical Power they can unleash¡ªdepends on their Sintony with their own element. The first stage of the Sintony sequence is purely random, determined by the innate and natural talent of the person.

    Syntony is not just a matter of practice, but an harmonization with the element itself.

    Primary Syntony: An individual can cast simple, low-level spells, such as lighting a fire or creating a small gust of wind. At this stage, the Syntony is purely mental.

    Secondary Syntony: The caster can begin to manipulate the element on a larger scale and combine multiple effects, such as controlling a water current or erecting a wall of earth. At this level, the Syntony resides in the heart.

    Tertiary Syntony: At this level, the wizard becomes a master of their element. They can generate impressive phenomena, such as firestorms or earthquakes. Here, the Syntony involves the entire body.

    Perfect Syntony: Only a very few reach this level. It allows one to become one with their element, gaining almost divine powers: turning into pure fire, dissolving into shadow, or becoming invisible like the air. At this stage, the Syntony involves the very soul.

    Divine Syntony: Only one person in the world for each magical element manages to reach this level of Syntony, being loved and chosen by the Gods themselves, who embody and symbolize them. The seven individuals who succeed are known by the title of "Elemental Angels," and work closely with the Seven Deities.

    * * *

    ¡®That''s odd... This book doesn¡¯t seem to mention the Chaotics or the Anomalous Syntonies even once.¡¯

    Mirac closed the book with a decisive gesture, his face calm despite the slight disappointment that hovered over his brow. The remaining pages gently folded under his fingers, as if the book itself had resigned to his incomplete reading.

    ¡®But it doesn¡¯t matter!¡¯ he thought suddenly, a determined smile forming on his lips. ¡®After all, even before coming here, I knew I wouldn¡¯t find the information I was looking for right away. And besides, learning new things about Elemental Syntonies isn¡¯t a waste of time at all. In fact, even though this information doesn¡¯t relate much to me, it might still prove useful in the future!¡¯

    Even before that comforting thought crossed his mind, Mirac realized that, from that moment on, he would need to continue his search with determination, not giving up until he found the answers he was seeking.

    If one book wasn¡¯t enough, he would read another, and then another, without stopping, until he had inevitably gone through the entire Royal Library!

    Not that he minded reading all those books, actually.

    ¡®But... As much as I want to, I can¡¯t come here every day. Not only will I be busy with my studies and swordsmanship lessons, but I also need to avoid looking too desperate in my search for answers,¡¯ he thought, as a downcast yet serene expression appeared on his face. ¡®I could still come here with the excuse of wanting to study every now and then, but it¡¯s best not to overdo it so I don¡¯t attract the attention of the gossipy servants!¡¯

    The thought made him smile bitterly. The palace rumors spread as fast as a raging river, and he didn¡¯t want to become another topic of discussion among those who always gathered in the kitchen to giggle and exchange gossip.

    Pulling himself slowly away from those thoughts, he rose from the chair with a deep breath, stretching and yawning, feeling each vertebra of his back relax under the movement. A small sigh of relief escaped him as the tension in his muscles melted away.

    Then, walking between the imposing rows of shelves, he made his way toward the spot where he had found the book. His steps, light but determined, seemed to dissolve into the solemn silence of the library.

    He placed the book back in its spot, next to many others that, with just a glance at their titles, had caught his curiosity.

    "Hmmm..." he murmured, reflecting. "With this sunset, I think it''s almost time for dinner. If that''s the case, it might be better to start heading toward the dining hall to avoid being lat-"

    Before he could finish the sentence, a sudden thud made him jump.

    The sound shattered the deep silence of the library like a stone thrown into a pond, vibrating the air and breaking the stillness.

    Mirac spun quickly to his left, his heart racing from the fright.

    But there was nothing to worry about: a book had simply slipped off the long shelf, landing with a sharp thud right on the floor, just a few steps away from where he stood.

    "Dammit! You gave me a scare!" he muttered, walking over to pick it up.

    He bent slowly, feeling the wooden floor creak beneath him as he reached out for the book. He grabbed it carefully, his fingers grazing the leather cover.

    "How strange though," he thought. "How did it fall on its own?"

    As soon as Mirac finished getting back on his feet, a shadow caught the corner of his eye, prompting him to quickly turn his gaze to the right, down the opposite aisle from the shelf.

    "Damn!" he exclaimed, a shiver of unease running through him. ¡°I could have sworn I saw someone...¡±

    He gave a quick glance around, scrutinizing the opposite aisle of the shelf.

    But finding no one, he shrugged, trying to shake off the useless anxiety that the uncomfortable feeling of being watched had caused.

    "Maybe I should get more sleep..." he said to himself with irony, trying to brush off the moment and put a smile back on his lips.

    Most likely, he thought, all the stress from the recent period was starting to take its toll, turning into strange tricks of the mind.

    With a deep breath, Mirac refocused on the book he had just picked up.

    It was thin but heavy, wrapped in a soft burgundy leather cover that faintly reflected the light of the library. The edges of the cover were decorated with golden geometric patterns that seemed to dance and intertwine in a play of light.

    At the center, the title stood out with authority, engraved on the skin in large elegant letters that captured attention.

    "ELEMENTARY MATHEMATICS: Discovering Numbers"

    Mirac paused for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed, reflecting his disapproval.

    "So it''s true that you haunt me everywhere, Math..." he muttered to himself, a mix of irony and annoyance in his voice.

    But the book was not done with him yet.

    Right below the title, something smaller caught his eye.

    Another golden inscription.

    "What the hell¡­?!"

    As he read the words, Mirac¡¯s eyes widened in disbelief.

    A sudden tightness gripped his chest, so strong that he had to grab the edge of the shelf to keep his balance. He took a step back, his legs shaking, and stared at the title as if he were looking at something profoundly wrong.

    ¡°N-No, it can''t be...¡±

    A cold shiver ran down his neck as he lowered his gaze, almost unwillingly, to the bottom of the cover. There, a small golden inscription gleamed faintly under the soft library light.

    Mirac held his breath.

    And everything stopped.

    The breath. The thoughts. Almost even his heart.

    Reading that name, his eyes widened, his mouth fell open, and the book began to tremble in his hands.

    ¡°Dave Arangot¡±

    That was certainly not the name of a publishing house, but of the author.

    Or rather...

    ¡°DAD?!¡±

 CHAPTER 20: The Father of Mathematics

    "I... I can¡¯t believe it!"

    Mirac stared at the name embossed on the book¡¯s dust jacket in his hands, still unable to accept the reality that had just been revealed to him. The author¡¯s name gleamed in precise, golden letters.

    ¡°D-Dave... Arangot...¡±

    That was... the same name as his father, from his previous life!

    The man he had loved and respected with all his heart when he was still Vector!

    "H-How is this possible?!" he exclaimed, unable to contain his reaction, swinging between astonishment and confusion, between disbelief and a vague, persistent sense of unease.

    His heart seemed to beat with inexplicable intensity, as if it were trying to awaken ancient emotions.

    "My father... is the author of this book?" he murmured, his voice breaking under the weight of the words. "I-Is it really him?! But this... this is imposs-!"

    But as the word "impossible" was about to leave his lips, Mirac suddenly stopped.

    Something within him, an instinctive and profound force, pushed him to hold back.

    It wasn¡¯t mere hesitation but a deeply rooted awareness, an intuition that had never left him from the moment of his reincarnation into this unknown world.

    "NO! I¡¯m wrong... At this point, nothing is impossible!" he declared, trying to calm his mind, which churned with thoughts. "If magic exists in this world, along with dragons, fantastical creatures, and even gods¡­ then there must also be a way for all this to make sense! A ¡®logical¡¯ explanation¡­ But how?!"

    He ran a hand through his hair, frowning as he tried to piece together a mosaic from the scattered fragments of his intuition. Hypotheses, though fragmented, began to cautiously take shape in his mind.

    "First of all¡­ it could simply be a coincidence!" he thought, trying to rationalize. "After all, it¡¯s entirely possible that someone in this world shares my father¡¯s name and his passion for Math. It¡¯s unlikely, but not impossible..."

    Taking a long breath to calm his mind, which was caught in a whirlwind of ideas, Mirac muttered his second hypothesis:

    "Or¡­ could it be¡­ that he also reincarnated into this world?!"

    The mere thought shook him, like a lightning bolt of emotion.

    "At my first birthday party, I speculated that others besides me might have reincarnated into this world. It was the only plausible explanation for why certain elements of both worlds were identical, like the names of constellations or the use of the Gregorian calendar."

    Now, holding that book in his hands, that doubt was turning into an unsettling possibility.

    "But then... could it really be that my father also reincarnated into this world?!" he thought, his heart racing wildly. "But if that¡¯s the case¡­ why does he have the same name and surname as in his previous life?! I mean, I¡¯m no longer called Vector Arangot because my new parents gave me a new name. So, why isn¡¯t that the case for him?"

    The more he reflected, the more the enigma deepened. His thoughts ebbed and flowed, caught between the need for answers and the fear of the implications those answers might carry.

    He didn¡¯t even know if that "Dave Arangot" was still alive in this world, or if that book was merely a trace of a past he could no longer reach.

    "I must find out more about this book!" he concluded, resolute.

    With his heart in turmoil, he turned and rushed toward the library exit.

    He retraced his steps quickly, passing between the tall shelves that seemed like silent, watchful towers, until he reached the man he hoped could shed light on this incredible discovery.

    "Mr. Matthew!" Mirac called, his voice carrying both anxiety and hope.

    The librarian, still seated at the counter and absorbed in reading his book, slowly lifted his gaze, irritated by the interruption. His weathered face twisted into an impatient expression as his bony fingers held the page open, as if to underline that he would soon want to return to it.

    "Tell me, young Prince..." he said in his usual tone, which wavered between formal respect and a subtle irritation.

    Mirac took a moment to steady his breath, clutching the book in his hands as though afraid it might vanish.

    When he finally spoke, his voice was firm and resolute.

    "I would like to know if it''s possible to trace the publication date of this book and obtain information about the author, please," he explained, carefully placing the volume on the counter with an almost reverential delicacy.

    The librarian looked at him with a furrowed brow, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. He scrutinized the young prince with narrowed eyes, as if trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind his request.

    But in the end, remembering that he was not in a position to refuse the Prince''s requests, Matthew gave in to the pleading look of the young prince.

    "Aaahhh..." he sighed, a vague irritation slipping through his voice.

    He took the book in his hands slowly, as if he wanted to make each second of waiting feel heavy.

    "Alright, young Prince. Let¡¯s see if I can help you..." he finally muttered, his voice raspy.

    But just a glance at the title of the book was enough to make his attitude shift suddenly.

    "OH!" he exclaimed, with a jolt that made his glasses slip down his nose. With a quick motion, he adjusted them, then looked up at Mirac, his face completely transformed.

    The initial impassivity was gone, replaced by a sincere expression of surprise and astonishment.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    "Young Prince!" he said, with almost excited tone. "Tell me... Where did you find this book?!"

    Mirac stood there, dumbfounded, taken aback by the unexpected reaction. He hesitated for a moment, unsure why there was so much emphasis, but finally responded cautiously:

    "If I remember correctly, it was in corridor 7, shelf 3. I don¡¯t know why, but it was in the ¡®Magic¡¯ section."

    Those words echoed in Mirac¡¯s mind.

    Now that he thought about it, it was indeed curious that such a book had been placed in that section. Perhaps it had been put there by mistake?

    But knowing Matthew and his obsession with books, such an oversight seemed unlikely.

    And then there was that strange and unsettling detail: the book had "fallen on its own."

    But was it really like that?

    Or had there been an invisible presence nearby, someone who had intentionally made the book fall?

    If that were true, who could it have been? Or even worse, what?

    And most importantly, why? What could be the purpose of doing all this?

    Those questions tormented him, creeping into his mind like an unsettling shadow.

    The mere thought of having been followed all the way to the library, and worse still, constantly observed without knowing it, sent a shiver down Mirac¡¯s spine.

    Although he had no concrete evidence to support that disturbing theory, Mirac decided to take precautions: from that moment on, he would be more cautious about his behavior, paying particular attention to what he would say or do.

    However, right now, he couldn''t allow those thoughts to distract him.

    At that moment, there was something more urgent to think about!

    So, Mirac chose to set aside those worries and refocus all his attention on the book of his supposed father.

    As soon as Mirac indicated the location where he had found the book, Matthew straightened up, lifting the book with both hands, as if handling an object of immense value. With deliberate movements, he turned the volume toward Mirac, making the title and cover clearly visible.

    "Look carefully, young Prince¡­" he began, with a deep and almost ceremonial voice. "This is not just a simple math book. No, no, no! This here is one of the ''Seven Sacred Volumes of Math!''"

    ¡°Sacred?¡± Mirac repeated, trying to process what he had just heard.

    "Yes, sacred! But not in the religious sense you might think," Matthew explained, shaking his head slightly. "The term ''sacred'' here has nothing to do with faith or religion. These books are considered sacred because they represent the legacy of the greatest mathematical genius the world has ever known!"

    Then, with a wrinkled, trembling finger, he pointed to the name engraved on the dust jacket, printed with elegance.

    "Dave Arangot!" he declared with almost palpable reverence. "The man who revolutionized the mathematical world, leaving a mark that no one has ever been able to equal."

    A smile flickered on Mirac''s lips, an involuntary reaction, a spontaneous reflection of joy. However, what he felt went far beyond simple happiness.

    It was a mix of pride, dignity, and admiration to know that his supposed father had finally achieved the success that had been denied to him in his previous life¡ªdue to his murder.

    "Really?!" he asked, his voice barely betraying his emotion.

    "Absolutely yes, young Prince!" replied Matthew, his face lit up by a rare fervor. "Although I¡¯m not a fan of mathematics, I can''t help but admire its genius. His discoveries laid the foundations for much of modern architecture and engineering. Moreover, he was the one who created the calendar we still use today, and even the financial models adopted across all the kingdoms! Without his contribution, these insights would likely have arrived decades, if not centuries, later. For this reason, he has always been regarded by many as the ''Father of Mathematics!''"

    "Oh, I see¡­" Mirac murmured softly, absorbing those words as a direct praise for his father. "A truly exceptional work, I must say..."

    "Exactly!" exclaimed Matthew, turning the book back toward himself.

    Slowly and gently, he began to turn the pages with meticulous care, tilting the book toward himself to prevent Mirac from glimpsing its contents, as if he wanted to grant himself, for a moment, an exclusive and captivating preview just for him.

    "Curious, though!" murmured Matthew to himself. "I didn¡¯t know the royal library had this volume. That¡¯s why I asked where you found it. This is the first of the seven books, a simple introduction to mathematics designed for children about your age. But anyway... as for the dating, I can¡¯t give you a precise indication. But I have no doubt that this book is a rather modern reprint."

    "Reprint, you said?" asked Mirac, tilting his head with a mix of confusion and interest.

    "Exactly! It''s normal, given that the first editions date back many centuries."

    Mirac¡¯s eyes widened, struck by an unexpected revelation.

    "C-Centuries?" he stammered, incredulous.

    "Well, of course!" replied Matthew, with disarming casualness. "After all, Dave Arangot lived about four hundred years ago, if I¡¯m not mistaken. The original books date back to that time."

    Those words made Mirac waver, as if a heavy veil of fog had covered his reasoning.

    "F-Four hundred¡­ years ago?" he repeated, his voice trembling between disbelief and anguish.

    A sense of emptiness washed over him, and the certainties that had anchored him to a mere affectionate fantasy seemed to vanish suddenly, leaving him suspended in an oppressive silence.

    If that Dave Arangot had truly been his father, then not only would he be unreachable, but surely long dead and buried for centuries!

    The realization left him paralyzed for a moment, as an overwhelming silence seemed to envelop him.

    Yet, somehow, he managed to maintain control over his emotions, masking his turmoil with an apparent composure.

    "I see..." he said, in a barely audible voice. "So¡­ he¡¯s already dead."

    A bitter sense of awareness crept inside him.

    However, a small part of him clung to a shred of doubt, almost as if wanting to protect himself from the idea that threatened to overwhelm him.

    ¡®But maybe¡­ he wasn¡¯t really my father!¡¯ he thought to himself, letting that yet another hypothesis carry him away. ¡®After all, I was born seven years ago. My father lived four hundred years ago. But in the other world, the difference between our two deaths was only sixty-five years! If we assume reincarnation happens immediately after death, then we should have at least lived in the same historical period. And even assuming reincarnation isn¡¯t immediate, but there¡¯s a constant time gap between moving from one world to another, the difference between my reincarnation and his should still be only sixty-five years! But instead, it seems to be four hundred years! How is that possible?!¡¯

    As he processed these thoughts, however, a new doubt began to creep into his mind, a suspicion that quickly grew more intense.

    ¡®Wait a minute! What if there''s another variable about reincarnation that I¡¯m not yet aware of? Maybe some factor determines when and how reincarnation happens?¡¯ he wondered, feeling a shiver run down his spine.

    He swallowed with difficulty, and a daring idea began to take shape in his mind.

    ¡®Could there be a god behind all this?! Well, it¡¯s highly likely... But which of the Seven Deities would be capable of something like this?! Perhaps Mother Nature?!¡¯

    "AHEM, AHEM!" Matthew''s voice rang out as he cleared his throat loudly, interrupting Mirac''s stream of thoughts. "You seem a bit lost in thought, young Prince... Is there something else you need?"

    The question sounded almost polite, but the tone betrayed the evident impatience of the librarian, who was clearly eager to be left in peace.

    Mirac took a deep breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling in his chest.

    After letting out a brief, nervous chuckle¡ªhis usual way of masking the chaos of thoughts within him¡ªhe replied:

    "Ah, no, no¡­ nothing else. Thank you for your help, Mr. Matthew!"

    But just as he was heading for the exit, he paused at the doorway, a final question compelling him to turn back one last time.

    "Umm¡­ Mr. Matthew?"

    "TELL ME!" the librarian exclaimed, his tone tinged with impatience and a hint of exasperation.

    "Can¡­ can I borrow it?" Mirac asked, pointing to the math book still resting on the counter.

    "Yes, young Prince!" Matthew said with a loud sigh. "Take whatever you want¡­ But please, remember to knock when you return it. Thank you!"

    With that, Matthew buried himself back into his book, as if Mirac had already left.

    ¡®Huh, what a grumpy old man! Not even I used to act like that!¡¯ Mirac thought, but he wisely refrained from saying it aloud.

    Instead, he simply said:

    "Alright. Goodbye, and thank you very much..."

    He took the book, bowed slightly with his torso, and left the library, heading towards his room, with the instinct telling him to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of two eyes behind him watching him from the shadow at the end of the corridor.

 CHAPTER 21: Up To One Million

    { TWO MONTHS LATER... }

    The day after finding the Mathematics book, Mirac, calmer and more composed, had allowed himself some time to think more clearly about what he had discovered.

    Among the various hypotheses that had crossed his mind, one stood out as particularly curious: what if this Dave Arangot, considering the four hundred years that had passed, was actually a native of this "fantasy" world? Perhaps, after dying here, he had reincarnated in the "normal" world, lived a new life, and then become Vector''s father.

    As fascinating as it was, that theory had been immediately dismissed.

    On further reflection, Mirac realized it couldn''t be possible.

    After all, how could Dave Arangot introduce advanced mathematical knowledge belonging to the "normal" world without having lived there first?

    The logic didn''t hold, so Mirac had to discard that hypothesis as well.

    It was then that another possibility had crossed his mind: what if, in reality, Dave Arangot had died in the ¡°fantasy¡± world, reincarnated in the ¡°normal¡± world, and after dying again, returned to his supposed original world¡ªthe ¡°fantasy¡± one¡ªbringing with him the mathematical knowledge he had acquired in his second life?

    A double reincarnation might explain some discrepancies, but the idea didn''t entirely convince him.

    After all, this series of hypotheses would have been plausible only if the timelines of the two worlds were misaligned or of a different nature. Alternatively, if reincarnation in the ¡°fantasy¡± world always occurred with a lag of several years into the past compared to the ¡°normal¡± world. Such an explanation could have justified the 400-year difference between Vector¡¯s reincarnation and that of his alleged ¡°father.¡±

    However, since this did not happen to Vector, the possibilities narrowed: either his father had indeed reincarnated into the past for a very specific reason, or reincarnation into the past was the result of a random selection mechanism involving all reincarnated individuals.

    Yet, even accepting these hypotheses as true, a fundamental unanswered question remained: why would his ¡°father¡± have kept exactly the same name in every incarnation?

    Furthermore, even now, Mirac couldn¡¯t shake the thought that the matter might not actually concern his ¡°father¡± at all: in fact, what if it hadn¡¯t been ¡°Dave Arangot¡± who had reincarnated into the past, but Mirac himself who had done so into the ¡°future¡±?

    Indeed, he couldn¡¯t dismiss the idea that he had been the one to reincarnate into the ¡°fantasy¡± world years after his own death, rather than his ¡°father¡± years before his murder.

    However, if that were truly the case, what explanation could there be for this supposed delay in his reincarnation?

    Who or what was lurking behind this whole mysterious affair, manipulating reincarnations at will?

    In the end, unable to reach a satisfactory explanation, Mirac decided to postpone any further investigation until he was older. Only then, free to act independently and equipped with concrete means to search for answers, would he address the matter. For now, dwelling on these theories seemed to him like a waste of time and energy.

    But setting that aside, Mirac had learned many other things!

    His historical and geographical knowledge of the Kingdom of Ardorya had begun to sprout in his mind.

    Not surprisingly, he loved spending whole hours studying the history of the kingdoms, past and present alliances, and daydreaming about unexplored lands. Although there were, of course, still many gaps in his knowledge, he felt he had laid a solid foundation for his future learning.

    The "Negotiation" lessons, on the other hand, were slowly teaching him the subtle art of formal language, granting him the elegance and cunning expected of a prince. However, mastering this art required constant and demanding practice.

    Exercises based on formal phrases and simulated dialogues had helped him improve his control of words and develop a touch of refinement in his expression. While he still felt somewhat awkward in certain situations, he was pleased to notice small improvements, such as the ability to discern when it was better to speak or remain silent.

    As for the Continent''s Language, in Vincent''s eyes, Mirac had almost entirely learned to read and write fluently.

    However, the young Prince made sure his improvement appeared gradual and natural, avoiding suspicion that might arise from learning the language too quickly. To this end, he sometimes, with a certain effort of self-control, deliberately inserted a few simple mistakes into his writings: a wrong letter here, a disjointed sentence there.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    When this happened, Mirac watched Vincent closely as he corrected him, noting how the tutor would raise an eyebrow with a friendly yet slightly awkward expression.

    But during all this time, the real challenge had been Math!

    Although he obviously despised it, he couldn''t afford to ignore it, as doing so would risk making a terrible impression on his father!

    And so, although annoyed by having to study it, Mirac had learned the numerical structures necessary to name the numbers: hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, and so on.

    As a result, within a few weeks, mastering the various numerical scales and fully understanding the system that connects them, he had learned to count up to a million!

    Just two months earlier, such an achievement had seemed utterly unattainable to Vector. Yet, without showing any interest or enthusiasm for the milestone, the "young old man" had accomplished it.

    Meanwhile, as his counting ability gradually improved, his nights were always accompanied by the same dream: the starry sky sending him written messages in white, informing him that his Range in the skill "Instant Counting" was growing, advancing in tandem with the numbers he learned to count.

    [ Current Range of "Instant Counting": 0 ¡ú 100 ]

    [ Current Range of "Instant Counting": 0 ¡ú 1000 ]

    [ Current Range of "Instant Counting": 0 ¡ú 10 000 ]

    From this, Mirac had deduced that the Range of his ability expanded every time he learned to count larger numbers.

    In fact, the Range of the ability had become incredibly vast, reaching the extraordinary figure of one million!

    [ Current Range of "Instant Counting": 0 ¡ú 1 000 000 ]

    Seeing this, a question had arisen spontaneously in his mind: was there or not a limit to this ability of his?

    Moreover, if learning to count had granted him the skill "Instant Counting", did that mean that, by continuing to study Math, he would acquire other powers in the future?

    And if so, which ones exactly?

    As he reflected on this progress, Mirac briefly lost himself staring out the classroom window. The scenery, with its trees swaying in the breeze and distant hills, seemed so calm compared to the inner turmoil he felt.

    ''Two-hundred-eighty-five-thousand-four-hundred-twenty-three leaves... Wait, this works even from this distance?! Incredib-!'' he was about to exclaim, but he stopped himself before finishing the sentence. ''No, well, I mean... Interesting! Very interesting! That''s all...''

    On that June morning, Vincent was bent over the chalkboard, finishing writing some math exercises to assign to Mirac. He was focused, one hand absently scratching his chin while the other moved the chalk across the board.

    Suddenly, a light knock on the door broke the silence. The gentle yet firm sound made Vincent spin around, while Mirac barely glanced in the direction of the door.

    It opened, and Carmen entered with an elegant bow that didn''t disturb the balance of the silver tray she carried in her hands. On it, as was the daily routine during lessons, sat a steaming cup of coffee for Vincent.

    Her movements were fluid and almost graceful as she approached with her head slightly lowered, radiating an air of calm and respectful cordiality.

    "Oh, Carmen! T-Thank you s-so much," Vincent stammered, stepping forward to take the cup.

    In doing so, however, his usual clumsiness got the better of him.

    He took an unsteady step and nearly stumbled over nothing. Though he managed to maintain his balance, in his attempt to grab the cup, he spilled a few drops of coffee onto Carmen''s maid uniform.

    "Oh no! Did you burn yourself? I-I''m so sorry, I didn''t mean to!" Vincent exclaimed, his expression a mix of pure embarrassment and worry.

    His hands, still dusted with white chalk, instinctively moved closer to try and clean the coffee stain, but only made things worse, leaving streaks of chalk on the dark fabric.

    "Damn it! I-I''m so sorry again, Carmen¡­"

    Carmen, though the coffee was undoubtedly hot, remained unbothered, her usual composed expression unchanged.

    "Don''t worry, Professor Shirkenn. It''s nothing serious," she said, trying to reassure him.

    Vincent, deeply mortified, awkwardly bowed in apology.

    "I''m truly so sorry, Carmen¡­ I''m just so clumsy!"

    "I assure you, Professor, it''s no problem at all. Nothing serious has happened," Carmen replied calmly, as she placed the half-full cup of coffee on the desk. "Rather, please be careful not to drop your glasses. I wouldn''t want them to break because of me," she added with a faint smile, stepping closer to gently adjust his glasses with a light touch on the bridge.

    When he had tripped earlier, in fact, his glasses had almost fallen off his nose.

    "Th-Thank you¡­" Vincent stammered, as usual.

    With a slight, elegant bow, both respectful and poised, Carmen turned and left the room.

    Vincent stood still for a moment.

    A deep sigh escaped his lips, followed by a nervous chuckle. He muttered something under his breath, indistinct words that Mirac, seated farther away, couldn''t quite catch.

    Finally, with another sigh, Vincent tried to free himself from the discomfort that was gripping him.

    With one last glance at the door, he turned back to the chalkboard. His movements were a bit hesitant, but with determination, he resumed writing exercises for Mirac, focusing on each number as though those chalk marks could help him forget the incident.

    A minute later, Vincent set the chalk down on the shelf beneath the board and briefly examined what he had written. Then, clearing his throat with a soft cough, he spoke:

    "Here you are, young Prince. Five exercises in which you''ll need to write the numbers in words and vice versa, to be done during this hour. I''ll let you try on your own. If you need any help, please don''t hesitate to ask me."

    His smile was tentative, almost as if he was trying to maintain a professional demeanor despite the discomfort still lingering over him.

    With an awkward motion, he returned to his desk. The wooden chair creaked slightly as he sat down, and Vincent began flipping through some notebooks, correcting assignments Mirac had submitted a few days earlier.

    Meanwhile, Mirac started neatly copying the exercises into his notebook, carefully aligning each digit within a square. His hands moved steadily, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere, lost in a whirlwind of ideas that had nothing to do with the numbers before him.

    For a moment, he lifted his gaze from the notebook and, to his surprise, found Vincent already looking at him.

    The latter, after a slight start, gave him a warm smile.

    Mirac, almost instinctively, returned the smile.

    And in that brief exchange of friendly glances, a thought flitted through the young Prince''s mind:

    ¡®You are a really terrible actor, Professor Shirkenn¡­¡¯

 CHAPTER 22: The Four Fundamental Operations

    { 8 MONTHS AND 25 DAYS LATER¡­ }

    In all these months, Mirac had accumulated a multitude of new knowledge!

    He hadn''t limited himself to formal lessons but had taken advantage of every opportunity to delve into the history and geography of the Seven Kingdoms, spending¡ªwhenever he felt he could¡ªlong hours among the shelves of the royal library.

    However, despite his efforts, he had still not discovered anything concrete about the Chaotics or the supposed magical tool to identify them. At most, he had stumbled upon vague myths or ancient legends told in some dusty book.

    But once again, the real changes had come with Math!

    Over these months, the progress he made in this field had been extraordinary: by also studying from the book of his presumed father, Mirac had learned to perform addition and subtraction with ease, and after memorizing the multiplication tables, he even began to tackle multiplication and division.

    While with the first two operations he was now able to handle calculations with multi-digit numbers, the latter still required a bit more practice.

    Yet, despite his well-known deep disdain for Math, he had experienced a variety of emotions, completely unexpected: a mix of satisfaction, personal pride, and something akin to... joy?!

    Him, feeling... such an emotion... for Math?!

    IMPOSSIBLE!

    Precisely because it seemed inconceivable to him, Mirac had started to suspect that Math was a subtle manipulator, capable of somehow infiltrating his mind and manipulating his emotions.

    This thought had only increased, exponentially, his desire to somehow rid himself of that annoying Sintony with Math!

    And one day, while rummaging through the various books in the royal library, he discovered that such a thing was truly possible and achievable!

    Although the argument was long and tedious, full of pompous and unnecessary terms, the basic concept was clear: if a person hates or strongly rejects the element with which they are in Sintony, such aversion can break the metaphysical bond connecting subject and object, freeing them from that unwanted connection.

    This law had been described for the Elemental Sintonies, but Mirac couldn''t help but hope that it was the same for the Anomalous ones!

    So, perhaps by persevering in his resentment and fueling his hatred, one day he would succeed in breaking free from that bond with Math forever!

    After all, he longed with all his being to live a free and carefree life again, without the constant fear of being discovered and executed because of his Chaotic nature.

    But unfortunately, despite harboring a perpetual hatred for his Sintony, Math still seemed completely indifferent to his resentment.

    In fact, throughout the year, instead of fading away as he had hoped, Math appeared to focus solely on his learning progress.

    The nights following the days when he had learned new mathematical concepts, in fact, had always been marked by the usual dreams in which the starry sky recorded his progress.

    In the dreamlike silence, the usual floating messages would appear, formed by the familiar white mist that suddenly appeared before him, condensing to form glowing words:

    [ You have learned how to perform: Addition ]

    [ You have learned how to perform: Subtraction ]

    [ You have learned how to perform: Multiplication ]

    [ You have learned how to perform: Division ]

    And each operation was precisely defined, like a lesson carved into the sky:

    [ Addition: A basic arithmetic operation that involves combining two or more numbers, called addends, to obtain another number, called the sum. Therefore, if ?? and ?? are two numbers, addition is represented as ?? + ?? = ??, where ?? is the result of the sum of ?? and ?? ]

    [ Subtraction: An arithmetic operation that involves calculating the difference between two numbers. Given a number, called the minuend, and another number, called the subtrahend, the result is called the difference. Therefore, if ?? and ?? are two numbers, subtraction is represented as ?? ? ?? = ??, where ?? is the result of the difference between ?? and ?? ]The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    [ Multiplication: An arithmetic operation that involves repeatedly adding a number, called the multiplicand, for a number of times equal to the value of another number, called the multiplier. The numbers to be multiplied are called factors, and the result is called the product. Therefore, if ?? and ?? are two numbers, multiplication is represented as ?? ? ?? = ??, where ?? is the product of ?? and ?? ]

    [ Division: An arithmetic operation that involves determining how many times one number, called the divisor, is contained in another number, called the dividend. The result of this operation is called the quotient. Therefore, if ?? and ?? are two numbers, with ?? ¡Ù 0, division is represented as ?? ¡Â ?? = ??, where ?? is the quotient of ?? and ?? ]

    [ Congratulations! ]

    [ You have learned to perform all Four Fundamental Operations! ]

    Even today, on February 28th, Mirac expected to receive similar messages.

    After all, as the final milestone reached that morning, after weeks of exercises, Mirac had finally learned how to tell the time! A rather trivial skill, but one that had always been lacking in his previous life.

    And so, as he slept, the dream world welcomed him again. Before him, the starry sky filled with new floating messages:

    [ Today you have learned: to Tell the Time ]

    [ You have learned the concept: of Time ]

    [ Time: A fundamental physical quantity that represents the dimension in which events occur in chronological order, marking the passage from the past, through the present, to the future. Its basic and fundamental unit of measurement is the second ]

    [ Second: Defined as the duration of 9 192 631 770 oscillations of the radiation emitted during the transition between two hyperfine levels of the ground state of the cesium-133 atom ]

    [ You have learned many things! ]

    [ Math is proud of you! ]

    [ Math wants to reward you... ]

    [ Congratulations! ]

    [ You have obtained... ]

    * * *

    { THE NEXT DAY... }

    It was Saturday, March 1st, 1415.

    The sky above the castle was clear and blue, while a fresh breeze rustled the leaves of distant trees.

    As he made his way towards the training grounds, Mirac reflected absentmindedly on the new skills he had acquired over the past year. In addition to "Instant Counting," he now possessed other powers:

    [ Practical Addition: In a finite set of objects, you can create additional identical ones, thus adding them to the base set ]

    [ Practical Subtraction: In a finite set of objects, you can make some disappear, thus subtracting them from the base set ]

    [ Multiplicative Touch: After touching an object, you can multiply it by the desired number, creating identical copies ]

    [ Dividing Cut: After touching an object, you can divide it by the desired number, cutting it into identical sections ]

    And what he had obtained the previous night were these other two abilities:

    [ Immaterial Clock: You possess a mental clock that unconditionally marks time ]

    [ Instant Knowledge of Age: You can instantly know the exact age of an object or individual with a single glance ]

    "Hmmm..." Mirac reflected, descending the stairs with a distracted expression.

    As incredible as they surely were, he had never tested these powers.

    And, frankly, he had no intention of doing so!

    On one hand, because he didn''t feel the need for them.

    On the other, to avoid the risk of his Anomalous Syntony being discovered.

    But above all, due to his eternal grudge against Math: experimenting with those powers would have been like giving in to its charm, a step that would have meant, in a sense, forgiving it.

    And Mirac certainly did not want to give it that satisfaction!

    "Tsz, stupid Math!"

    Reaching the ground floor, Mirac headed towards the back door, crossing paths with several servants, butlers, and officials along the way, observing them distractedly. But it only took a glance for his mind to fill with numbers: no longer just the exact count of hairs on their heads, but also their respective ages!

    ''Forty-two... Fifty-eight... Sixty-three... Fifty-one... Thirty-seven...''

    At one point, as he walked, he caught sight of Carmen in the distance, at the end of the hallway to his right, probably heading towards the kitchen.

    ''She''s only thirty-two? Wow, she looks much younger!'' he thought, surprised.

    Just like with "Instant Counting", "Instant Knowledge of Age" seemed to work independently of Mirac''s will. The information appeared in his mind on its own, without him having to do anything.

    In contrast, the abilities related to arithmetic operations required an active intervention to be used. Probably, a voice command.

    As for the "Immaterial Clock," to activate it, the previous night he had been required to manually set the time.

    However, Mirac hadn''t done so yet.

    This was because he considered the "Immaterial Clock" just another ability that would clutter his mind every day. Every minute. Every second!

    ''Huh, the last thing I need is a clock ticking incessantly in my head! Damn, cursed Math!'' he thought irritably.

    However, this was not at all the right moment to be distracted by such thoughts, especially with such an important day ahead.

    ''Come on, let''s go! Today will be different... I''m sure of it!''

    Reaching the door, Mirac grasped the thick golden handles tightly. He took a deep breath, then pushed decisively, finally stepping outside. The cool air brushed his face as the familiar training field opened up before him.

    As every afternoon, he had come there to practice with the sword, under the guidance of the Grand Knight Leonard.

    And this was despite it being Saturday, a normally restful day alongside Sunday.

    During the year, in fact, a new custom was introduced for the first day of each month, on which Mirac had to demonstrate his skills in front of another person who would observe the entire training session.

    A special spectator, someone whose judgment weighed more than anyone else''s...

    The third strongest swordsman on the entire continent, and also his father: King Arthur!

 CHAPTER 23: Struggling with Silence

    Although the King''s presence had become a routine, every time for Mirac it felt like the first. The idea that his father was carefully observing his progress filled him with a strange mix of pride and anxiety.

    On one hand, there was the euphoria of being able to show the fruits of his hard work.

    On the other hand, the anxiety gripped him like a too-tight suit of armor, suffocating him at the thought of not measuring up to his father''s expectations.

    And every first of the month, King Arthur had always left him with the same unshakable reaction...

    After watching his son''s training, the king never uttered a word!

    With a cold, impenetrable look, he would turn and silently return to his duties at the castle, leaving Mirac with a thousand questions and a sense of emptiness.

    In recent months, Mirac had also begun to notice a gradual change in his father''s attitude. He seemed more distant, with a cold and stern look that made their encounters increasingly brief and silent.

    But... WHY?!

    Perhaps, Mirac speculated, it was just the weight of royal responsibilities that was afflicting him.

    But if that were not the case...

    Mirac feared that the change in his father''s attitude was actually born from a deep disappointment!

    He kept wondering if King Arthur had stopped seeing him as the son destined to meet his great expectations.

    Every silence, every cold look seemed to strengthen that fear.

    But fortunately, every time this happened, Leonard was always there to lift Mirac''s spirits.

    Indeed, the swordsmanship instructor, whenever he noticed the tense and downcast expression of the young Prince, constantly offered him words of encouragement.

    "Don¡¯t worry, young Prince. I am certain that His Majesty King Arthur is absolutely proud of you!" the swordsman would declare with great confidence.

    However, Mirac had begun to doubt it.

    After the third month of silence, many questions began to torment him:

    ¡®Why does he look at me like that? Why does he never say anything? Why doesn¡¯t he show any sign of approval? WHY?! I would be happy with just a smile!¡®

    And so, for that day, determined to change things, Mirac had prepared himself in advance to break that silence!

    In the past six months, he had trained harder than ever before, intensifying and lengthening his sessions, even requesting extra lessons on weekends, convinced that every extra minute was crucial to perfecting his technique.

    Sometimes, he would experience excruciating pain that lingered for days, testing every fiber of his body. But he never really minded, as the desire to make his father proud resonated within him, stronger than any suffering.

    So, today, Mirac would not settle for the usual silence: he was ready to push his limits to earn his father¡¯s approval!

    Arriving at the designated training area, Mirac saw both Leonard and King Arthur already there.

    The Grand Knight, standing with his usual impeccable posture, had his hand resting on the hilt of his wooden sword, ready to begin.

    In the distance, King Arthur observed the scene, leaning on the fence, arms crossed, with his gaze fixed on his son, inscrutable as ever.

    The King wore a long crimson cloak, embroidered with intricate golden patterns, symbolizing his royal authority, while an elegant golden crown, identical to the Queen''s and set with red gemstones, gleamed atop his head.

    His attire, equally imposing, was of a deep and refined black.

    The long, wide jacket had tight sleeves, decorated with crimson trim that reflected the light, like a trace of icy elegance. The high, closed collar, accompanied by decorative buttons along the front, gave the king an air of unyielding majesty.

    The white shirt peeking from beneath the collar added a bright contrast to the black of the suit. Two belts, one tight black leather and the other wider and more richly decorated, held the outfit together, while the dark, fitted trousers completed the ensemble.

    Mirac, however, did not dwell on the splendor of the royal garment.

    Instead, he felt the weight of his father''s penetrating gaze, which seemed to scrutinize him like a harsh judgment.

    Feeling almost intimidated by the king¡¯s presence, Mirac stopped for a moment, a shiver running down his spine. The air seemed to suddenly grow colder.

    However, he could not allow himself to stand there like a statue, showing weakness in front of his father!

    So, he took a deep breath, tightened his grip on the wooden sword, and prepared himself.

    "Let¡¯s begin!" Mirac exclaimed, anticipating his instructor''s words with an energy that resonated in his voice.

    * * *

    As always, the training proved to be exhausting!You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    Mirac started with a series of exercises to demonstrate his physical abilities: high jump, long jump, push-ups, and running. All the while, he held a wooden sword, which had become larger and heavier over the months to test him further.

    In the high jump, Mirac reached a height of about 1.44 meters, an exceptional result for a child almost 8 years old, considering the average is usually around 80-100 cm.

    In the long jump with a run-up, he covered a distance of 3.14 meters, well beyond the average for children his age, which typically ranges from 2 to 2.5 meters.

    These two results highlighted an extraordinary explosive capacity in his legs and excellent dynamic coordination, both inter-segmental and spatio-temporal.

    In push-ups, Mirac performed 21 consecutive repetitions while holding weights on his back, and in the 100-meter run, he completed the distance in just 13.7 seconds.

    Together, all these results were yet another clear proof of his excellent physical condition and good aerobic capacity, demonstrating that Mirac possessed extraordinary endurance and muscular strength for his age.

    After these demonstrations of his physical abilities, Mirac moved on to the more challenging part: the combat simulation with Leonard!

    "On guard, young Prince," declared Leonard, with the authoritative stance of one who masters the art of swordsmanship.

    Following his instructor''s words, Mirac assumed a guard position, gripping the small wooden sword with both hands, and nodded with determination.

    As usual, Leonard took the initiative, advancing decisively towards Mirac.

    However, as always, it was not a real fight, as the instructor moved slowly and controlled, announcing each strike and movement to give Mirac time to react and learn to read the motions.

    "Lateral attack... low defense... dodge to the right," he said calmly, allowing the student time to move and respond properly with his sword.

    Mirac, focused, followed every movement with determination, his small hands trembling slightly from the effort.

    After a few minutes of training, the young Prince leaped back with a couple of jumps, increasing the distance between himself and the instructor. His chest rose and fell as he caught his breath, but in his eyes, there was a gleam of resolve.

    "Master," said Mirac, raising his gaze and looking at him determinedly, despite the sweat trickling down his forehead and his breath still ragged from the effort.

    His voice, however, betrayed no hesitation: it was firm and resolute.

    ¡°Try not to warn me of your attacks anymore.¡±

    Leonard slightly tilted his head, a mix of surprise and amusement showing on his face.

    ¡°Are you sure, young Prince?¡± he asked with a faint smile.

    Once again, Mirac responded without hesitation.

    ¡°Yes, Master,¡± he reiterated, gripping the hilt of his sword more tightly, as if drawing strength from it. ¡°From now on, I want to train like a true swordsman!¡±

    Those words were not only for the Master: Mirac hoped they would also reach his father''s ears, but he remained motionless, his arms still crossed and his gaze lost in the sky, without reacting particularly to that request.

    For a moment, the instructor let the silence between them stretch, thick with expectation.

    Finally, the silence was subtly broken when an amused smile began to crease the corners of the Master¡¯s lips, carrying with it a hint of approval.

    ¡°A true swordsman, you say? Heh, alright!¡± Leonard replied, getting back into guard with a smoother and quicker gesture.

    And so, the pace changed!

    The wooden blades began to move faster, crossing in the air with dull, rhythmic sounds.

    Mirac, sweaty and panting, struggled to keep up. Each impact of the swords echoed in the courtyard like a drum, accompanied by the sound of his footsteps and the accelerated rhythm of his breathing.

    With growing wonder, clearly reflected in his eyes, Leonard watched as Mirac blocked each attack with impeccable precision.

    Mirac''s skill, with his quick and measured movements, seemed perfectly synchronized with the increasingly frantic rhythm of his opponent, while his eyes remained fixed on the sword.

    Every strike was parried decisively, and the sound of the wood clashing became sharp, yet always perfectly controlled.

    ¡®Not bad, young Prince!¡¯ thought the instructor, thrilled by the fast-paced rhythm of the duel.

    It was the very first time, after nearly a year of training, that Mirac and Leonard faced each other in a real fight!

    Despite his opponent being the Grand Knight Leonard, the young Prince showed no sign of fear.

    Observing his opponent¡¯s sword, Mirac appeared to be able, more or less, to anticipate the strikes, recognizing the attacking patterns and responding each time with the right block or dodge.

    ¡®A downward strike from the right... A direct hit to the side... A diagonal strike... An overhead attack...¡¯

    At that point, eager to push the young Prince¡¯s abilities further, testing him to the limits of his current potential, Leonard gradually increased the speed of his attacks.

    And despite the increasing pressure, Mirac seemed to be able to hold his own for a few seconds!

    But after stepping back several paces, he felt on the verge of defeat, with shortness of breath and his strength beginning to wane.

    Leonard¡¯s strikes were now unbearable!

    Therefore, with no other choice, he decided to take a risk with a bold move: extending his arm and pointing the sword at the instructor''s throat.

    ¡®NOW!¡¯ Mirac exclaimed, attacking as planned.

    Leonard, with the skill of a true master, disarmed him in an instant, positioning his wooden sword against the young opponent¡¯s Adam¡¯s apple.

    Defeated, Mirac raised his hands in surrender.

    ¡®Damn, I¡¯m exhausted!¡¯ he thought.

    Sweat ran down his face, his hair stuck to his forehead, and his breath was heavy, almost trembling. Leonard, on the other hand, stood still in front of him, his sword still firmly in hand and not a drop of fatigue on his face, watching the young Prince with a bright smile full of pride.

    From the very beginning, of course, Mirac knew that he would not win that fight in any way.

    But still, having managed to hold his ground against the second-best swordsman on the continent¡ªalthough Leonard had obviously not been going all out¡ªwas more than a remarkable feat for a child of his age!

    With his breath still short, Mirac looked up at his father, hoping to catch even the slightest sign of approval, something akin to Leonard¡¯s smile.

    But unfortunately, reality struck him hard: on the king¡¯s face, as he had hoped would not be the case, he found only the usual cold and distant expression, carved into his unyielding seriousness.

    King Arthur sighed deeply, then turned without saying a word, slowly making his way towards the exit.

    At the threshold, he paused for a moment, turning just slightly. His voice, calm yet sharp as a blade, shattered the silence:

    "It¡¯s not enough, Mirac..."

    Then, without adding anything further, he left.

    Mirac¡¯s shoulders slumped under the weight of those words, as the hope that had carried him through months of training vanished in an instant. The determination that had shone in his eyes just moments before dissolved, leaving behind a dull and sorrowful expression.

    Clenching his fists tightly and gritting his teeth, Mirac desperately tried to hold back the tears.

    Suddenly, a gentle hand rested on his shoulder, preventing him from breaking down entirely.

    "You did a great job, young Prince¡­" said Leonard, who had approached to console him, using his usual calm and reassuring tone. "With time, you will become even stronger, I guarantee you!"

    Hearing those encouraging words, Mirac managed a faint smile.

    "Oh, r-really?! Ehmm... Well, I¡¯m glad to hear that, Master¡­" he replied gratefully, his voice still trembling but slightly lifted.

    Though he appeared to have recovered on the outside, inside, the young Prince felt torn by a mix of frustration and sadness.

    Each word of encouragement brought him some solace, but the emptiness left by the lack of his father¡¯s approval seemed impossible to fill.

    It wasn¡¯t just a matter of defeat, but of seeking a connection with a man who seemed more and more distant and unreachable.

    Mirac¡¯s heart was crushed, filled with fragile hope that clashed with the harsh reality and the cold indifference of his father.

    ¡®I¡¯m not enough, huh?¡¯

 CHAPTER 24: Do Not Give Up on Yourself

    It was around six in the evening.

    Under normal circumstances, as he had diligently done in the past few months, Mirac would have spent this time studying or engaging in something productive.

    However, that late afternoon, he decided to stay in his room. His tired body, marked by intense training, forced him to remain lying on the bed, curled up on his right side, immersed in thoughts he couldn''t shake off.

    The stern gaze of his father continued to haunt him, like a nightmare that refused to fade away.

    ''I''m not enough...'' Mirac kept repeating to himself, letting the sense of failure overwhelm him.

    Every effort, every drop of sweat shed during training, seemed to have lost any value in the face of that impenetrable indifference.

    His heart throbbed painfully in his chest, tight in an invisible vise, as if someone were crushing it mercilessly. Each beat in his chest was an unrelenting and painful reminder of what he lacked: his father''s approval.

    "Tsk!"

    A light knock on the door broke the oppressive silence.

    "Come in¡­" Mirac murmured, lacking energy.

    His voice sounded weak, faint. No longer as determined as it had always been.

    The door slowly opened.

    The red-haired servant entered with delicate steps, carrying a silver tray on which rested a lid of the same material.

    Her presence was always accompanied by a sense of calm, capable of transmitting serenity. However, that afternoon, it was not enough to dispel the cloud of sadness that enveloped Mirac.

    "I''ve brought you a snack, young Prince," she said in her usual sweet and measured tone, gently placing the tray on the desk, positioned against the wall opposite the bed.

    Mirac didn''t move, nor did he respond.

    His gaze was fixed on the sunset, on the sky painted with red and orange. The glow of the setting sun, which he usually found comforting, now seemed to only emphasize the emptiness he felt inside.

    Carmen observed him closely, immediately sensing the distress in his downcast eyes.

    "Young Prince, has something happened?" she eventually asked, with a sweetness that sought to slip past the barriers of his silence.

    Mirac sighed, avoiding her gaze.

    "No, nothing, Carmen."

    Carmen wasn''t deceived.

    "Are you sure?" she insisted, with the patience of someone who doesn''t get discouraged easily.

    "Yes¡­ Nothing important¡­"

    Carmen slightly shook her head, letting out a melancholic smile.

    "You know, young Prince, it''s very easy to read your mind. In my eyes, you are an open book. So much so that all I need to do is look into your eyes to understand what''s going through your mind. And that''s precisely why, young Prince, you should stop shamelessly lying to me."

    At that point, Mirac understood: it was useless to try to hide the obvious truth.

    He slowly rose from his lying position, feeling the blue blankets sink beneath his weight, and sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands intertwined. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the sun was disappearing behind the walls, leaving the sky immersed in fiery hues.

    "Today my father watched the training," he finally said, breaking the silence.

    "Yes, I knew," Carmen replied calmly. "After all, His Majesty the King does that on the first day of every month."

    "Exactly!" Mirac continued, and frustration began to rise in his voice. "But in all these months, not once has he smiled at me. Not a single spark of pride in his eyes. Sometimes I think I''m not enough for him. And today¡­ today I got confirmation of that. He himself told me!"

    He took a moment to clench his fists and grit his teeth, his body tense like a rope about to snap.

    "Other times, I wonder if I''ll ever be able to meet his expectations..." Mirac confessed, his voice trembling with emotion. "If things keep going this way, if I never manage to see a proud smile on his face... what''s the point of continuing to push myself and train so hard?!"

    Carmen watched him for a moment, still standing by the desk. Then, without saying a word, she clasped her hands in front of her and, with measured and graceful steps, approached Mirac. She sat next to him on his left.

    For a brief moment, she too allowed herself to be drawn to the horizon, where the vibrant colors of the sunset were transforming into darker, deeper shades. The room seemed enveloped in a suspended atmosphere, thick with silence and contemplation.

    After a moment of quiet, Carmen broke the silence with her usual reassuring voice, each word carefully chosen to lighten Mirac''s heart:

    "Young Prince¡­ Listening to your words, the way you speak and express yourself... You seem much older and more mature than the usual children of your age."

    Mirac stiffened for a moment, taken aback by this observation. He felt a slight tremor run through his body but tried not to show it.

    ''Damn, she''s right!'' he thought, a small unease creeping inside him. ''I need to be more careful with how I express myself¡­ After all, I''m supposed to look like a 7-year-old!''

    With a graceful gesture, Carmen adjusted her rectangular glasses, the reflection of the sunset caressing the thick black frame.

    Then she spoke again, her tone becoming slightly more serious:

    "But besides that, young Principe, you also seem much stronger than children of your age!"

    "You think so?" Mirac replied, his tone skeptical, as if those words couldn''t reach him.

    "Absolutely," she replied with confidence, offering a slight smile. "I''ll be honest. Instead of cleaning the dishes, I watched you today during the training. Of course, I''m not a fighter, and I don''t know much about swords or combat, but resisting for so long against an opponent like the Grand Knight Leonard at your young age is no small feat. And you should be very proud of yourself!"

    Mirac looked up at Carmen, a mix of curiosity and slight embarrassment in his eyes.

    "Thank you, but-"

    He was about to reply, but she interrupted, her tone becoming deeper and more reflective:

    "However, I understand that all of this may not be enough to calm what you feel inside. And I can imagine how you must feel. Your efforts, so great and constant, are all aimed at making your family proud, especially your father. It''s natural, young Prince. Desiring the approval of those we love is a feeling that we all, sooner or later, experience at least once in our lives. However!..."

    Carmen paused for a moment, taking her time to choose her next words carefully.

    Once she had gathered her thoughts, she turned her head towards Mirac, gazing at him with calm determination.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    "This goal of yours, this desire to make your father proud, must not become a cage."

    Mirac flinched, caught off guard by those words.

    "W-What do you mean?" he asked, turning slightly towards her.

    His hands, nervously gripping the edge of the bed, betrayed the uncertainty that was consuming him.

    Carmen remained silent for a few moments, letting the warm sunlight caress her for a brief instant, making her seem almost ethereal.

    When she sensed the moment was right, she spoke again, with disarming calm:

    "You see... Often, in trying to meet others'' expectations, we risk walking paths that don''t truly belong to us, chasing goals that don''t represent who we are. It''s a subtle trap, one we sometimes only recognize when it''s too late to change direction."

    She slightly turned towards Mirac, meeting his confused gaze.

    Then she continued, with a firmer tone:

    "This is why, young Prince, it''s important to ask yourself: what you do¡ªtraining hard with the sword¡ªdo you do it because you truly want to, because it makes you happy and fulfilled? Or do you do it solely and exclusively to please someone else?"

    The question hung in the air, heavy as a boulder.

    Instinctively, Mirac looked away, staring at an indefinite point beyond the windows. It was clear that her words had stirred something within him, perhaps a doubt he had never dared to confront.

    Not receiving an answer, Carmen moved a little closer, closing the distance between them.

    "External approval is fragile, fleeting," she continued, her voice warm and reassuring. "It comes and goes, depending on the circumstances. But inner satisfaction, the kind that comes from doing something we truly love, that lasts forever. It will accompany you for your whole life."

    With a gentle gesture, her hand brushed against Mirac''s, transmitting a warmth that brought him peace.

    "Don''t misunderstand me, young Prince," she added, keeping her tone gentle yet firm. "I''m not suggesting that you should ignore your father''s advice and expectations. But I urge you not to base your self-worth and happiness solely on his judgment."

    Mirac listened in silence, just like a child, with eyes full of uncertainties as he absorbed those words.

    Carmen gently took his hands, trying to establish a deeper connection.

    "Look inside yourself for motivation, the joy of learning and growing," she resumed, with gentle insistence. "Find your path, follow your heart. And if, by doing what you love, you also manage to make your father proud, so much the better! But always remember: safeguard your ambitions, nurture your dreams, and achieve your goals."

    Once again, Mirac lifted his gaze towards her, his eyes filled with doubt.

    "And what if... I fail?" he whispered, almost afraid to give voice to the fear that gripped him.

    Carmen shook her head firmly, and the sunset ignited her red locks, framing her face.

    After meeting his gaze, she responded with conviction:

    "In life, you shouldn¡¯t worry about failing... But rather about giving up on yourself."

    Mirac seemed to freeze for a moment.

    Whispering, he repeated her words softly, as if trying to understand them fully:

    "Giving up... on myself?"

    "Exactly," she confirmed, her eyes full of calm determination. "Only then will you have truly lost everything."

    For a moment, silence settled over them like a light blanket. Carmen''s words hung in the air, as light as feathers, leaving a luminous trace in Mirac''s heart.

    It seemed as though a flicker of inspiration had illuminated his gaze, and his face felt warmed again by the sunset.

    "Oh, it''s getting late!" exclaimed Carmen, glancing at the clock on Mirac''s desk. "I believe it''s time for me to return to my household chores, young Prince."

    Carmen let go of Mirac''s hand and stood up slowly, giving a slight nod of respect. With graceful movements, she made her way towards the door, but at the threshold, she stopped and turned slightly, once again showing her kind eyes.

    "I hope I''ve been of help to you," she said with a sweet, almost motherly smile. "The tray can stay there. I''ll come by later to collect it."

    Without saying anything else, Carmen gently closed the door behind her and returned to her duties.

    Though still lost in his thoughts, a fleeting smile appeared on Mirac''s face, a sign that his mood had slightly improved.

    Then, he got up from the bed, stretching lightly, and walked towards the desk. Sitting in the wooden chair, his eyes fell on the silver tray that lay waiting.

    With almost distracted movement, he lifted the lid, revealing a bowl of creamy, inviting chocolate ice cream, topped with a layer of panna cotta and two bright red cherries.

    "An ice cream?!" he thought, surprised. "This is the first time I''ve seen one here in this world! I had started to think they didn''t even exist!"

    With some urgency, he grabbed the spoon resting beside the bowl and, mouth watering, took the first bite. The dessert melted on his tongue, spreading a rich, velvety flavor as a sense of calm enveloped him.

    "Thanks again, Carmen!..." he thought, letting the chocolate, at least for the moment, soothe his darkest thoughts.

    * * *

    After finishing the dessert, Mirac stretched, letting out a sigh of satisfaction.

    "Ah, that was just what I needed," he murmured to himself, stretching his body, which seemed to slowly release the accumulated tension.

    Seated on his elegant wooden chair with a carved backrest in flowing lines, his thoughts returned to the ice cream he had just finished and, inevitably, to Carmen''s words.

    "Wait a minute... Could it be that Carmen decided from the very beginning to help and comfort me like this?" Mirac thought, absentmindedly stroking his chin¡ªsometimes he forgot he no longer had a beard. "Hmm... It''s possible. But I wouldn''t be surprised if that were the case."

    After all, it wasn''t the first time she had shown her concern for him, sensing his needs even before he was aware of them himself.

    She was always attentive to his mood, constantly ready to act or scold him when necessary, perfectly reflecting her proverbial feminine, almost maternal instinct.

    "There''s nothing that escapes you, is there, Carmen?" he murmured, an amused smile slipping onto his lips. "Or at least, that''s how it seems..."

    In front of him, the spoon he had used to enjoy the ice cream lay in the empty bowl, cleaned of every trace of the sweet treat.

    Then, almost unexpectedly, the servant''s words echoed back in his mind, like an echo interrupting his moment of peace:

    "Giving up on yourself..." he repeated softly, letting those words shape themselves among his thoughts. "Maybe that''s exactly what I''ve done. I admit I like wielding the sword, but maybe... I focused so much on living as Mirac that I forgot how Vector wanted to live..."

    His eyelids suddenly shot up, and his gaze slid toward the drawer to the right.

    With his heart still full of emotions, he looked around cautiously, almost fearing someone might be spying on him through the crack in the door. Only when his instincts reassured him that there was nothing to fear did Mirac relax

    "Alright!" he exclaimed, as though he had made a definitive decision.

    With a decisive movement, he opened the drawer and pulled out a notepad with a rigid yellow cover. The color, vibrant and sunny, seemed almost like an invitation to begin something new.

    He turned the pages gently, observing the neat brown lines running across the beige pages, like tracks ready to guide his thoughts to new destinations.

    Gripping his quill, he dipped it in ink and wrote at the top of the first page the "title":

    "LIST OF THINGS I WANT TO DO"

    A smile lit up his face.

    In a way, Mirac felt as if Carmen''s words had awakened a forgotten spark within him.

    Maybe¡ªbut he was quite sure¡ªit was the old version of himself he had lost in this new life...

    "Yes, now I remember!"

    And in that moment, the river of his thoughts began to flow again, carrying with it the old dreams buried by the misery of his past life, the desires crushed by the daily struggle for survival.

    "I wanted to learn how to cook..."

    And he wrote it down.

    "I wanted to learn how to draw..."

    That found space on the page as well.

    "I also wanted to travel the world..."

    The ink gave shape to these words too.

    Soon, Vector found himself pouring every dream he had ever had in his past life onto the page.

    The quill, consequently, began to glide quickly across the paper, driven by an unstoppable enthusiasm. One after another, the lines filled with ideas, ambitions, and skills to acquire.

    These weren''t just long-term dreams, but also small goals and activities to accomplish as soon as possible, before this life too could end prematurely without having achieved anything meaningful.

    However, Mirac carefully avoided writing anything that might raise suspicion.

    Some desires were too tied to his old reality or required objects that likely didn''t exist in this "fantasy" world.

    Writing something too "strange"¡ªlike learning to drive a car or reading the last chapter of a book that surely didn''t even exist in this land¡ªcould reveal his true nature as a transmigrator, if anyone were to come across that list.

    He didn''t want to take such risks, especially considering that his parents and his personal servant, Carmen, had permission to enter his room even in his absence and, occasionally, rummage through his wardrobe or desk drawers.

    So, he focused on desires and goals that would appear plausible for this new world but still reflected his deepest dreams. They could be practical ambitions like mastering the art of the sword, or visual experiences like witnessing a meteor shower.

    After fifteen minutes of frantic writing, his quill stopped.

    Mirac leaned back in his chair, a satisfied expression on his face.

    "Excellent!" he exclaimed with satisfaction, resting against the backrest and allowing himself a moment of well-deserved relaxation.

    In front of him were fifty points. A promising start for a child¡ªor rather, an old man¡ªwith a list of dreams as vast and varied as they were.

    "It''s just the beginning¡­ Over time, I''ll surely add more!"

    That yellow notebook, seemingly so simple, had now inherited all his old ambitions never realized.

    Mirac reread each point on his list with pride before looking up at the clock on his desk.

    "It''s around 18:00¡­" he murmured, stretching again and hearing his back creak like dry wood.

    He took one last satisfied look at the list, which now filled ten and a half pages, before carefully putting the yellow notebook back in the drawer. Then, he got up from the chair and walked with determined steps toward the dining room.

    * * *

    After dinner, Mirac gathered his courage and asked his mother if they could talk privately. She, always kind and understanding, agreed without hesitation. Together, they made their way to one of the palace balconies.

    The sky was clear, dotted with stars, while the moon was hidden.

    "Tell me everything, my son," his mother began sweetly, sitting on one of the white chairs on the balcony. Her gaze, filled with affection and understanding, was fixed on him as she elegantly adjusted her crown, making it shine in the moonlight.

    Mirac sat in front of her, his face serious, and without wasting any time, went straight to the point:

    "Mom, I need to talk to you about something: it''s about Professor Shirkenn..."

 CHAPTER 25: Terrible Actor

    { 1 MONTH LATER¡­ }

    "And that''s how¡­" Vincent concluded, slowly closing the hefty tome of philosophy. The book''s gilded edge caught and reflected the sunlight, giving the moment an almost solemn aura. "¡­even the smallest gesture can change destiny. Like a pebble thrown into a pond, the ripples spread far, and the consequences can be unpredictable."

    The dull sound of the book closing marked the end of the lesson.

    Since the young Prince had begun his private lessons with Vincent, the schedule of subjects had been reorganized several times over the year.

    The changes, however, were never random.

    The curriculum was meticulously designed to keep the Prince motivated and stimulate his curiosity, avoiding the monotony of repetitive weeks.

    Every variation was carefully orchestrated under the directives of King Arthur, who occasionally intervened personally to decide which subjects to reduce, deepen, or even eliminate entirely, ensuring the Prince acquired the knowledge deemed essential for a future sovereign.

    Thus, some disciplines had been reduced to one or two lessons per week, while the order of subjects had been rearranged no less than three times so far.

    And that is why, on that particular day, Philosophy¡ªwhich was usually scheduled for Tuesday mornings¡ªhad been moved to the last hour, replacing the two-hour slot usually reserved for Continental Language.

    Much to Mirac''s relief, King Arthur had also recently decided to reduce the weekly hours of Math from four to three!

    For him, who detested the subject, this was a monumental victory!

    The announcement had felt like an unexpected gift, and every time he glanced at the new schedule, he couldn''t help but smile with satisfaction.

    That schedule, however, now lay closed on the edge of the desk, next to the quill Mirac was using to carefully transcribe the final notes from the chalkboard.

    The chalk, which only moments earlier had screeched against the rough surface, seemed to still echo in his mind as his eyes followed the simple diagrams illustrating the principle of action and reaction.

    Having finished the transcription, he carefully placed his quill down and sighed¡ªa breath that carried a subtle, almost adult unease. It wasn''t the fatigue from the lesson weighing on him, but something deeper, a tension that shook him ceaselessly from within.

    "It''s already been a year since we met, Professor Shirkenn¡­" Mirac began, his tone grave, devoid of his usual lightheartedness.

    Vincent, notoriously awkward, flinched. He scratched his neck nervously with a clumsy smile, the typical gesture of someone caught off guard. Mirac knew that reaction all too well, now an integral part of their daily routine.

    "Oh, you''re right, young Prince," Vincent replied, letting out a nervous chuckle. "It feels like only yesterday we had our first lesson. Heh, wow! How fast time fli-!"

    "For how much longer do you intend to continue like this?" Mirac interrupted, his tone decisive and his gaze unwavering.

    Vincent froze, disoriented by the young Prince''s unexpected firmness.

    "C-C-Continue like this? What do you mean, young Prince?" Vincent stammered, trying to maintain an appearance of control.

    Beads of sweat, however, already dotted his forehead as the overwhelming sensation of being exposed engulfed him. A part of him feared that everything was about to collapse.

    "You know exactly what I mean¡­" Mirac retorted, calmly rising from his chair. His movements were slow, yet they carried a confidence unusual for a child of his age.

    He approached the desk, his eyes locked onto Vincent''s.

    "I''m sorry to say this, but I''ve already spoken to my mother," the young Prince continued, his tone calm but firm. "Of course, I wish I hadn''t had to, but I had no other choice. I needed an outside perspective to figure out what to do..."

    Vincent seemed frozen, as if the desk in front of him was the only shelter from an impending storm. He swallowed loudly, his arms stiff as though an enchantment had stripped him of control. The only movement he managed was loosening his tie slightly, perhaps to breathe more easily.

    "I-I still don''t understand, young Prince¡­" he murmured, but his trembling voice betrayed his growing unease.

    "For all this time, I''ve pretended not to know anything," Mirac continued, taking another step forward. "No offense, but every time I watched you¡ªduring lessons, at lunch, in the hallways¡ªI couldn''t help but think you were really a terrible actor!"

    Mirac''s voice was calm, but the weight of his words hit Vincent like a ton of bricks.

    "I waited for months for you to make the decisive move. Of course, it''s not really my business, but¡­ I can''t keep ignoring this situation! You''ve left me no choice but to force you to reveal your own hand¡­"

    Vincent was visibly uncomfortable. He tried to respond, but the words caught in his throat. Instinctively, his hands went to the knot of his tie, loosening it.

    "Young Prince¡­" he finally stammered, his voice cracking under the tension of the moment.

    "Professor Shirkenn¡­" Mirac interrupted, not raising his voice, but with a resoluteness that silenced any attempt at a reply.

    The silence that followed was heavy with tension, a moment where the world seemed to hold its breath. Mirac''s eyes were fixed on Vincent''s, as though daring him to say something¡ªanything!

    "You¡­" the Prince finally began, letting a moment of pause amplify the weight of his words, "¡­are interested in Carmen, aren''t you?"

    After that question, the silence in the room became so dense it felt almost tangible. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the clock: tick-tick-tick, marking the charged anticipation.

    Vincent remained rooted in place, unable to form a response. His face, usually awkward and benign, twisted into an expression of pure embarrassment. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out¡ªnot even a stammer.

    Mirac did not avert his gaze. His eyes, sharp as blades, pierced through Vincent''s feeble defenses without hesitation.

    On the other side of the desk, Vincent swallowed hard, his Adam''s apple bobbing nervously as he lowered his gaze to escape the oppressive intensity. His hands, clasped tightly together, trembled visibly.

    "Y-Young Prince¡­" Vincent stammered, his voice hoarse and lacking conviction. "I¡­ I don''t know what you''re talking about¡­"

    Mirac didn''t move. His body was still, his posture calm and relaxed, but his gaze allowed no escape. He waited, with a patience that seemed endless, for a more sincere response.

    "Carmen¡­ is a respectable person, of course¡­" Vincent continued, his words fragmented and laden with nervousness. "But I¡­ I don''t¡­ I mean¡­ I don''t intend to¡­"

    As he stammered, his tie, now almost completely undone, hung awkwardly around his neck.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    Mirac let a few seconds pass before responding. After a long sigh, he broke the silence:

    "Then why do you tremble every time she''s near? Why do you stutter when you talk to her in the hallways? And, above all, why do you ask her for coffee every day, when you never actually drink it?"

    His words were accompanied by his finger pointing towards the desk. There, a cup of coffee, untouched and now cold, sat abandoned, like incriminating evidence. A detail that did not go unnoticed.

    Finally, retracting the hand with which he had pointed to the cup, he added:

    "It''s been obvious for too long, Professor Shirkenn. I don''t want to cause you anxiety, but I don''t believe I''m the only one at the castle who has noticed your interest in Carmen."

    Vincent appeared to have no way out now.

    He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncertain how to respond. But the truth was clear, and it was evident that Mirac would not accept lies.

    "Alright!" Vincent finally exclaimed, as if he had just gathered the courage to drop the mask. "Yes, it''s true, young Prince! I admit it¡­ I like her! I like her a lot!"

    His hands opened in a gesture of surrender, and the relief mixed with resignation was clear in his voice.

    "But please, don''t tell her anything! She¡­ she doesn''t know, and she absolutely mustn''t find out! It would be too embarrassing for me to bear..."

    Mirac took a step closer, leaning slightly forward, his hands clasped behind his back.

    "I''m sorry to tell you this, Professor Shirkenn¡­" said the Prince, his voice calm but authoritative. Then he straightened, returning to a more solemn posture. "But knowing her, I think she''s already noticed by now."

    Vincent''s eyes widened in surprise.

    "Oh, is that so? Well, actually¡­ I think so too¡­"

    He bit his lip, his eyes still fixed on the floor, while his nervous fingers drummed against the edge of the desk, as if searching for something to distract him.

    Mirac, maintaining his composure, continued:

    "Don''t worry, Professor Shirkenn. I haven''t said anything to her, nor do I intend to, of course. It wouldn''t be right towards you. But I think, sooner or later, you''ll need to do something about it. You can''t go on like this forever. After all, you''ve already hidden it for a whole year, right? Don''t you think it''s time to act?"

    Vincent nodded hesitantly.

    "Exactly, young Prince. It was exactly a year ago. Since she helped me fix my shirt collar, the first time we met, I''ve practically lost my mind! And yet, even today, I''m not sure I can do anything about it¡­"

    Vincent finished the sentence, again lowering his gaze. His hunched and fragile posture betrayed an intense vulnerability.

    Mirac slightly shook his head, with a serious yet sympathetic expression.

    "I understand how you feel..." the young Prince said, his voice measured. "But I repeat, you can''t keep going on like this! I mean, when did you plan on telling her, exactly?"

    The words struck Vincent like an arrow. He turned his eyes away again, staring for a while at the landscape outside the window, as if he could find the answer he was looking for there.

    "I-I don''t know..." he finally admitted, his tone broken by a deep insecurity. "I... I''m not good enough for her, young Prince. She''s... beautiful, brilliant... amazing! And me? I''m not even... not even presentable!"

    His voice cracked again, and those words seemed to weigh on him like a burden carried for far too long.

    Mirac remained silent, letting the weight of that confession fill the room.

    ''It''s just like my mother said!'' he thought, a jolt of realization running through him.

    Vincent''s words echoed in his mind, sparking fresh memories from a month ago.

    After dinner on the first of March, in fact, Mirac had discussed this situation with his mother, seeking her advice.

    "He''s probably thinking he''s not good enough," his mother had explained to him, with that gentle yet firm tone she reserved for the most important truths. "I think he''s scared. Scared of not measuring up. But maybe, my son, you could help him find the courage he needs."

    Following his mother''s advice, Mirac had promised to wait until the first of April, exactly one year after meeting Vincent.

    In the meantime, Mirac had hoped that Vincent would take the initiative, without him needing to get personally involved in this matter.

    And since that hadn''t happened, he felt it was time to intervene!

    To help this man overcome his insecurities...

    To resolve his love troubles...

    After all, for Mirac, there was no obstacle that could stop him when it came to extending a hand to someone...

    Especially a friend!

    "Again, I can imagine how you feel..." Mirac finally said, his voice softer, almost consoling. "But there''s something far scarier than rejection."

    With his eyes slightly widening, Vincent quickly shifted his gaze back to the young Prince.

    "Oh, r-really?" the man asked, his tone filled with curiosity and apprehension. "A-And what could be more frightening than that?"

    Mirac stared at him carefully, with a wisdom far beyond his years.

    When he spoke, each word seemed carved in stone, unwavering:

    "Regret for not even trying, Professor Shirkenn!"

    Vincent froze.

    Those words, simple yet incredibly powerful, struck him with an intensity that surpassed any experience he had known up until that point.

    "R-Regret?" he repeated quietly, almost fearful to utter the word, as if just invoking it carried a weight he had never truly considered.

    "Exactly. Maybe you''ve never really thought about it, or maybe you have, but I assure you, when you come to the edge of life, regret eats away at you more than old age ever could! So my suggestion is not to wait until it''s too late to act! Life doesn''t wait for anyone, and no one can go back to change what''s been done."

    Vincent remained absorbed, lost in his thoughts. Those words seemed to fill him with a strange energy, and his body straightened slightly, though a shadow of hesitation still hung over him.

    "Maybe... maybe you''re right, young Prince. Maybe I should give it a try! But..."

    Mirac stiffened, his face turning serious in an instant, and interrupted him before the sentence could finish.

    "No ''buts'', Professor Shirkenn," he insisted, his voice firm and resolute. "Just try! Don''t condemn yourself to live with the burden of what you didn''t have the courage to do."

    And besides this, a thought resurfaced in Mirac''s mind, one of those he could not afford to speak aloud, but one he so much wished he could say:

    ''Don''t make the same mistake I made in my previous life!...''

    In complete silence, Vincent stared at the wooden desk, his arms crossed and his brows furrowed in an expression of deep introspection.

    His hands, gripping the sleeves of his shirt tightly, trembled slightly, while his eyes wandered uncertainly, suspended between doubt and the fear of choosing.

    ''What should I do?'' he kept thinking, scratching his head, frustrated by the uncertainty of what to choose: whether to reveal his secret or not.

    Mirac also took a moment, crossing his arms over his chest as Vincent had done, and reflecting carefully before speaking again:

    "Carmen is a person who values sincerity a lot. After a year spent here at the castle, you should know that by now. That being said, Professor Shirkenn, I won''t insist any further. After all, the decision of what to do is entirely up to you. My words were merely suggestions and advice, which you are perfectly free to disregard if you wish. I certainly won''t hold it against you. But please, consider what I''ve said! Don''t be afraid of failing or being rejected! Because, in the end, what will truly matter is the courage to have at least tried! Right?"

    Mirac took a step back, then turned, slowly moving away from the desk.

    As he returned to his desk to gather his things from the drawers, his words seemed to still vibrate in the air, like an echo impossible to ignore.

    For a couple of seconds, they remained resonating in Vincent''s mind, like waves crashing on the shore.

    He barely nodded, almost imperceptibly, as if that small, continuous gesture could help him organize the thoughts he was struggling to grasp.

    And soon after, surprisingly, a subtle smile began to appear on his face, likely born from a timid but growing determination.

    His hands, previously rigid and trembling, began to relax.

    His breath, which had been shaky just moments ago, steadied, as though he were releasing a pressure that had held him captive for far too long.

    With an absent-minded gesture, he scratched the back of his neck, letting his usual awkwardness fall away.

    His eyes, uncertain until just a few moments earlier, lifted to meet Mirac''s. They now gleamed with a newfound, quiet determination.

    The smile, timid but genuine, dominated his lips with vigor, like the first ray of sunlight after a long night.

    It wasn''t the smile of someone who had all the answers, but of someone who had finally chosen to stop running.

    "You¡­ young Prince¡­ speak like a man far wiser than your age."

    Mirac blinked, slightly startled by what was likely meant to be a compliment.

    ''Oh, come on!'' he thought. ''Why does everyone keep saying that? Am I really that bad at playing the part of a child?!''

    A flicker of hesitation crossed his face before a nervous smile softened it.

    "Ah, is that so? Well, I hear that a lot¡­" he replied with a sheepish chuckle, averting his gaze in an attempt to hide his sudden vulnerability.

    Unaware of it all, Vincent took a deep breath.

    "So¡­ I need to be braver, huh?" he said at last, his voice a bit lighter, as if trying to convince himself of what he had just said.

    Mirac responded with a small smile, an expression of quiet satisfaction that nonetheless concealed the pride he felt at seeing Vincent begin to move past his doubts.

    Then, as if jolted by a sudden determination, Vincent slammed his hands onto the desk and straightened abruptly.

    "All right, I''ve decided!" he exclaimed, his voice alive with newfound energy. "No more waiting! After an entire year, it''s time to put an end to this charade! This Sunday¡­ yes, this Sunday, I''ll confess to Carmen! It''s do or die, right?!"

    The laughter that followed was nervous, almost embarrassed, but it was lit by an enthusiasm he had never shown before. His face glowed with a mixture of budding courage and lingering fear, as if he was already second-guessing his decision.

    Then, with a solemn gesture, Vincent bowed deeply, his heart pounding so hard it seemed audible in the room.

    "Thank you, young Prince!" he said, his voice filled with heartfelt gratitude.

    Mirac shook his head slightly, a kind smile on his face.

    "There''s no need to thank me, Professor Shirkenn," he replied simply, waving a hand to motion him to rise. "Just know that if you need any help, you can always count on me!"

    As Vincent straightened, he looked at the young Prince with eyes full of hope.

    "R-Really? Well, it''s good to hear you say that!"

    Then, with a shy but warm laugh, he added, almost hesitantly:

    "If that''s the case¡­ could you help me with some preparations?"

 CHAPTER 26: The Royal Garden

    { FIVE DAYS LATER¡­ }

    It was Sunday, April 6th.

    The air was crisp, and the sun reigned over a clear sky, dotted only by a few soft white clouds lazily drifting on the horizon.

    Mirac was making his way towards the garden entrance.

    His legs, strong and sturdy, moved with confidence, free from the fatigue he had felt during the early months of training.

    From that moment onward, Mirac was certain that the intensity of the training would increase significantly. But he was ready to face any challenge!

    It was with this burning spirit that Mirac had shown up on April first, when his father, King Arthur, had been waiting for him to observe his training with Leonard.

    As in previous times, that afternoon the king had stopped at the edge of the field, his inscrutable gaze fixed on Mirac.

    No emotion had been apparent on his stern features: neither the warmth of pride nor the coldness of disappointment. Only that constant presence, which, since he had spoken about it with Carmen, Mirac had stopped questioning whether it was a sign of affection or mere duty.

    On the contrary, he had begun to focus solely on what truly mattered: handling the sword!

    He had to ensure that the desire to improve outweighed the sense of inadequacy conveyed by his father''s eyes.

    On April 2nd, the day after witnessing the young Prince''s training, King Arthur, accompanied by the Grand Knight Leonard and the feared "Infernal Knights," had departed for the Sacred Region.

    Mirac only knew that an important global conference was scheduled, but nothing else: the details had not been considered something to share with a young Prince of only eight years like him.

    When he reached the grand gate of the garden, Mirac saw Vincent waiting for him.

    The man seemed agitated, a mix of anxiety and impatience written all over him. He kept adjusting his tie and glasses, automatic gestures betraying his nervousness.

    His restless eyes darted beyond the gate, towards the heart of the garden.

    As always, the moment Vincent entered his line of sight¡ªeven though it was far from the first time Mirac had seen him¡ªthe young Prince''s innate skill, "Instant Knowledge of Age," triggered in his mind like an alarm bell.

    ''It''s absurd!'' thought Mirac. ''How can he only be thirty-nine? He looks at least fifty!''

    Of course, Mirac would never voice such a thought aloud, even though it rang clearly in his mind every day during lessons.

    "Oh, young Prince!" Vincent exclaimed, finally noticing his presence. His voice was a blend of relief and reverence. He bowed deeply, as protocol dictated. "I''m immensely grateful for your coming."

    "Don''t worry, Professor Shirkenn," said Mirac with a warm smile. "Helping you is truly a pleasure."

    The two of them stood before the majestic entrance of the royal garden, just as Vincent had planned five days earlier. The idea had sprung from him with surprising ease, almost as if it had come about by chance.

    The plan was simple, yet full of meaning: to gather flowers from the royal garden and create a bouquet with a subtle, elegant, and genuine charm.

    With this gift in hand, Vincent hoped to finally muster the courage to ask Carmen out the following Sunday. A thought that, in his anxious heart, wavered between sweet promise and sharp uncertainty.

    Today, Carmen, the servant with lively red hair, had left the castle to go into town to shop. She wouldn''t be back until sunset, which would give Mirac and Vincent several hours to carry out their plan.

    However, while Mirac stood there with his usual calm posture, Vincent couldn''t hide his growing tension. He was visibly agitated, as though every small detail could determine the success or failure of his mission.

    In an attempt to distract him and lighten the mood, Mirac threw him a compliment in a relaxed tone:

    "Black suits you." He smiled, then winked. "But tell me, those are new clothes, aren''t they? I''ve never seen you wear them before."

    Vincent''s outfit was entirely black: a sleek shirt, perfectly pressed pants, a tie impeccably knotted, and shoes almost perfectly polished. The ensemble exuded a simple yet refined elegance, a reflection of his desire to look his best.

    "Oh, thank you, young Prince!" Vincent exclaimed, attempting to smile with a naturalness that betrayed a slight forced effort. Perhaps, he was already practicing the right expression for that evening. "I was in the capital Magam, yesterday. I took the opportunity to buy these new clothes. Well, except for the tie. That''s the same as always. Anyway, I hope I''ve prepared myself well for this evening¡­"

    With that being said, the conversation naturally shifted to the choice of flowers, as the two of them discussed which bouquet would best convey the elegance Vincent wanted to express.

    However, just as they were discussing, a friendly voice interrupted their conversation.

    "Young Prince!"

    Mirac and Vincent turned in unison, surprised by the call behind them.

    It was an elderly man¡ªseventy-two years old, as indicated by Mirac''s "Instant Knowledge of Age" ability¡ªwho was slowly approaching them.

    His clothes, stained with dirt, clearly indicated that he worked in the garden. He wore a pair of blue boots, a green overalls marked by hard work, and a worn white short-sleeve shirt, faded by time.

    His face was lined with deep wrinkles, but his dark eyes still sparkled with vitality. A short gray beard framed his timeworn features, and his short gray hair harmonized perfectly with his figure.

    Despite his obviously advanced age, the man moved seemingly without issue, as though youth had never left him.

    "Allow me to introduce myself," the man said, with a gentle smile and a slight bow. "I am Edward Foss, the head gardener of the royal garden. It''s a pleasure to meet you, young Prince!"

    Mirac recognized him immediately.

    He had seen him numerous times, always busy among the plants and flowers, but they had never had a chance to speak.

    "It''s a pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Foss," Mirac replied, returning a polite smile.

    Edward then turned to Vincent.

    "And you must be the famous Professor, right?"

    Vincent nodded and gave a quick bow, with an unusual confidence.

    "Yes, exactly! I am Professor Vincent Shirkenn, and I am responsible for the education of His Majesty the Prince."Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    "Oh! It''s an honor to meet a professor of your caliber!" Edward replied warmly. "But tell me, what brings you to the royal garden?"

    Vincent and Mirac exchanged a knowing glance.

    They hadn''t planned on explaining their plan to anyone else, but Edward''s presence seemed reassuring.

    So, after a quick nod of understanding, Vincent briefly explained the situation.

    * * *

    Edward raised an eyebrow, struck by the sincere and slightly embarrassed tone of Vincent.

    "Oh, I see¡­ A rather important evening, huh?"

    A sly smile appeared on his face. Then, with enthusiasm, he added:

    "Well, you''re in the right place! I know every single plant in this garden. If you like, I can show you the best flowers here and help you choose the perfect one for your beloved."

    Vincent, however, quickly shook his head.

    "Oh, no no! We don''t want to trouble you, Mr. Foss. After all, I''m sure we can manage just fine on our own! Well, I hope so, actually¡­"

    But Edward wasn''t discouraged.

    "No trouble at all, Professor! It''s a pleasure for me! And who better than an old gardener to help you choose the right flowers?"

    Vincent tried to insist again, lightly waving a hand to politely decline the offer.

    "Really, I don''t want to take up your precious time. It would make me feel guilty."

    But Edward, with the persistence that only wise old men possess, continued:

    "Don''t say that, please! As you explained to me earlier, tonight will be a special moment for you, right? So, it''s not a bother at all! Helping you would be an honor, Professor Shirkenn. And besides, without the help of a gardener, you certainly wouldn''t be able to trim the flowers with the right delicacy, avoiding ruining them, and then create a well-balanced bouquet that truly expresses the beauty of each individual flower."

    Vincent, visibly torn, ran a hand through his hair.

    After a moment of reflection, he sighed deeply and finally gave in.

    "Alright, Mr. Foss," he murmured. "We''ll accept your kind help. Thank you."

    With a smile that lit up his face, Edward gestured for the two to follow him along the garden paths, like an old captain guiding his young sailors towards a safe harbor.

    So, the three of them began walking among the flowers, while Edward spoke passionately about nature.

    * * *

    Despite having spent his whole life in the castle, Mirac had only been in the garden a few times and had never explored it deeply.

    He had always stopped in the picnic area, immediately to the right of the entrance, in the company of his mother or Carmen, and sometimes even his sister Michelle.

    But now, as he ventured further, he discovered the vastness and hidden beauty of the place.

    The immense royal garden stretched as far as the eye could see, a true labyrinth of colors and fragrances. The flowers, of every species and variety, swayed gently under the caress of the late afternoon breeze, as if dancing to the rhythm of an invisible melody.

    Their footsteps echoed on the white gravel path, which wound like veins through the meadow, still dotted with shades of green, but already marked by the first tones of autumn, with the grass turning yellow in spots.

    The air, infused with the scent of wet earth, carried the signs of the season, while the flowers, having reached the end of their bloom, continued to miraculously shine with colors that defied the fleeting nature of time.

    The trees, with their sturdy trunks and autumn-yellowed canopies, stood tall and majestic, their leaves falling lightly, dancing in the cool air.

    Here and there, gardeners dressed in simple clothes worked diligently, pruning bushes and tending flowerbeds with meticulous care.

    "By the way, young Prince," said Edward, smiling gently as only an old man could, "it''s truly admirable of you to help Professor Shirkenn in this endeavor of his."

    "Do you think so?" replied Mirac, without showing much interest in the compliment.

    "Absolutely!" Edward continued with a smile. "Lending a hand in matters of love is one of the noblest acts of generosity."

    Vincent turned towards Mirac, his expression oscillating between curiosity and a need for understanding.

    "Young Prince... May I ask you something?"

    Mirac regarded him intently.

    "Go ahead."

    Vincent paused for a moment, his eyes fixed on the boy.

    "Why are you helping me with all this?"

    Mirac stopped for a moment, his gaze lost among the branches of the trees.

    "The reason, huh?" he repeated thoughtfully.

    Then, looking up at the sky, he said:

    "I''m not sure..."

    He was lying!

    Throughout his previous life, the only person Vector had truly fallen in love with was a certain Laila, a schoolmate whose beauty was so stunning it made the eyes of anyone who crossed her path sparkle!

    Perhaps it was precisely because of this that Vector had never mustered the courage to talk to her.

    Every day he postponed the attempt, paralyzed by the fear of not being good enough and terrified that her rejection might shatter him.

    He kept telling himself that, sooner or later, the right moment would come: a perfect instant when words would flow naturally, and everything would feel easier.

    However, that moment never came...

    Five years later, Laila graduated and left school, vanishing like a dream at dawn.

    Vector was left behind, burdened by a regret that had accompanied him for the rest of his life: an invisible weight that, over time, had bent his shoulders in his miserable existence.

    And now, helping Vincent avoid making the same mistake felt like a form of redemption for Mirac!

    It was an opportunity to make amends through someone else, to prevent another person from being haunted by the void of something he himself hadn''t had the courage to do.

    A few days earlier, while trying to convince Vincent to take the leap and confess his feelings, Mirac had felt as if he were speaking to his past self from his previous life!

    Perhaps that was why he had been so insistent, even offering to help with something as simple as choosing flowers.

    But, of course, he couldn''t share any of this with Vincent, so he tried to justify himself with a quick improvisation:

    "Maybe it''s because you''re my Professor," Mirac suddenly added in a steady voice. "But I''ll be honest. At first, I saw you as a rather eccentric, almost quirky kind of person!"

    "A-Ah, really?" asked Vincent, trying to ignore that ''insult''.

    "Yes, Professor. However!..."

    He paused briefly, allowing a warm smile to soften his features. His expression grew gentler as he continued in a more heartfelt tone:

    "As time went on, you guided me and taught me everything I know today. For that, I''ll always be deeply grateful to you! Helping you now with Carmen feels like the least I can do."

    That said, Mirac turned his gaze back to Vincent. His tone grew more serious, though no less encouraging:

    "Ah, before we proceed! I just want to remind you that, of course, there''s no guarantee things will go as you hope. No one can assure you that Carmen won''t reject you."

    "Oh, of course!" Vincent exclaimed. "I was fully aware of that, young Prince. I am absolutely prepared in case things don''t go as planned... Don''t worry."

    "Good. I just wanted to make sure you were ready for that possibility as well," Mirac replied with a nod. "Anyway, getting back to the question you asked me earlier¡­"

    He hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words, then added with a touch of emotion in his voice:

    "I''m not quite sure how to explain it, but... I just felt deep down that I had to help you, Professor Shirkenn. It was something I couldn''t ignore. That''s all."

    The silence that followed was laden with unspoken meaning, but Vincent received it with a smile, perhaps feeling more confident than he had just a few minutes earlier.

    "I''m glad to hear you say that, young Prince," he replied, visibly moved by the boy''s words. "Once again, thank you for all your support!"

    Edward, too, with a nod of his head and a gentle hand placed on Mirac''s shoulder, offered an affectionate smile.

    "Wise words, young Prince. You truly have a noble heart."

    Mirac returned their smiles, feeling comforted by their words.

    Then the three resumed their walk, their steps light upon the path bordered by flowers and trees.

    * * *

    Here and there, amidst the flowering bushes, marble statues emerged¡ªsome clearly visible, others partially hidden, as if shy in their silent beauty.

    The flowerbeds, perfectly tended, looked like paintings, with shades ranging from the deep blue of cornflowers to the bright red of dahlias, and the brilliant yellow of sunflowers.

    As they moved deeper into the garden, Edward, with the practiced eye of someone who knew every secret of the place, paused occasionally to point out flowers he thought might make the perfect bouquet. He showcased daisies with petals as pure as snow, suggested lilies with an intoxicating fragrance, or envisioned compositions of vibrant tulips mixed with delicate violets.

    Vincent, however, seemed unable to make a decision. Each time he heard a suggestion, he shook his head with a dissatisfied expression, even before Mirac could offer his opinion.

    "Oh, uhm, how should I put it... I don''t think it''s quite... special enough," he murmured softly, as if even he wasn''t entirely sure what he was looking for.

    Edward, patient and understanding, didn''t let himself be discouraged.

    Throughout their journey, the old gardener continued to suggest flowers with his usual enthusiasm, but Vincent declined each proposal with gentle politeness, eventually admitting, disheartened, that no bouquet seemed worthy of Carmen.

    Meanwhile, the sun had begun to set, painting the sky with strokes of vivid orange, tinged with hues of pink and lilac. The clouds had transformed into an impressionist palette, a serene prelude to the approaching evening.

    Vincent, increasingly dejected, lowered his gaze. His shoulders slumped slightly under the weight of disappointment.

    "I''m sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Foss," Vincent said hesitantly, letting his arms fall to his sides. His eyes betrayed a sense of guilt that seemed heavier than he wanted to admit.

    Edward, with the calm demeanor of someone accustomed to seeing the good in every situation, placed a reassuring hand on Vincent''s shoulder.

    "Don''t worry, Professor Shirkenn," he said with a warm smile. "We''ll find something that will make you feel confident and proud to present yourself to Carmen."

    Vincent nodded slowly, though the anxiety hadn''t yet left him.

    "Thank you," he replied in a low voice, as if afraid of being an even greater burden. "But she''ll be back soon¡­ So we''d better hurry."

    They walked in silence for several minutes, until they reached a magnificent expanse of white roses...

 CHAPTER 27: White Roses or Red Roses?

    Vincent, Edward and Mirac had almost reached the end of the royal garden.

    On the left side of the path, but also nearing its end, majestic trees rose skyward. Their massive, gnarled trunks intertwined their branches into a canopy of leaves, as if guarding the mysteries of the dense forest.

    This forest, in fact, extended far beyond its deceptive appearance, encircling the castle¡¯s entire perimeter for a kilometer and a half, much like its walls.

    On the right side, however, lay a field of white roses, a surreal contrast to the dark shadows of the forest.

    The petals, white and soft as angelic feathers, danced in the gentle breeze, creating the illusion that the earth itself was breathing. Each flower seemed sculpted to perfection, with blooms open like faces turned towards the setting sun, which, with its last rays, caressed them delicately, tinging them with golden and rosy hues.

    In this enchanted tableau, the tall stems of the roses stood like elegant sentinels, their blossoms in full bloom, exuding a sweet, enveloping fragrance that filled the air with an almost otherworldly atmosphere.

    If not for his skill, ¡°Instant Counting,¡± Mirac might have thought there were infinite flowers in that field of white roses. A thought that, in truth, had accompanied him throughout his entire journey in the royal garden.

    ¡°WOOOW!¡± exclaimed Mirac, his eyes wide with wonder.

    Although he had already seen many flowers that day, none had captivated him like these.

    There was something special about that expanse of pristine petals, a beauty that seemed to trap his every thought.

    Edward stopped beside Vincent, pointing a finger towards the flowers.

    ¡°What do you think of these, Professor Shirkenn?¡± he asked, his voice full of hope.

    Vincent stepped forward a few paces, observing the field before him attentively.

    ¡°These¡­¡± he began, hesitantly.

    His eyes moved slowly, exploring every corner of the landscape: first to the left, then to the right, as if trying to capture every detail before offering his opinion.

    After a moment of contemplative silence, his face broke into a radiant smile.

    ¡°They are magnificent!¡± he exclaimed enthusiastically.

    Spreading his arms as if to embrace the entire expanse, Vincent finally seemed satisfied for the first time all day.

    He then turned to Mirac, the smile still on his face.

    ¡°And you, young Prince, what do you think?¡±

    Mirac, his eyes shining with wonder, responded with a sincere and excited tone:

    ¡°Yes, Professor! I think they are beautiful too! I¡¯m sure Carmen will love them!¡±

    Mirac then turned to Edward.

    ¡°Mr. Foss, could you help us gather some?¡±

    Edward chuckled good-naturedly.

    ¡°Of course! It¡¯s an honor to assist you.¡±

    Without hesitation, he headed towards a small wooden shed located a bit further along the path.

    After a few minutes, he returned with gardening tools, a pair of work gloves, and some sharp shears.

    Donning the gloves, Edward began cutting the roses one by one, handling the tools with care to avoid damaging the delicate petals.

    Vincent, fascinated by Edward''s skill and calm demeanor as he handled the roses, approached with a hint of hesitation.

    ¡°Can I help you in any way?¡± he asked timidly, almost afraid of being a bother.

    Edward looked up, a gentle smile gracing his lips, though he didn¡¯t pause in his work.

    ¡°Don''t worry, there¡¯s no need, Professor Shirkenn,¡± he replied in a reassuring tone, continuing to cut the roses with precision. ¡°Carmen is probably already on her way back to the castle by now. I promise to be quick.¡±

    Vincent nodded but cleared his throat before responding, betraying a trace of nervousness:

    ¡°Thank you so much.¡±

    Mirac watched the scene, keenly noting the tension Vincent was unsuccessfully trying to mask. The professor kept fiddling with his tie, tightening and loosening it in a repetitive, almost compulsive gesture.

    ¡®He¡¯ll never change, will he?¡¯ thought Mirac, a faint, amused smile curving his lips.

    Crouching in front of some roses, Mirac began observing them more closely.

    Vincent and Edward, to his left, continued their work, immersed in silence broken only by the faint clicking of the shears.

    The evening air was cool and charged with anticipation, as if the entire universe were holding its breath during this quiet moment before an inevitable declaration.

    ¡®Maybe I¡¯ll pick one for my mother as well...¡¯ thought Mirac, reaching out his right hand to pluck a rose.

    But his action was abruptly interrupted.

    A thorn pricked his finger, making him flinch in pain.

    ¡°AUGH!¡± he groaned, bringing the finger up to examine it.

    A drop of bright red blood rolled down and fell onto the white gravel of the path, a stark contrast to the purity of the roses.

    Edward turned around suddenly, his face clouded with concern.

    ¡°Oh, heavens! Are you all right, young Prince?¡±

    Mirac responded calmly:

    ¡°Yes, don¡¯t worry. Nothing happened."

    He smiled to reassure the older man, though it didn¡¯t seem to work.

    Even though it was just a tiny wound, and certainly nothing serious, Edward reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a roll of white gauze. With expert movements and without saying a word during the ¡°treatment,¡± he wrapped Mirac¡¯s injured finger.

    He didn¡¯t skimp on the gauze, bandaging it with a care that revealed his kind and attentive nature.

    ¡°You must be more careful, young Prince,¡± he said with a nod.

    "Yes, you''re right. I was foolishly reckle-"

    Mirac didn¡¯t have time to reply.

    He remained still, taken aback, staring half incredulously at the bandaged finger.

    Perhaps because it was just a minor wound, he clearly felt the throbbing pain gradually subside until it disappeared entirely.

    ¡®Incredible!¡¯ he thought, surprised.

    Edward, sensing both Mirac¡¯s amazement and confusion, hastened to explain:

    ¡°Sometimes I cut myself as well, young Prince. That¡¯s why, a few years ago, my wife gave me this roll of ¡®magic gauze.¡¯ To the naked eye, you can¡¯t see anything, but on the surface,¡± he raised his hand to show Mirac the roll of gauze carefully, even though there was indeed nothing visible, ¡°there are healing runes applied. That¡¯s why I always keep it in my pocket, just in case it¡¯s needed.¡±

    With that said, before Mirac could raise any questions about the unusual magical object, Edward cut the rose responsible for the incident. Before handing it to Mirac, he carefully removed all the thorns, making sure there were no further risks of injury.

    The kindness of the gesture revealed a deep sensitivity and gentleness.

    ¡°Here you go, take it. This is the one you wanted, right?¡±

    Mirac nodded, a slight expression of embarrassment mixed with acknowledgment of the ¡°lesson.¡±

    ¡°Thank you.¡±

    After an exchange of smiles, Edward returned to his work.

    However, even without giving Mirac the time to observe the rose he was holding in his hands, Edward¡¯s voice broke the silence once again, filled with a sweet nostalgia:If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    ¡°You know, now that I think about it, my wife loves these flowers too.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡± Mirac asked, intrigued.

    ¡°Yes, young Prince. She absolutely loves these roses! However, to be honest, I¡¯ve never quite understood why. But¡­¡± He paused with a laugh. ¡°After all, who can understand women nowadays?¡±

    He let his warm, sincere laughter fill the air before continuing:

    ¡°Every time I visit her, I bring her a bouquet of these roses. Without a doubt, they are her favorite.¡±

    Meanwhile, Mirac had brought the rose to his face, closing his eyes as its delicate fragrance enveloped his senses.

    The young Prince remained silent for a moment, captivated by the scent, before speaking almost absent-mindedly:

    ¡°Where does your wife live?¡± he asked, his words almost lost in the wind.

    ¡°In the countryside, fortunately not too far from here. I can only see her during my vacation days, but¡­ I miss her every day¡­¡± He paused, gazing at the sky turning golden and pink. ¡°But it doesn¡¯t matter! In exactly one week, I¡¯ll be able to return to her. Or rather,¡± he added, with a flash of determination in his eyes, ¡°this was my last year of service here at the castle. After that, I¡¯ll retire and live with her.¡±

    Mirac lowered the rose from his face, his gaze filled with a veil of soft emotions.

    ¡°You¡¯re very lucky, Mr. Foss,¡± he said with a faint smile. ¡°Having someone who waits for you at home, someone who hugs and loves you¡­ Yes, I suppose it¡¯s every man¡¯s dream! Isn¡¯t it, Professor?¡±

    Vincent, who had been listening silently until then, nodded first, then replied with measured words:

    ¡°I suppose so, young Prince¡­¡±

    His gaze seemed lost in an undefined point, beyond the field of roses.

    A brief silence fell between them, broken only by the whisper of the wind caressing the leaves, the soft rustling of the flowers, and the steady rhythm of Edward¡¯s shears.

    Suddenly, the autumn breeze grew sharper.

    Mirac slowly stood up, letting the scent of the rose fill his senses once more.

    Before him, a breathtaking view unfolded: the entire stretch of the royal garden they had traversed so far extended as far as the eye could see, with the white roses swaying to his left and the dense, dark forest closing in on his right.

    However, his gaze shifted elsewhere, toward the horizon in front of him, where the rear of the castle loomed solemnly, bathed in the warm golden light of the sunset.

    Behind him, Vincent and Edward continued their conversation.

    ¡°Mr. Foss,¡± Vincent began, his voice surprisingly calm, free from his usual uncertainty, as he untied his tie for the umpteenth time, ¡°do you prefer white roses or red ones?¡±

    Mirac didn¡¯t turn around, but he clearly heard the shears stop and Edward rise with a slight sigh.

    ¡°Heh, good question,¡± the gardener replied with a soft laugh. ¡°Red roses have a majestic elegance, that¡¯s for sure. And maybe I was simply influenced by my wife, but I would say that I also have a strong preference for white roses, for their purity and simplicity."

    Edward paused for a moment, looking at the bunch of flowers he had gathered.

    ¡°Anyway, I¡¯ve cut about twenty roses. I think that should be enough. And it¡¯s fortunate that there¡¯s all the necessary material in the shed to make a nice bouquet.¡±

    Then, tilting his head with a sly smile, Edward added:

    ¡°But, Professor Shirkenn, I see you¡¯re struggling with that tie¡­ Would you like some help?¡±

    Vincent chuckled lightly, a rare moment of lightness that managed to break the heavy atmosphere of his thoughts.

    Meanwhile, Mirac had remained standing still.

    He felt as if he was immersed in a vortex of indefinite thoughts, a tangle of reflections that couldn¡¯t take shape, and for which all he could do was stay motionless and focus, hoping his mind would unravel.

    He remained this way for several moments, suspended in a sort of mental calm.

    It was only when a butterfly with sky-blue wings crossed his field of vision that his gaze broke away from the distant castle. He followed it with his eyes as it fluttered among the white petals, floating lightly and unaware of the world around it.

    And when it least expected it, its flight was soon interrupted...

    The blue wings became entangled in a thin spider''s web.

    And, as expected, a black spider, with its eerie body and long, slender legs, began to slowly move towards its prey, ready to weave its fate around the butterfly.

    Mirac watched the scene with a strange unease, unable to tear his gaze away.

    For some strange reason, that small drama between predator and prey awakened a distant memory in him.

    He found himself recalling about a year earlier, during his first sword training.

    However, what came to his mind more strongly wasn¡¯t so much the training itself, but Leonard¡¯s words: a phrase that had struck him deeply that day, and which now echoed in his mind.

    ¡°Remember, young Prince... If you want to survive, do as you did today: always trust your instincts!¡±

    Those words, vibrating like thunder, seemed to shake every fiber of his being.

    A tingling sensation coursed through him from head to toe, leaving him still motionless in his place, with his mouth slightly open, almost unaware of his surroundings.

    His gaze shifted back to the castle in the distance, as the image of the trapped butterfly merged with the vivid memory of the training.

    Time seemed to stop for a moment, with the details of the present and the past intertwining in that unconscious state.

    Vincent and Edward were still talking behind him, but Mirac could no longer hear them clearly. Everything seemed muffled, as though he were submerged underwater.

    But even if he could have heard their voices, Mirac was too focused on that mental flashback to listen, or even question what was happening.

    ¡®Trust your instincts!¡­¡¯

    The words rang incessantly in his mind, first as a whisper, then as a distant echo, growing louder and louder!

    ¡®Trust your instincts¡­ Trust your instincts¡­ Trust your instincts¡­ Trust your instincts¡­ Trust your instincts¡­ Your instincts¡­ Your¡­ INSTINCTS!¡¯

    And then, without his mind fully understanding why, his body reacted.

    In an instant, Mirac threw himself to the side.

    He didn¡¯t even have time to realize what was happening when a fierce, tearing pain exploded suddenly in his left arm.

    He was still mid-air, barely a heartbeat after the jump, when the devastating pain hit him with such intensity it almost made him lose consciousness.

    The impact with the ground was brutal: he fell heavily on his right side, his body already shaken by pain and adrenaline as he rolled a little further ahead.

    ¡°AAAAAAAAAGH!!!¡±

    A heart-wrenching scream escaped his lips, shattering the uneasy silence of the garden.

    Frightened by the cry, some crows perched on the twisted branches of the nearby forest took flight, emitting harsh calls, while the air around him seemed to vibrate with fear.

    ¡°Fuck, that hurts!¡± Mirac groaned through clenched teeth, his breath broken by the pain.

    When he looked down at his arm, his heart skipped a beat.

    ¡°W-What the...?!¡±

    His left arm¡­ was gone!

    At the elbow, the torn flesh gaped in a gruesome sight.

    The fracture was right between the distal end of the humerus and the bones of the ulna and radius, where the joint had been brutally shattered.

    The muscle fibers, like torn ropes, hung disordered around the white, shattered bone protruding from the wound.

    Warm blood pulsed in irregular bursts, pouring out with terrifying ferocity and staining the white gravel of the path. The red drops mixed with the dust, forming dark streams that flowed like small, bloody rivers.

    Mirac couldn¡¯t tear his eyes away from the wound, as pure terror mixed with horror and disbelief.

    ¡°M-Motherfucker!!! Damn, that hurts!!!¡± he screamed again, his breath broken and gasping as he struggled to maintain some semblance of clarity.

    The pain was overwhelming, a merciless wave threatening to drown him.

    In that moment, the formalities and impeccable language expected of a false child from his high social status were the last thing on his mind.

    ¡°W-What the fuck happened?!¡± he shouted, instinctively pressing his severed arm in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding.

    The stump pulsed under the desperate pressure of his fingers, but the blood gushed in torrents, a hot and viscous river.

    Despite the chaos in his mind and the paralyzing pain, Mirac knew he couldn¡¯t afford to lie there and despair for even another second!

    It was clear that whatever had attacked him, and severed his left arm, was still nearby, ready to strike again.

    He needed to locate the assailant immediately and, if necessary, brace himself to dodge their next attack.

    With this in mind, Mirac fought with all his strength to get back on his feet, stumbling as he tried to rise. His body trembled spasmodically, each movement a battle against the pain and fear.

    Breathing heavily and with his heart pounding, he began nervously scanning the surrounding area.

    The first thing he noticed out of the corner of his eye, to his left, from the spot where he had jumped, was his severed arm lying on the ground, blood still dripping from the stump.

    Then, despite the pain gripping his mind, his gaze was involuntarily drawn back behind him, to the spot where Edward and Vincent had been talking just moments before.

    A growing anxiety pushed him to check, to see if something had happened to the two of them.

    But as soon as he turned, he instantly regretted it¡­

    ¡°W-What¡­¡±

    The sight that greeted him took his breath away, and blood seemed to freeze in his veins.

    On the ground lay Edward¡­

    Or rather, what was left of him¡­

    His body, in fact, was sliced in two perfect halves!

    His legs, pelvis, chest, and head were divided along the sagittal plane, as if a blade had performed its work with incredible precision.

    Even his face, that face that had been so alive and vibrant just moments before, was now split in two: an expression of pure horror eternally etched in his wide, empty eyes.

    Both halves lay motionless, the entrails exposed in a macabre pool of blood and tissue.

    The gardener¡¯s right hand, still half open, clutched the shears with which he had been cutting the roses, while his other hand held what would have been the bouquet of flowers for Carmen.

    The white roses beside him, once pure and perfect, were now stained with blood, soaked in their tragic fate.

    ¡°MR. FOSS!!!¡± Mirac screamed, his voice torn with panic and despair.

    With his right hand, he continued to press against the wound, trying to stem the blood that flowed relentlessly, but the sight of Edward''s butchered body made him falter.

    A wave of nausea surged in his throat, almost making him vomit, and the world seemed to lose its stability.

    It was then, before Edward¡¯s mutilated body, that his eyes caught a familiar figure...

    ¡°P-Professor Shirkenn?¡± Mirac whispered.

    Vincent was standing there, unharmed, but he appeared almost indifferent to the carnage around him.

    The tie, which he had nervously fidgeted with all day, hung loosely from his right hand, stained with blood, while with his left hand he unbuttoned the collar of his black shirt, also stained with red, letting the cool air caress his skin.

    His black trousers, once immaculate, now bore dark bloodstains that spread along the knees and sides.

    His face, usually gentle and awkward, was now cold and impassive, streaked with splashes of blood, adding an unsettling touch to his expression.

    Vincent''s eyes, which had always betrayed anxious nervousness, were now devoid of emotion, fixed on Edward''s corpse with a chilling calmness.

    ¡°I also love white roses, Mr. Foss," Vincent said, his voice low and ominous, filled with a silent threat that sent a shiver through Mirac''s core.

    Any trace of his usual stammer or shyness was gone.

    Slowly, Vincent lifted his gaze towards Mirac, and his cold eyes met those of the young Prince.

    ¡°But then,¡± Vincent concluded, with a sinister smile, ¡°I prefer to dye them with blood...¡±

 CHAPTER 28: Getting to Safety

    Mirac felt paralyzed, terror gripping him like a noose around his neck, suffocating every breath. His muscles were rigid, trapped in an atmosphere of palpable fear. His face, pale and marked by exhaustion, was a mask of pure horror.

    ¡°P-Professor Shirkenn¡­?¡± he stammered with a trembling voice, unable to comprehend the horror unfolding before his eyes.

    The beating of his heart was the only sound he seemed able to perceive, pounding and unbearable.

    ¡°W-What¡¯s happeni-?¡±

    ¡°Young Prince¡­¡± Vincent interrupted him sharply.

    The tone of his voice was icy, devoid of the usual uncertainty, now transformed into something sinister and dominant.

    Vincent''s eyes glinted coldly, his gaze so frigid it sent chills down his spine.

    ¡°Do you not remember what I told you a few days ago?¡±

    Mirac desperately tried to understand, but the horrifying scene before him made any rational thought impossible: his left arm lay torn a few steps away, and beyond it, the lifeless body of Edward, his entrails exposed like a canvas stained with blood.

    A deep nausea gripped his stomach once again, while his heart pounded with such violence that it seemed on the verge of exploding.

    But Mirac couldn¡¯t say a word.

    It was as if his very voice had abandoned him.

    Vincent moved forward with measured steps, each movement calculated with an unsettling precision. His figure seemed to grow in height, becoming more menacing with each step, while, before him, Mirac remained paralyzed, trapped in a vice of terror that even prevented him from breathing.

    With a slow, deliberate gesture, Vincent tightened his tie, which began to stiffen unnaturally, as if the fabric were turning into steel.

    In an instant, the tie extended to a frightening length, almost a meter and a half. It no longer seemed like a simple accessory, but a lethal weapon, rigid and sharp like a blade.

    Continuing to advance, Vincent stepped without hesitation on Edward¡¯s entrails. The squishy sound of his shoes sinking into the old gardener¡¯s insides echoed horribly in the air.

    Throughout all of this, Vincent''s face remained impassive, a mask of indifference with no trace of humanity.

    When he was in front of Mirac, paralyzed by panic, Vincent moved his arm with the speed of a striking serpent, raising the tie transformed into a blade. His voice, cold and emotionless, shattered the silence with a definitive sentence:

    ¡°It¡¯s time to end this charade!¡±

    Before Mirac could process the words, Vincent hurled the tie towards him with surprising speed. The movement was so fast that the air seemed to split, producing a sharp sound.

    But Mirac''s primal instinct, the same one that had saved him moments earlier, awakened once more.

    An instant before the tie brushed against him, his body moved almost autonomously.

    He threw himself sideways again, to his left, landing on the white gravel with a muffled thud. He rolled onto his hands and knees, the cold of the ground sticking to his clothes and skin, but he rose again with a nearly superhuman quickness.

    Without wasting any time, he ran towards the forest.

    However, as he fled, he couldn''t help but glance one last time behind him.

    There, where his face had been just moments before, the tie had struck the ground with terrifying violence, creating a gaping hole as though it had been hit by a giant sword.

    ¡°Tsk!¡± Vincent huffed, irritated. ¡°It¡¯s pointless to run, young Prince¡­¡±

    His cold and calculated voice echoed through the trees, blending with the rustle of the wind.

    Without haste, and with a sinister smile that crept across his lips, Vincent pulled the tie from the ground with the same casual gesture as someone drawing a sword from its sheath.

    Mirac then brought his gaze back in front of him and continued to run desperately through the forest, each step agony.

    The pain gripped him, slowing his movements, while blood continued to gush from his missing arm. His breath was labored, his lungs burned, and every now and then, he had to stop to catch his breath, leaning against the trees.

    But he knew he couldn¡¯t keep going like this for long.

    ¡®Why, Professor¡­ WHY?!¡¯ Mirac screamed in his mind, cold sweat slipping down his forehead, as his emotions raged against the traitor.

    Vincent''s voice slithered into the golden silence of the sunset, a poisonous whisper wrapped in an unsettling calm:A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    ¡°Do you want to play hide and seek, young Prince?¡±

    The tone was flat, almost bored, but beneath the irony, there was a ferocity that pulsed, ready to explode.

    Step by step, Mirac felt the danger draw closer, while the weight of the shrinking distance became unbearable.

    However, as he ventured deeper into the forest, the trees grew denser, and the vegetation thicker, wrapping around him in an embrace that nearly concealed him. This play of shadows and thick branches gave him a small hope: if he could blend in with the trees, he might escape Vincent¡¯s line of sight.

    ¡®Sh-Shit! I-I can¡¯t go on¡­¡¯

    He was too tired to keep running: his legs were as heavy as lead, his breath ragged, his vision blurring as exhaustion took over.

    Driven by desperation, he forced himself to run for a few more minutes, stealing precious seconds from a fate that seemed inevitable.

    With one last effort, after making sure Vincent wasn¡¯t behind him, Mirac hid behind a wild bush growing next to a tree. He let himself fall against the rough trunk, his legs stretched out in front of him, his chest rising and falling in a frantic rhythm.

    The air seemed never enough, and the throbbing pain of his wound threatened to overwhelm him.

    He gasped deeply, struggling to stay conscious.

    But he was losing too much blood, and getting this far had already been a miracle in itself.

    Mirac didn¡¯t have time to wonder why Vincent had tried to kill him, or how he had dodged his attack to avoid the same fate as Edward.

    Now, at this moment, there was only one priority, one goal that resonated loudly in his mind, above all else: survive.

    ''F-First... I-I have to stop the bleeding...''

    With this thought fixed in his mind, Mirac began to think frantically for a solution. Perhaps he could tear a piece from his shirt and use it to dress the wound.

    At first, it seemed like a reasonable idea, one that may work.

    But as soon as he grabbed the sleeve of the shirt to get to work, a thought struck him: the torn shirt, while capable of stopping the bleeding temporarily, wouldn''t be nearly enough.

    After all, Mirac was losing too much blood, and a simple piece of fabric certainly wouldn''t be enough to solve the problem.

    ¡®Dammit!¡¯

    After thinking for another couple of seconds, when all hope seemed lost, Mirac came up with another solution, an even better one! One that had a 90% chance of working, and therefore of saving him!

    ¡®T-The magical gauze!¡¯

    With a silent sigh of relief, Mirac realized that the gauze was still wrapped around the finger of his right hand, the one he had managed to save, and that now it represented his only new hope.

    ''L-Let''s try it!''

    With clumsy movements and numb fingers, Mirac lunged for the knot of the gauze.

    His hands trembled so much they seemed useless, and every movement was accompanied by a dull pain that pulsed along his arm.

    His teeth and hands worked desperately together as he tried to grab that thin strip that kept slipping through his sweaty, bloodied fingers.

    His heart pounded furiously in his chest, echoing in his ears.

    Every failed attempt tightened the knot in his stomach, a silent cry of frustration that constricted his throat.

    It took seconds that seemed endless.

    However, in the end, with one last imprecise tug, the knot gave way.

    A sigh of relief escaped his lips, a brief moment of respite amidst the chaos.

    But that brief pause lasted little.

    When he finally unrolled the gauze between his hands, Mirac lifted it before him, staring at it with wide, incredulous eyes.

    Indeed, it was then that, with a jolt of realization, he became aware of a new, terrible problem: the bandage was too short!

    In fact, considering the wound on his finger for which it had been used, it was surprisingly long. But it wouldn''t even come close to covering the entire stump.

    ''D-Damn it! What do I do now?!''

    His mind searched desperately for a solution, but it was nearly impossible to think clearly knowing that a killer was roaming the woods. Every rustle in the branches, every moving shadow seemed like a prelude to a fatal blow.

    However, Mirac knew that the danger wasn¡¯t immediate.

    After all, Vincent hadn¡¯t chased him. Or rather, he had done so with an unsettling slowness, as if savoring each moment of this macabre "hunt."

    So, Mirac still had a little time before Vincent managed to find him.

    And yet, despite this awareness, Mirac felt as though he was on the verge of giving up.

    He could feel his body warming up slowly, a sensation that was the complete opposite of the cold agony he had felt during his previous death.

    ''D-Damn it!'' he cursed inwardly, his teeth grinding under the weight of frustration. ''I-I wanted to live this life to the fullest! I-I wanted to explore this world! M-Make my family and father happy! And now? I-I¡¯ll die here, without having achieved any of that!''

    Tears began to choke his vision, clouding the world and filling the air around him with a suffocating sense of helplessness. With his breath broken and a strangled sob caught in his throat, he cast one last glance at the "magic gauze."

    For a moment, he lost himself staring at it, his hand clutching the fabric in anger, as the tears ran down his face, wetting his cheeks.

    ¡®I-If only¡­ I had a little more¡­¡¯

    And it was exactly as he finished that sentence, when his body seemed on the verge of giving out completely, that an unexpected thought made its way into his mind.

    ¡®Wait a moment! I want more?¡¯

    The shadow of discouragement that had nearly suffocated him began to fade, swept away by a new, feverish glow of hope. His eyes, still glistening with tears, lit up with an indomitable determination.

    ¡®O-Of course! How did I not think of this before?!¡¯

    Despair gave way to an idea as provocative as it was vexing.

    ¡®Tsk! Unfortunately, I have no other choice...¡¯

    Under normal circumstances, Mirac would never have dared to do what he was about to attempt. Never!

    The pride and resentment he had always harbored towards Math would have stopped him, like an insurmountable wall built by his own heart.

    But now, with his life hanging by a thread, all that bitterness suddenly seemed meaningless¡ªan unnecessary burden he was ready to cast aside.

    With death breathing down his neck, with the world seemingly trying to rip the last spark of hope from him, there was no longer any room for hesitation or regret.

    The promise he had made to himself months earlier¡ªsurvive, at any cost!¡ªbecame the only beacon in the chaotic darkness surrounding him, the only truth that mattered to him at that moment!

    So, with the last of his remaining strength, Mirac clenched the gauze in his hands and whispered words that, once, he would never have conceived of saying, or even dared to think:

    ¡°Multiply by ten...¡±

 CHAPTER 29: Cornered

    [ Multiplication: An arithmetic operation that involves repeatedly adding a number, called the multiplicand, for a number of times equal to the value of another number, called the multiplier. The numbers to be multiplied are called factors, and the result is called the product. Therefore, if ?? and ?? are two numbers, multiplication is represented as ?? ? ?? = ??, where ?? is the product of ?? and ?? ]

    From this concept, and after learning how to perform multiplications, Mirac had acquired, months earlier, a magical ability:

    [ Multiplicative Touch: After touching an object, you can multiply it by the desired number, creating identical copies ]

    However, the frustration of having to rely on this ability now¡ªof bending to the world and depending on its greatest enemy, Math!¡ªmade his blood boil in his veins!

    ¡®I-I have no other choice though! If I want more magical gauze, I must use my powers!¡¯

    So, with the last of his remaining strength, Mirac clenched the gauze in his hands and whispered words that, once, he would never have conceived of saying, or even dared to think:

    ¡°Multiply by ten...¡±

    As soon as those words vibrated through the autumn air, Mirac¡¯s mind was unexpectedly seized by the dreamlike vision of the starry sky.

    But this time, it was different.

    For the very first time, in front of his eyes, he saw numbers and symbols written in bright white, floating mid-air.

    At the same time, though, Mirac could still perceive the real world: the whisper of the wild forest, the rustling of leaves that seemed to be alive with intent, the sharp sense of danger that made him nervously watch every shadow, imagining it belonged to Vincent.

    It was as if Mirac¡¯s brain were tuned to two different visual frequencies, but perfectly distinguishable.

    ¡®What the hell is this?!¡¯ he wondered, bewildered, as a shiver ran down his spine.

    Mirac¡¯s curiosity, mixed with anxiety, pushed him to focus on the alphanumeric sequence dancing among the stars.

    The letters and numbers formed an equation:

    [ 150 / 50 = ? ]

    Mirac was stunned. His eyes widened in astonishment.

    ¡®A division? W-Why?!¡¯ he wondered, incredulously. ¡®Are you trying to make fun of me, Math?!¡¯

    Before his blood could start boiling with rage again, a flash of rationality halted his impulsive emotions and forced Mirac to think more calmly about the situation:

    ¡®No, wait a minute! Maybe to use ¡°Multiplicative Touch,¡± I first need to solve this calculation?¡¯

    There was no time to hesitate or reflect further.

    Overlooking his doubts, Mirac thought for a couple of seconds about the result of the division.

    ¡®Well, I¡¯d say this is pretty simple!¡¯

    After easily solving the calculation in his head, all that was left was to input the answer, though he wasn¡¯t exactly sure how.

    Instinctively, almost without thinking, Mirac simply tried to whisper it:

    ¡°Three...¡±

    The question mark began to dissolve, slowly transforming into a small cloud of white mist. In the middle of the transformation, the mist thickened, and from it emerged the number 3, which took its final place in the equation.

    [ 150 / 50 = 3 ]

    Little by little, the entire sequence vanished, dissolving like smoke carried away by an invisible breeze. With it, the starry sky also disappeared, retreating into nothingness.

    Mirac blinked, confused, trying to piece together what had just happened.

    ¡®Is that it?! Seriously?!¡¯

    The urge to curse and insult Math filled his head with furious thoughts.

    But before he could voice his frustration, Mirac suddenly felt a light weight on his right hand. It wasn''t much weight, which is why he hadn¡¯t noticed it right away.

    Slowly, with his eyes growing heavier from exhaustion, Mirac lowered his gaze to his hand.

    There, on his right palm, there was no longer just a strip of magical gauze: instead, there were now 10 of them!

    ¡®I-I can''t believe it...!¡¯ he thought, his heart suddenly beginning to race.

    His Multiplication Magic had worked!

    At this point, Mirac immediately got to work.

    With trembling hands, he grabbed the newly multiplied strips of gauze and began wrapping the stump with as much care as he could.

    He gritted his teeth as the contact with the air made the exposed flesh burn as if it had been touched by live fire.

    But fortunately, relief came almost immediately.

    As soon as the gauze touched the wound, the pain gradually eased, as if a wave of calming anesthesia had spread along his arm.

    As he continued bandaging himself, Mirac couldn¡¯t help but reflect on what he had just experienced: "Multiplicative Touch".

    That day had been the first time Mirac had used his powers.

    So, he had been completely unprepared when that calculation appeared in front of him.

    However, as soon as Mirac gave the answer, the gauze strip had actually multiplied by the number he requested.

    It seemed, therefore, that solving the calculation had been a necessary condition to activate his ¡°Multiplicative Touch.¡± Without that answer¡ªor with an incorrect one¡ªthe ability probably wouldn''t have had any effect on the magical gauze.

    Reflecting on this discovery, Mirac realized that perhaps the other three abilities he possessed also required a similar condition: solving a mathematical calculation to use them!

    To his great relief, Mirac had only needed to solve a fairly simple calculation to activate the ¡°Multiplicative Touch¡± and multiply the magical gauze.

    However, an unsettling thought crossed his mind: what if that had just been a lucky exception? Perhaps the difficulty of the calculations varied depending on the object or the situation.

    But for now, Mirac couldn¡¯t know that.

    In the end, he reached the sad conclusion that he knew too little about his powers to use them to their full potential and get out of this situation.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    ¡®Tsk! If only I had trained in advance...¡¯ he thought, feeling frustration scratch at his throat.

    He was almost regretting being so stubborn about never wanting to use his powers and familiarize himself with them all these months.

    ¡®But it doesn''t matter!¡¯ he thought, more determined than ever. ¡®I''ll manage even without them! Or at least, I hope so...¡¯

    After completing the "dressing" and tying the final knot, certain it wouldn¡¯t come undone even with spasmodic movements, the pain almost entirely vanished, and the blood stopped flowing for good.

    ¡®I made it!¡¯ thought Mirac, as his vision cleared and the heat that had been suffocating him¡ªlikely signaling his imminent death¡ªbegan to subside.

    But, despite having narrowly escaped death by hemorrhage, one danger still remained nearby: the assassin!

    ¡°You know, young Prince, I absolutely love playing hide and seek!¡± exclaimed Vincent, suddenly breaking the silence of the forest. His voice was charged with a macabre enthusiasm. ¡°Seeing people flee, terrified, desperately searching for a refuge, and then witnessing the realization in their faces that it was all for nothing... Yes, for me, that¡¯s an irreplaceable feeling! But...¡±

    Immediately afterward, the pleasure in his voice faded, replaced by a visceral bitterness that seemed to saturate every word that followed.

    ¡°Nevertheless, I have no intention of dragging this story out any longer!¡± he growled fiercely.

    Suddenly, a sharp sound split the air, a clean and cutting blow like distant thunder: probably, Mirac speculated, it was the sound of Vincent¡¯s sword-whip striking forcefully against a nearby tree.

    The blow was followed by the creaking of wood tearing as the tree fell. The impact with the ground finally echoed through the environment with a chilling force.

    Mirac flinched, aware of the lethal and barbaric power of the weapon and how close the assassin was now.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been stuck here for an entire year, trapped within these castle walls, surrounded by a myriad of idiots like you! This was supposed to be a quick mission, no more than five months! And instead, because of HER, I had to delay my plans every time!¡±

    Mirac listened carefully, trying not to let the mounting pressure distract him.

    But at that moment, he had absolutely no time to reflect on who Vincent was talking about.

    All he knew was that he had to come up with a way to save himself!

    So, with his mind once again clear, Mirac began to consider his current circumstances:

    ¡®Professor Shirkenn¡ªif I can still call him that¡ªdoesn¡¯t know that I¡¯ve bandaged my wound and stopped the bleeding. So he¡¯s probably thinking that I¡¯m too tired to keep running and am forced to stay hidden somewhere. If that¡¯s the case, I absolutely need to use this to my advantage!¡¯

    The young Prince, with his face tense from as much tension as concentration, paused for a moment before continuing:

    ¡®But I can¡¯t act hastily! Earlier, as he spoke, his voice seemed to be getting closer. So, I¡¯d say that there is no doubt about it: Professor Shirkenn is heading in my direction! Or rather, he¡¯s probably following the blood trail I left in the forest while running away...¡¯

    As Mirac reflected on the situation, Vincent suddenly stopped.

    An oppressive silence fell for a few seconds, making the air as heavy as lead.

    Then, with the same speed with which it had started, the silence was broken.

    ¡°Now, though,¡± the assassin said suddenly, ¡°I no longer need to worry about her threats! I can finally ignore her words and ACT! Just like you advised me, young Prince...¡±

    Vincent''s voice vibrated through the air, followed by a warm laugh, alarming Mirac that the killer was now nearby.

    ''Shit!'' cursed the young Prince, feeling his heart race wildly.

    Slowly¡ªso as not to make a sound¡ªMirac crouched down even further, trying to minimize his profile.

    ¡®Professor Shirkenn is very close, I can feel it! I should run, but there''s a risk he might see me. Analyzing the strike he made earlier, I''d say he''s incredibly fast, faster than his physical condition would suggest! If he sees me running, I don''t think I could outrun him! And the chances of him seeing or hearing me as I escape are very high!¡¯

    Mirac forced himself to calm down, closing his eyes to slow his breathing and broaden his reflection to every possibility.

    ¡®But let¡¯s assume he doesn¡¯t see me at first. As we get closer to the path leading out of the forest, the trees thin out more and more, and the blind spots where I could hide drastically decrease. At that point, it would be impossible for him not to spot me! But even if I miraculously manage to get out of the forest unscathed and he doesn''t see me, I have a strong feeling he¡¯d immediately notice my absence. In no time, he''d catch up to me and finish me off before I can reach the castle to warn the guards!¡¯

    The options seemed to crumble under the weight of reality, as the feeling of being a rabbit in a cage overwhelmed him.

    ¡®Damn it! I can''t just run away! No, I''ve understood it now: it''s too risky! But if I stay here, the result will be the same: Professor Shirkenn will find me and kill me! I could try changing hiding spots, moving around until nightfall. But as much as the dark might become an advantage for him in finding me, it would be the same for me trying to escape. Damn it! What can I do then?!¡¯

    Mirac clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, while his breathing became irregular.

    ¡®If I want to survive, there seems to be only one solution: face him! But how?! Without any weapons, I don¡¯t stand a chance of winning!¡¯

    After that bitter reality hit him like a boulder, Mirac slowly rose to his feet, every movement measured, careful not to make a sound. His eyes, ever vigilant, slid past the dense bush, cautiously scanning Vincent''s position.

    And just as he feared, the traitor was heading straight towards him!

    His steps were heavy, his clothes still obviously stained with blood, and in his hand, he gripped his strange sword-tie.

    ¡®Damn it!¡¯ Mirac muttered to himself, a panic tightening in his chest. He tried to calm the frantic beating of his heart, but his thoughts kept crowding his mind. ¡®What can I do? Should I use my powers? But... how could they really help me?!¡¯

    His options seemed to vanish into nothing, like shadows in the light of dawn.

    Mirac''s panicked mind desperately searched for an escape route. For a moment, he even considered begging Vincent for mercy.

    Upon reflecting, Mirac thought that perhaps he could persuade the aggressor with a large sum of money: a reward that the Strongold royal family could certainly offer the assassin in exchange for sparing the young Prince.

    But just as this idea seemed to become the only desperate solution to the problem, a soft and sudden sound paralyzed Mirac for an instant.

    It was a dry noise, almost imperceptible: the rustling of leaves... crushed under a stealthy step behind him!

    ¡®Shit!!!¡¯ Mirac thought.

    The tension exploded in every fiber of his body. His heart skipped a beat.

    Breathless, but with no other choice, Mirac quickly turned around, ready to face whatever danger was approaching.

    Just moments before, Mirac had briefly glanced at Vincent, observing him as he moved slowly through the trees.

    In that short span of time, therefore, it couldn''t have been him who sneaked up behind Mirac.

    But then, who could it be? Perhaps an accomplice of the assassin?

    With anxiety still crawling across his body, Mirac completed the small turn of his torso necessary to face behind him completely.

    But when he looked back, there was no one there.

    ¡®Did I imagine it?¡¯

    The question echoed in his mind, just like the rapid beat of his heart in his chest.

    Then, as he tried to gather his thoughts, something caught Mirac''s gaze downwards.

    A glittering object lay at his feet, standing out vividly against the dull forest ground.

    For a moment, Mirac remained still, breathless, unable to process what he was seeing.

    ¡®What the hell...?!¡¯

    In front of him stood something long, partially embedded in the earth.

    The metallic surface reflected the golden rays of the sun with an almost supernatural gleam, while the top was adorned with intricate wires. The object pulsed with a faint energy, almost as if it contained a latent force.

    ¡®I-I can''t believe it!¡¯ he stammered, his eyes widening in disbelief. ¡®A-A sword?! B-But how did it get here?!¡¯

    Instinctively, Mirac looked around: first to the right, then to the left.

    He even looked up, but aside from the thick leaves filtering the little light of dusk, Mirac saw nothing else.

    Apart from the assassin, there was no one else around.

    ¡°Heh! You shouldn¡¯t have moved, young Prince...¡± Vincent said, his voice reminiscent of a grim butcher.

    Mirac turned his gaze back to the sword embedded in the ground.

    ¡®Damn it!¡¯

    With growing nervousness, Mirac realized that the sound of the crushed leaves had probably drawn Vincent¡¯s attention, and that the assassin had likely quickened his pace towards his hiding spot.

    So, Mirac no longer had any other choice.

    ¡®I have to face him!¡¯ he thought, reaching for the hilt.

    The fact that a sword had magically appeared at his feet, just when he needed it, was extremely suspicious.

    But once again, the time to reflect on how it happened was a luxury Mirac couldn¡¯t afford in that moment.

    When his fingers closed around the hilt, the grip felt surprisingly familiar, as if the weapon had been made specifically for him.

    With a decisive, slow motion, Mirac pulled the blade from the ground, feeling the metal slide effortlessly.

    ¡®Seems pretty sharp... Heh, better this way!¡¯

    A grin twisted his lips, a mixture of excited determination and defiance.

    ¡®I''ll think later about who lent it to me... For now, let''s just focus on kicking that bastard''s ass!¡¯

 CHAPTER 30: Not Once, But Twice!

    { A FEW SECONDS EARLIER... }

    Vincent advanced slowly through the wild clearing, his ruthless gaze fixed on the path ahead.

    The tie, transformed into a deadly weapon, hung rigid like steel, yet softly wrapped around his right palm.

    A shadow of madness glinted in his eyes as he obsessively followed the bloodstains scattered on the trees and the ground. These red marks were the only trace left of the young Prince in flight.

    But the tracks suddenly stopped, dissolving into a mocking nothingness.

    Without a trail to follow, Vincent halted, his face twisted into a snarl of anger.

    ¡®Damn it! Where is he hiding?¡¯ he thought, gritting his teeth.

    Frustration consumed him, but he did not allow himself to linger too long. He took a deep breath and resumed walking, following the instinct that guided him along the same path he was already on.

    ¡®I still can¡¯t believe he escaped my first attack, especially considering he was turned away!¡¯ Vincent reflected, thinking back to the moment when the young Prince had eluded the fatal blow. ¡®But it doesn¡¯t matter! Lucky or not, he has no escape now!¡¯

    Suddenly, a noise shattered the silence of the forest: the soft crackling of leaves being stepped on.

    Vincent¡¯s eyes darted to the source of the sound, and his neck turned with the speed of a predator.

    Before him, a tall, dense bush swayed slightly next to a gnarled tree trunk.

    A mocking grin spread across Vincent¡¯s face.

    "Heh! You shouldn''t have moved, young Prince..."

    With measured, inexorable steps, Vincent approached the bush.

    However, the rhythm of his walk made it clear that he wasn¡¯t in a hurry.

    Or rather, he was, but the true pleasure of the hunt¡ªsomething he would never let slip away for any reason in the world¡ªlay in the very moment before the assured victory.

    His elegant black shoes creaked on the damp ground, a sound that seemed amplified in the oppressive silence of the forest.

    Each step was a prelude to the end.

    Arriving before the bush, Vincent stopped. His eyes scanned the scene with a mixture of pleasure and morbid curiosity: the young Prince lay on the ground, face down, his body half-hidden by a blanket of leaves. His chest neither rose nor fell.

    The stillness was complete, almost spine-chilling.

    ¡°Is he dead?¡± Vincent murmured, tilting his head, as if evaluating a poorly done work of art. ¡°No, perhaps he¡¯s just unconscious. Well, it doesn¡¯t matter. The Boss wants his head, and he¡¯ll get it anyway.¡±

    With an almost theatrical gesture, Vincent lifted his sword-tie. The weapon shimmered under the dim light filtering through the foliage, the tip pointed towards the low clouds that seemed to be dozing above the forest.

    The tension in the air was palpable, a suspended moment before the final strike.

    A cruel smile spread across Vincent¡¯s thin lips.

    ¡°Goodbye, young Prince!¡±

    And with a lightning-fast movement, Vincent lowered his arm, determined to sever both the bush and the lifeless body of his prey in one swift blow.

    The air split, heavy with a foreboding sense of blood and death.

    ¡®Now!¡¯ Mirac ordered himself, his mind working faster than the beat of his heart.

    At the last moment, before Vincent''s weapon could crash into him, Mirac lunged into a roll to the right. His body snapped with determination, rising to his feet before Vincent could react.

    Vincent''s tie-sword embedded itself into the ground with a dull thud, a blow that echoed like a hammer striking stone.

    Vincent found himself off balance, caught off guard by the unexpected maneuver.

    "What the hell-!" he exclaimed, his face a mix of surprise and anger.

    But he didn¡¯t even have time to finish the sentence before Mirac immediately went on the counterattack!

    With lightning speed, Mirac¡¯s right hand shot toward the pile of leaves scattered on the ground. Finally, as his fingers closed around the hilt, he drew his sword¡ªthe same one that had appeared suddenly behind him earlier, almost as if in response to his desperate need, when he was still hidden behind the bush.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡®A sword?!¡¯ Vincent¡¯s face perfectly expressed his confusion. ¡®Did he hide it under the leaves? But where did he find it?!¡¯

    However, Vincent didn¡¯t have time to find answers. He was too busy trying to free his sword-tie, which had gotten stuck in the ground after his last strike.

    And that moment¡ªthat brief moment in which Vincent struggled to recover his weapon¡ªwas a precious opportunity that Mirac couldn¡¯t afford to miss!

    The young Prince didn¡¯t waste any time: he gripped the sword¡¯s hilt tightly, channeling all his determination to compensate for the lack of his left hand. It was the first time he had been forced to fight with only one arm, but he couldn¡¯t allow uncertainty to take over.

    With a muffled shout, Mirac lunged forward, delivering a quick and precise slash at Vincent, aiming for his stomach.

    Vincent, however, with a feline leap backward, managed to narrowly dodge the attack. Just at that moment, with a burst of strength, he finally freed his sword-tie from the ground, gripping it firmly with both hands.

    However, that burst of strength caused him to momentarily lose his balance, forcing him to take a few steps back to regain his footing.

    Mirac, at this point, did not stop!

    He began relentlessly attacking the enemy before him, with a ferocity that seemed unusual for someone his age.

    His blade sliced through the air multiple times, in an incessant series of strikes that tested Vincent''s agility.

    The latter, still slightly off balance, staggered backward, trying to keep a safe distance from the young Prince.

    Every strike from Mirac was fast, precise, imbued with the experience gained over the past year, a tribute to the hard training and his will to survive.

    However, despite Mirac¡¯s efforts, none of his blows landed.

    He was running out of breath, and the weight of fatigue grew with each missed strike.

    ¡®Shit!¡¯ Mirac cursed to himself, sweating coldly in a desperate attempt to land any kind of blow on his opponent.

    And then, suddenly, the inevitable happened.

    Vincent regained his balance, planting both feet firmly on the ground. The tie-sword was now firmly in his hands, an extension of his murderous instinct.

    With an evil grin, Vincent began parrying Mirac''s blows with a strength that immediately turned the tide of the battle.

    "You bastard!" Vincent roared, as he attacked with increasing ferocity.

    Mirac was forced to retreat, his strikes growing weaker. His body, still young and strained by the battle, was beginning to give way.

    Although Mirac had stopped the bleeding from his amputated arm, he couldn''t say the same for the internal injuries he had likely sustained.

    Step by step, blow by blow, Vincent forced Mirac to retreat until he was back at the bush that he had used as a hiding spot.

    The assassin showed no signs of slowing down, each blow vibrating with relentless ferocity.

    "I don¡¯t know where you got that sword," Vincent snarled, "but it''s completely useless! It¡¯s over now, young Prince!"

    The words struck Mirac almost more harshly than the blade that constantly threatened to pierce him.

    With a swift and precise movement, Vincent disarmed the boy, making him lose his grip on the sword. The weapon flew away, landing far out of Mirac''s reach.

    ¡®Shit!¡¯ thought the young Prince, falling backward.

    His body was now exhausted, every muscle taut with pain and fatigue. He felt his knees give way and his back hit the hard ground, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths.

    Vincent didn¡¯t waste any time. With a fierce lunge, he closed the distance to Mirac, raising his sword-tie. His eyes gleamed with lethal light, and the cruel smile on his lips seemed carved from ice.

    "DIE!!!" Vincent roared, as he delivered the final blow, a sweeping cut designed to decapitate the young Prince in a single strike.

    The air thickened with tension. The world seemed to suspend itself in an eternal moment.

    ¡®Good¡­¡¯ Mirac thought, with a spark of determination flashing across his eyes in that split second. ¡®It¡¯s time to move to the next phase!¡¯

    With almost superhuman speed, he knelt. Not just to lower himself and dodge Vincent¡¯s attack, but also to stretch out his right hand, aiming to grab another object he had hidden beneath the leaves: another sword!

    Earlier, in the few but precious seconds Vincent had taken to approach the bush, Mirac had devised a bold and intricate plan, a trap designed to surprise his enemy not once, but twice!

    Indeed, using his ¡°Multiplicative Touch¡± ability, Mirac had decided to duplicate the sword that had magically appeared behind him.

    Although the calculation required had been slightly more difficult than the one to multiply the magical gauze, Mirac had managed to solve the operation just in time.

    Thus, after murmuring the correct answer, the sword had begun to vibrate faintly in the palm of Mirac¡¯s hand, until it split in two like a cell undergoing mitosis.

    The charm of the splitting process had left Mirac momentarily stunned by his own powers, but he quickly regained his composure.

    After generating the second sword, Mirac had hidden it quickly under a blanket of leaves, along with the first one and his body lying on the ground.

    His plan had been well calculated: on one hand, Mirac had wanted to simulate a state of total inertia to lower Vincent''s guard; on the other, he needed to conceal his weapons, thus preparing the double lethal counterattack.

    And now, after the first sword had flown away, Mirac grabbed the second one.

    But he had no more spare weapons, so this was his true and final chance!

    Making a mistake would mean certain death!

    And Mirac definitely did not want to die!

    "This is for Mr. Foss!!!" the young Prince shouted, with a fierce intensity that revealed his thirst for vengeance.

    With a lightning-fast jump to the left, Mirac positioned himself strategically.

    He changed his grip on the sword, spinning it skillfully as he prepared to strike.

    With a half turn, he launched a direct attack, aiming to pierce Vincent''s head. The blade cut through the air with incredible speed, a silver flash that seemed destined to end the fight.

    For a moment, Mirac felt a smile spread across his face, a spark of triumph.

    ¡®It''s done!¡¯ he thought, already savoring the victory.

    But reality proved to be cruel and unforgiving.

    The instant the tip of the sword was about to strike its target, Vincent raised his left arm with chilling precision, protecting the right side of his head.

    The blade, which should have pierced Vincent¡¯s skull, instead impaled the palm of his left hand.

    Blood splattered, but Vincent showed no sign of weakness. On the contrary, a vicious grin twisted his face, as if the pain were nothing more than an annoying inconvenience.

    ¡®SHIT!¡¯ Mirac was frozen, unable to believe it.

    For an eternal moment, he watched the enemy, who still had his sword impaled in his hand.

    Mirac¡¯s plan had failed.

    But before the latter could release his grip on the sword and attempt another desperate escape, Vincent lunged again with the speed of a predator.

    His foot moved in a powerful arc, hitting Mirac straight in the stomach and making him spit blood.

    The impact of the kick was devastating: an explosion of force that sent Mirac flying backward.

    In the blink of an eye, his body slammed violently against the rough trunk of a tree, the sound of the crash echoing like thunder in a storm.

    And after that, the battle was now over.

 CHAPTER 31: Shout of Anger and Shout of Pain

    After the impact with the tree, Mirac fell to the ground, his body shaking with uncontrollable tremors, his breath ripped from his lungs. Every fiber of his body screamed in pain, a pain that seemed endless.

    "D-Damn it!" Mirac stammered, his thoughts clouded by torment and frustration. "I-I was so close!"

    Every breath he took was a titanic effort. Yet, against all logic, his heart continued to beat, slow and distant, like a drum in the distance.

    It was truly a miracle that he was still alive!

    With slow, uncertain movements, Mirac managed to lift himself slightly, leaning his back against the rough trunk of the tree. The bark scratched his battered skin, but Mirac no longer felt anything except the pain that flooded his body.

    He closed his eyes for a moment, seeking in vain refuge from the pain, as the beating of his heart grew weaker, more distant.

    Meanwhile, just as life seemed to slip away from him, warmth returned to radiate through his body. It wasn''t just any warmth: it was intense, burning, like a flame that burned from within, awakening every fiber of his being. A sensation that blurred the line between relief and torment.

    When Mirac opened his eyes again, the world seemed suspended in an unreal moment of calm.

    A little further ahead of him stood Vincent. His imposing figure stood out amid the play of shadows and light, illuminated by the weak rays of the sunset filtering through the leaves.

    "Tsk! Damn it!" Vincent scoffed with disdain, pulling the bloodstained blade of Mirac''s second sword from his hand.

    The blood slowly dripped down his fingers, but the assassin seemed unaware or uncaring.

    After throwing away Mirac''s second weapon, Vincent began to approach his prey, with slow and measured steps.

    Every movement was a declaration of his superiority, a reminder that the battle was already decided.

    Finally, Vincent stopped in front of Mirac, looking down at him with an expression filled with fury and contempt.

    "You, little bastard!" he exclaimed, his voice laced with venom. "How did you get those two swords?"

    As he asked the question, Vincent tilted his head slightly, his cold eyes analyzing every detail of the injured boy.

    Only then did he notice the stump of Mirac''s left arm, wrapped in blood-soaked bandages.

    "And what''s that?" Vincent snarled again, his voice thick with disbelief. "Did you treat yourself? Where the hell did you get all that ''magic gauze'' from? The old decrepit man from before had barely given you a piece for a finger! Did you have more hidden? Come on, answer me!"

    The questions came one after another like lashings, but Mirac didn''t answer. Not a word left his lips.

    He breathed with difficulty, each breath a knife piercing his lungs. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, a grim reminder of his terrible condition.

    Yet, Mirac didn''t avert his gaze.

    His small, piercing eyes fixed on Vincent with unrelenting ferocity.

    There was no fear in that gaze: only pure, burning hatred!

    Despite his body being shattered, his spirit still burned, a flame that refused to be extinguished.

    "Go to hell, you bastard!" Mirac exploded, his words soaked with anger and pain.

    Struggling to speak, a hot gush of blood filled his mouth, staining his chin. But he didn''t even bother to wipe it away¡ªnot that he had the strength to do so.

    Vincent watched the scene with a perverse expression, his lips curling into a contemptuous smile.

    "Huh!" he scoffed sarcastically. "You shouldn''t be using swear words at your tender age, young Prince..."

    No matter how much Mirac tried to appear strong in front of his enemy, every fiber of his being screamed the ruthless truth:

    There was no escape!

    There was no salvation!

    He had lost.

    And soon, he would die... Again!

    The last chance to turn his fate around had dissolved with his previous plan.

    And now, there was nothing left but to face the inevitable.

    Mirac knew this all too well, and the awareness burned more than the wounds tormenting him.

    Meanwhile, Vincent continued to study him in silence, like a predator evaluating its prey before the final strike. His eyes swept over Mirac''s face, hoping to catch a glimpse of fear in his expression, a crack that would add a final touch to his sadistic pleasure.

    But those green eyes, fixed and stubborn, betrayed nothing.

    "It doesn''t matter if you don''t want to answer me," Vincent said, suddenly breaking the silence with a feigned kindness in his voice. "But¡­ are you sure you don''t want to cry? Don''t you want to despair? Beg me to spare you? Who knows... maybe, if you kneel and pray, I might reconsider¡­"

    The words slithered through the air like sharp blades, but Mirac didn''t give in.

    "Heh, b-beg you?" the boy whispered in a broken voice, strained by exhaustion and pain. "I actually thought about it earlier¡­"

    For a moment, Mirac stared at his right hand, the only one he had left.

    With a strangled breath, his eyes ignited with a wild light.

    "But you know what?!"

    Then, with a movement that seemed impossible for such a broken body, his hand grabbed Vincent''s pants, clutching with all the strength he had left. His knuckles turned white from the effort.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    "I''ve changed my mind!"

    Mirac''s expression was a mask of fury, mixed with defiance, despite his obvious weakness.

    His eyes, two green abysses filled with hatred, slowly lifted until they met Vincent''s.

    "I''d rather die... than have to beg someone like you!" exclaimed Mirac, with whatever breath he had left, a flare of anger that illuminated the darkness of the moment.

    With that, in a contemptuous gesture, Mirac released his hold on the assassin''s pants.

    "Huh!" Vincent snorted, as if the gesture were little more than an annoyance.

    A twisted smile distorted his face, turning it into a mask of disdain.

    "You should have chosen your last words better..." he replied, his tone venomous, sarcasm laced with a cruel coldness.

    Without saying another word, Vincent raised his right hand, gripping the tie tightly. Every muscle in his body was tense, like a rope ready to snap.

    The silence that fell between them was absolute, an oppressive void that seemed to hold the breath of the entire world. For a moment, it seemed that even nature itself had stopped to witness the crucial moment.

    As Vincent prepared to deliver the final blow, Mirac''s mind was overwhelmed by a tide of memories, shattered images flashing too quickly to be grasped. Yet each one left a painful imprint on his heart.

    Slowly, the days when Vincent had been nothing but his teacher resurfaced. A solid, almost paternal figure, who had guided him with patience and dedication.

    Every lesson, every exchange of words, every awkward moment that had ultimately led to a shared laugh, had once carried the pure, reassuring taste of friendship, of a bond that Mirac had believed unbreakable.

    But now those memories crumbled, unable to withstand the weight of betrayal. A betrayal so deep and unexpected that it turned the warmth of the past into unbearable cold.

    Every fragment of memory seemed to fade into the cruel reality of that moment, replaced by the cutting chill of imminent death.

    Yet, amid the whirlpool of memories, one question forcefully emerged in Mirac''s mind, painful in its clarity: why, now that he was about to die, wasn''t he reliving the precious moments spent with his family?

    After all, in his previous death, his last thoughts had been entirely focused on his parents.

    The question tormented him, bouncing in his mind: had something changed in him?

    Had the pain of betrayal smothered those memories?

    Or perhaps the devastating hatred he now felt for Vincent had overshadowed even the images of those he had loved most in this life?

    But no matter how hard he tried, in those few seconds that felt eternal, Mirac couldn''t find the answer.

    ''Oh, right! I could have asked him why he''s doing all of this...'' Mirac thought, the fleeting thought crossing his mind in that brief moment of waiting. ''Discover his motivations, who presumably hired him to kill me... But it doesn''t matter! Even if I did, it wouldn''t change anything now.''

    A bitter smile formed on his lips.

    ''Heh, but in the end, it really has been a beautiful life... I''d definitely say better than the other one...'' Mirac thought, trying to comfort himself. ''And who knows? Maybe I''ll be lucky enough to reincarnate again...''

    And as his mind was enveloped by that soft, fleeting hope, his eyes caught no hint of hesitation in Vincent.

    His gaze was cold, devoid of empathy: it was like a judge about to pass an irrevocable sentence.

    Mirac stared at him helplessly, his heart pounding like a mad drum, his breath short and broken. Terror and hatred mixed in his eyes, but his body, consumed by pain, was now incapable of reacting.

    The only thing he could do now was stare at his executioner.

    "Goodbye, young Prince!" Vincent declared, his voice cold and triumphant.

    In an instant, the sword-tie soared through the air, moving with such speed that Mirac could barely perceive its movement.

    The sword-tie flew straight towards the young Prince''s forehead, ready to split him in two, just as it had done to Edward.

    Time seemed to slow once again.

    The sword-tie was now only millimeters from Mirac''s skin.

    The young Prince closed his eyes, his heart gripped in a silent farewell to life.

    He was ready for the end.

    But then, suddenly, a wild scream pierced the silence.

    "AAAAUGH!!! DAMN IT!!! What the hell was that?!"

    Mirac opened his eyes, stunned and confused.

    The blow that should have ended his life had been stopped by something incomprehensible.

    In front of him, Vincent, who a moment ago had been an unrelenting and confident figure, was now stumbling backward, his face filled with pure shock.

    His right hand¡ªthe armed one¡ªhad instinctively pulled back. With his other hand, Vincent covered his left eye, from which blood was suddenly pouring out, staining the ground with crimson patches.

    ''W-What happened?!'' Mirac wondered, still unable to comprehend what had stopped the attack.

    Vincent, with a stifled groan, but also with surgical slowness, slipped his thumb and index finger into the hole that now marred the lens of his glasses. His hand, meticulous in its movements but slightly trembling from the pain that tormented him, extracted a small stone embedded in his left eye.

    The left lens seemed to have been shattered from the impact of that tiny stone.

    This, in turn, had released tiny shards of glass, scattering across his face and around him, sparkling in the warm light of the sunset like broken stars.

    ''That stone... How the hell did it get into his eye?'' Mirac wondered, a shiver of confusion running down his spine.

    Although he had no idea how it had happened, he felt a sense of relief. It didn''t take a genius to understand that the tiny stone had saved his life by halting Vincent''s fatal strike.

    ''First the sword, and now this stone...'' thought Mirac. ''Someone is secretly trying to help me? But who? Who could be behind all of this?!''

    But just as he was trying to make sense of the situation, Mirac''s eyes widened in surprise.

    "What the-?!"

    His mouth dropped open in utter disbelief as he couldn''t believe what he was seeing: Vincent''s appearance was changing before his eyes, like a mirage disintegrating!

    ''And now¡­ who the hell is he?!'' Mirac wondered, his mind racing as he tried to grasp the situation.

    The man in front of him was no longer the same. He was no longer "Professor Shirkenn"!

    The face marked by time and experience seemed to dissolve, giving way to a new identity.

    The gray hair disappeared, replaced by a black mane framing a completely different face. The body, once frail, had become more robust and vigorous, reflecting an age that was clearly younger than his previous physical appearances.

    "Dammit!!!" Vincent¡ªor whoever he was¡ªcontinued to curse, while the pain made him tremble with rage.

    With his left eye and half of his face still covered by his hand, his angry gaze shifted past Mirac, aiming toward the trees behind him.

    It seemed he was staring at someone, a figure hidden in the shadows.

    "Y-You..." Vincent stammered, the shock vibrating clearly in his voice.

    Behind Mirac, the sound of footsteps broke the silent air.

    Dry leaves crackled under slow, calculated, almost serene steps, in stark contrast to the chaos of the moment.

    Mirac, too exhausted even to wonder who it was, remained still, his head spinning as he sensed the presence drawing closer.

    ''Is someone coming? Maybe it''s the same person who gave me the sword and just saved me?''

    Accompanying that uncertain thought, a shiver ran down Mirac''s spine. But it wasn''t so much because of the biting cold of the evening.

    It was the threatening presence of the approaching third individual that made him tremble, and Vincent seemed to share the same unease.

    Whoever they were, Mirac thought, they must have been skilled and strong enough to throw the stone directly into Vincent''s eye, without him having time to react. Considering how long it was taking to get closer, that person must have also had incredible aim and an extraordinary strength for the throw.

    Suddenly, the footsteps stopped.

    Mirac had no doubt that the person who, according to his assumptions, had saved his life was now to his right.

    He tried to move his head to finally see who his supposed savior was, but his neck, sore from fatigue and injuries, prevented him from moving for a moment.

    When he finally managed to make the movement to turn, he found himself staring at a familiar figure, their silhouette outlined against the twilight light.

    "I hope you''re doing well, young Prince. Please forgive me for making you wait so long..."

    Her voice was filled with the usual calmness and kindness.

    Mirac blinked a couple of times to focus his vision.

    Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze, starting from the person''s feet and slowly moving up along their body, until he reached and immediately recognized the face.

    For a moment, Mirac was speechless, unable to say or think anything.

    To his right, standing and holding the same sword he had been holding just moments before, that person was staring intently at Vincent.

    ''W-What...?!'' Mirac finally snapped out of the shock, his eyes wide.

    To make sure it wasn''t an hallucination, or perhaps simply because he was relieved to see her there by his side, Mirac weakly stammered her name:

    "C-Carmen?!"

 CHAPTER 32: Fury VS Calmness

    Carmen¡¯s eyes were fixed on Vincent. Her gaze, cold and impenetrable, burned with a rage that seemed to slither beneath the surface, contained but lethal. Her presence dominated the air, wrapping it in an aura of absolute control, as if everything were part of a design already traced in her mind.

    With the arrival of the red-haired servant, the atmosphere changed. The very air seemed to grow denser, charged with a palpable tension, almost suffocating.

    Vincent, panting, still had one hand on his injured eye, trying in vain to hide even half of his face. His gaze was fixed on her, incredulous, as if he were facing an impossible apparition.

    ¡°Y-You¡­¡± his lips trembled, the words barely escaping, muddled with confusion. ¡°But how¡­?¡±

    Carmen did not answer immediately. Her gaze moved slowly over to Mirac, assessing his state, then quickly returned to Vincent.

    When she spoke, her voice was sharp as a blade:

    "I had already warned you, Klark... didn''t I?"

    The silence that followed was so heavy it felt like the prelude to an explosion.

    Even Mirac, despite the searing pain that tormented him, was frozen, his eyes wide open, unable to absorb or process what was happening in front of him.

    ¡®Klark? Is that his real name?¡¯ he wondered, as confusion seeped into his mind like a haunting shadow. ¡®But how does Carmen know? Was she already aware of it? For how long?! And, most importantly... how the hell did she find us?!¡¯

    Questions piled on top of each other, but Mirac, overwhelmed by fatigue, decided to look for answers later.

    In the meantime, in the blink of an eye, almost in sync with his thoughts, Carmen vanished.

    Vincent¡ªor rather, Klark¡ªbarely had time to widen his eyes in astonishment before she reappeared in front of him, like a lightning bolt cutting through the sky.

    In that brief interval, in a span of time too thin to measure, Carmen had closed the distance between them, moving without making the slightest sound.

    Thus, caught off guard, Klark had no time to react.

    With a fluid and devastating movement, Carmen drove the palm of her left hand¡ªthe one not holding the sword¡ªinto Klark¡¯s stomach.

    The force of the impact sent him flying backward with brutal violence.

    His body flew like a puppet without strings, crashing through trees along the way. Each broken trunk sent up a cloud of dust and splinters, until Klark vanished among the debris and the shattered vegetation.

    Mirac was breathless, his eyes locked on the spot where Klark had been hurled. His mouth opened in an expression of sheer astonishment, unable to comprehend what he had just witnessed.

    The speed, the strength, the precision of Carmen left him completely disoriented.

    ¡°But¡­ wha-?¡± he tried to speak, but a gush of blood rose in his throat, forcing him to silence himself with a muffled groan.

    Carmen, with lethal grace, rose from the position she had assumed to strike Klark: her torso, slightly tilted, straightened, while her bent and spread legs extended, returning to their natural posture.

    Slowly, the servant turned towards Mirac.

    When she had first arrived, giving him a quick glance, Carmen had noticed with relief the magical gauze around the young Prince¡¯s severed arm.

    However, as she turned back towards him, the intimidation she had exuded up until then faded, revealing a flicker of genuine concern.

    ¡°Young Prince, are you all right?¡± she asked, her voice firm yet laced with a touch of warmth.

    Mirac hesitated. He tried to formulate a response, but the words tangled in his mind, blocked by the confusion and emotion of the moment.

    When he finally spoke, what he said was not at all the answer to Carmen¡¯s question.

    ¡°C-Carmen... h-how did you...?¡±

    She gently interrupted him, not allowing room for a reply.

    ¡°I would love to answer you now, young Prince, but there¡¯s no time for explanations!¡± She immediately turned her gaze away from him, already focused on the spot where Klark had been thrown. ¡°I will explain everything later. But for now, please rest.¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    As soon as Carmen finished speaking, a distant sound, the crackling of broken branches, signaled Klark¡¯s return.

    He emerged from the dust, advancing furiously towards them. Veins throbbed on his forehead, and his face, contorted with rage, looked like a mask of pure malevolence.

    His walk was heavy, threatening, and each step seemed to shake the environment like a war drum.

    ¡°You fucking bitch¡­¡± Klark murmured, his teeth clenched in a fierce grimace. ¡°You never mind your own business, do you?!¡±

    The atmosphere grew unbearable, dense as an oppressive fog.

    Carmen and Klark¡¯s gazes were locked on each other, ignoring everything around them.

    They remained that way for an endless moment, silent, staring at each other with the precision of two predators about to strike.

    Then, suddenly, Carmen broke the silence first.

    ¡°Carmen Veloth¡­¡± said the red-haired woman, her voice firm, a solemn intonation in her words. Her hands tightened around the hilt of her sword, preparing for what was to come.

    Klark halted his steps, his eyes burning with rage. With an angry gesture, he grabbed what remained of his glasses and threw them away.

    ¡°Klark Minet!¡± he shouted, the name pronounced like a roar of defiance.

    Those words echoed in Mirac¡¯s mind like a call to an ancient tradition, a bloody challenge that was about to materialize before him.

    In the continent of Armony, as Leonard had taught him long ago, when two challengers spoke their full names, it meant that a deadly duel was about to begin.

    A battle destined to end only with the death of one of the combatants.

    With the white moon just appearing on the horizon and the sky fading into a deep blue, gently transitioning from the orange of the sunset, the two of them sensed a signal that escaped Mirac¡¯s normal understanding.

    It was just then that, all of a sudden, the battle between the two began.

    Klark lunged forward, furiously swinging his stiff tie, which seemed to pulse with energy under his grip. With a furious shout, he attempted to strike Carmen, aiming to overwhelm her with a single, devastating slash.

    But she, with the ethereal grace of a shadow, moved in an instant onto the branches above them. The movement was so fast and fluid that it seemed to almost vanish into the air.

    Klark looked up, his eyes burning with frustration as he watched her leap from tree to tree.

    "Tsk, damn monkey!"

    But while Klark was cursing inwardly, Carmen acted with the speed of lightning.

    Without hesitation, the red-haired woman grabbed a sturdy branch from a nearby tree and, with a decisive motion, hurled it at her opponent with surprising accuracy.

    The piece of wood hissed through the air, but Klark reacted with lightning-fast reflexes: his tie-sword moved with precision, slicing the branch in two with a clean blow.

    But before he could even hint at a smile of satisfaction, Carmen had already disappeared from his line of sight again, quickly sliding down from the branches and reappearing behind him.

    With a powerful kick to his back, Carmen sent him flying forward.

    Klark landed heavily on his knees, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. He spat a dark clump onto the ground, quickly rising back to his feet with a sudden jerk.

    ¡°It¡¯s pointless, Klark,¡± Carmen declared firmly, looking down at him with the confidence of one who had already won. ¡°You can¡¯t beat me.¡±

    ¡°SHUT UP!¡± he roared, gripping the tie with such fury that it seemed almost alive.

    The slight tremors in his hands betrayed a growing tension as he stood back up and got into position. In his eyes burned an immense determination to kill her.

    ¡°You lied to me!¡± Klark growled. ¡°How dare you? Because of you, I¡¯ve been stuck here this whole time! And for that¡­ you¡¯ll pay dearly!¡±

    With a primal scream, Klark charged at Carmen again, the tie stretching out like an extension of his fury.

    The forest was filled with the sound of sparks and muffled strikes.

    Carmen, cold and methodical, blocked every attack with surgical precision. Each movement was a perfect balance of defense and counterattack, her steps so light they seemed to float.

    The servant¡¯s clothes she wore didn¡¯t hinder her: on the contrary, they seemed to accentuate her lethal elegance.

    With his left eye still wounded, Klark continued to attack her with brute force, his strikes fueled more by rage than strategy. Carmen, on the other hand, moved with icy calm, her eyes like two pieces of ice staring at him without hesitation.

    In a moment of pure instinct, Carmen switched the sword from her right hand to her left and, with her free hand, landed a right hook that struck Klark¡¯s face with a dull thud. He staggered, his body bent backward, and the tie fell limp between his hands, returning to being just a simple clothing accessory.

    But Klark wasn¡¯t ready to give up.

    With a guttural scream, he straightened up, his face twisted with fury.

    ¡°DAMN YOUUUUUU!¡± he roared.

    From that moment on, with the intention of surpassing his opponent''s speed with the unpredictability of his future strikes'' trajectories, Klark abandoned the idea of using his tie as a sword.

    Handling it in its primary form, Klark began to use it like a whip, making it lash through the air with wild trajectories.

    With every blow, he tightened the tie forcefully, so that it would stiffen only at the moment of impact, in a mischievous attempt to catch Carmen off guard.

    The fabric moved in rapid sinusoids, making the air whistle. Each oscillation was almost impossible to follow with the eye, an unpredictable dance that eluded control, yet Klark¡ªalthough it was the first time he had adopted such a strategy¡ªseemed to be managing to guide it with precision.

    "What do you think, huh" he exclaimed, a twisted grin on his face as he watched Carmen step back for the first time. "You''re not acting so tough anymore, are you?! You thought you were untouchable, but look at you now!"

    Carmen stared into his eyes, her expression unchanged, but her movements became more cautious. She didn¡¯t respond to his taunts, but the shift in her posture indicated that it was no longer so simple to face Klark with his new strategy.

    "Are you still so sure you can beat me?" the man asked. "I bet you''re not! Yet, you were so confident THAT day..."

 CHAPTER 33: Whispered Threats

    { 1 YEAR AND 5 DAYS AGO... }

    It was the first of April, 1414, a typical crisp autumn morning.

    Or rather: that was the day of the arrival of the famous and much-anticipated "Professor Shirkenn"!

    The air was fresh, and the sun was already high as Klark Minet hurried along the paved road leading to the castle walls. With his hands tangled in his messy hair and an anxious look on his face, he had already decided how to present himself.

    ¡®I¡¯ll pretend to be late, so I¡¯ll appear as a professor so clumsy that I even forgot to hire a carriage! Surely, at the moment of need, this will play in my favor!¡¯

    Arriving in front of the majestic iron gate, embedded between the imposing stone walls that surrounded the castle, Klark stepped forward with a determined stride, fervently searching through his trousers¡¯ pocket for the necessary documents¡ªthe ones he had obtained a week earlier after getting rid of the real Professor Shirkenn!

    One of the three guards at the gate, dressed in a black and red uniform that stood out against the gray of the bricks, raised a hand in a reassuring gesture. His piercing gaze rested on Klark, momentarily halting his frantic movements.

    ¡°You are Professor Shirkenn, am I right?¡± the guard asked, his voice firm and authoritative.

    Klark hesitated for a moment.

    ¡°Y-Yes, exactly!¡± he finally replied, handing over the documents with a slightly trembling gesture, a detail meant to lend greater credibility to his act as an insecure professor.

    The guard accepted the papers and began to examine them one by one, staring at the photo attached to the document. With a sharp look, he compared the image with the face of the man in front of him, making sure they matched.

    After verifying the identity of "Professor Shirkenn," the guard smiled, a gesture that conveyed reassurance.

    ¡°Actually, we¡¯ve already been notified of your arrival. However, we are still required to follow some mandatory procedures. I hope you understand,¡± said the guard, returning the documents to Klark with a calm and confident tone. ¡°Please, you may proceed now.¡±

    Then, with a nod, the guard signaled to the two companions behind him to get to work opening the gate.

    The two moved in unison, expertly gripping the heavy metal crank. With deliberate movements, they began to turn it, and the majestic, imposing gate slowly began to rise.

    The sound of metal scraping against rusted hinges filled the air as the passage opened, revealing the entrance to the Strongold royal family''s territory.

    On either side of the cobbled road, well-maintained gardens stretched gracefully, while in the distance, the towering castle loomed on the horizon, filling the gaze with a silent awe.

    ¡®Poor fool!¡¯ thought Klark, suppressing a triumphant grin as he gave a small bow to the guard he was mocking.

    He turned towards the entrance, quickening his pace as the heavy gate slammed shut with a metallic clang. Then, a subtle smile curled his lips.

    ¡°I''d say that so far it''s been pretty easy...¡± he murmured to himself, the satisfaction buzzing inside him like an unspoken secret.

    Finally, still following the cobbled road, he continued his feigned exhausted run towards the castle, where a massive double wooden door stood between him and the beginning of his mission.

    ¡®Let¡¯s go!¡¯ he exclaimed to himself, his wild and intense gaze fixed on the two golden handles.

    He swallowed and, to create the right effect, opened the doors and entered the castle with a feigned clumsiness, pretending to catch his breath, despite not being tired at all.

    "Apologies for the delay-" Klark started to say, but before he could finish the sentence, he pretended to trip awkwardly on his shoelaces and fell to the ground, almost face-first.

    ¡®Good, this should work!¡¯

    In the chaos of the fall, his bag opened, and a myriad of books scattered across the floor. Klark let out a fake embarrassed laugh as he tried to get back on his feet.

    ¡°Augh! What a pain...¡± he muttered, massaging his head.

    ¡°Oh, did you hurt yourself?!¡± Carmen exclaimed, crouching down beside him and starting to pick up the books.

    ¡°Uh¡­ No no no, I¡¯m fine, thank you,¡± the man replied, smiling nervously.

    Carmen placed the books back in his bag and handed it to him, adjusting the strap carefully over the guest¡¯s shoulder.

    ¡®I assume she¡¯s the Prince¡¯s personal servant!¡¯ Klark deduced, carefully analyzing the red-haired woman. ¡®If so, maybe I can ¡°befriend¡± her. She¡¯ll definitely be useful in the future to raise fewer suspicions.¡¯

    Without saying a word or showing any emotion, Carmen began to straighten him up with the same meticulousness as someone taking care of a lost child: she bent down to tie his shoes with quick, precise movements, then moved on to the tie, gently pulling it to straighten it and give it a more dignified appearance.

    While displaying a fake expression of embarrassment and gratitude, Klark was already scheming maliciously to get rid of his target¡ªthe young Prince!

    But the flow of his thoughts was suddenly interrupted.

    ¡°What exactly do you think you''re doing here, Klark?!¡± Carmen asked suddenly, her voice low to avoid being heard by Mirac, who had remained motionless in his place.

    Klark¡¯s reaction was immediate: he stiffened for a moment, his face betraying a slight tremor of surprise before he managed to compose himself.

    His eyes widened in surprise, but she continued without giving him a chance to respond:

    ¡°It''s pointless for you to look at me with that face. I already know everything about you! The ¡®Last Storm¡¯ sent you here to kill Prince Mirac, am I right?¡±

    With that, Carmen continued adjusting his crumpled lilac shirt.

    She then carefully buttoned the last button and, leaning close to Klark¡¯s ear, whispered:

    ¡°Well, you know, I suggest you not make any reckless moves... if you really care about Lois and Petra...!¡±

    The servant¡¯s voice, sharp with calm, seemed to slip like a sharp blade into Klark¡¯s ears.

    ¡°Huh?!¡± The fake professor was as shocked as he was confused. ¡°L-Lois? Petra? You... W-What do you mean?¡±

    Without responding, Carmen finished adjusting his collar, with slow, methodical gestures, leaving him standing there, seemingly more dignified than he deserved, like a puppet in the hands of a puppeteer.

    A cold shiver ran down the ¡°Professor Shirkenn¡¯s¡± spine, creeping through his bones like an ominous premonition.

    Carmen¡¯s words echoed in his mind, turning into a warning he could not ignore.

    ¡®Who is this woman?! How did she recognize me?! The ¡°Deceptive Glasses¡± I''m wearing are supposed to alter my real appearance, copying and using the true Professor Shirkenn''s look! But then, how did she recognize me? Is it possible that someone had already informed her about me and my arrival?!¡¯ Klark wondered, maintaining a fake expression of gratitude on his face. ¡®Wait a minute! If she already knew about me but didn¡¯t warn any of the royal guards, then I assume she¡¯s an infiltrator in the royal palace as well! Maybe she¡¯s a spy? Or perhaps she¡¯s an assassin too? But even if she is... how does she know about my wife and daughter? Is she trying to threaten me? Tsz, damn it! I don¡¯t know who you are, but it won¡¯t work with me, you ugly bitch!¡¯This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    Once she made the final adjustment to the fake professor¡¯s collar, Carmen began to step back, her gaze as cold as a shard of ice reflected in her dark eyes, fixed on Klark.

    Then, with her hands clasped in front of her, she calmly turned towards Mirac, resuming her position next to the young Prince, as if nothing had happened.

    * * *

    { THE AFTERNOON OF THE SAME DAY... }

    Carmen was at the back of the castle, immersed in the quiet of the sunset. Her gaze was fixed beyond the small training field, towards the line of trees marking the entrance to the royal garden.

    The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the first blooming roses, but she seemed oblivious to it. Her eyes, cold and unwavering, were focused on a thought that no one else could fathom.

    Behind her, the large double doors creaked open slightly, breaking the silence. She didn¡¯t turn immediately, but a barely perceptible smile crept across her lips.

    She didn¡¯t need to look to know who it was.

    "Who are you?" a firm voice asked.

    It was Professor Shirkenn, or rather, the man hiding behind that name. His performance, so carefully constructed up until then, had deceived everyone at the castle.

    But in front of Carmen, the need to pretend no longer made sense.

    With an almost exasperating calmness, Carmen turned towards him. Her eyes locked onto his with an icy coldness, and Klark Minet, the man behind the disguise, felt a chill run down his spine.

    "It doesn¡¯t matter who I am," she replied, her voice as calm as the sea before a storm. "Let¡¯s talk about you instead."

    She took a few steps towards him, approaching with grace.

    "Klark Minet," Carmen continued, her voice full of disdainful confidence. "The infamous assassin wanted in much of the continent. You¡¯re accused of unimaginable crimes: ruthless murders, victims without distinction, women, children... No one is safe from your cruelty! It is clear that you are a despicable being!" She emphasized the last word with a hint of contempt, her gaze sharp as a blade. "But I¡¯m not here to talk much about that. Nor about the secret organization you serve with such zeal. Rather, I want to warn you about something else..."

    She stopped in front of him, looking him in the eyes with an intensity that seemed to dig into his soul. Then, she uttered the words that would shake the man to his core:

    "I have your family hostage, Klark."

    For a moment, silence fell between them. The words echoed in the air like the sound of a gunshot.

    Meanwhile, Klark¡¯s eyes widened in disbelief.

    "What did you say?!"

    "You heard me right," she said, her calm unsettling. "Lois and Petra are our hostages."

    Klark clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white from the tension.

    "My family... hostage?" he repeated, his voice thick with disbelief.

    Rage threatened to erupt within him, causing an uproar that would have surely ruined his cover as well as his plans, but the man miraculously managed to hold himself back.

    He took a deep breath, trying to maintain control.

    Then, with a forced attempt to appear superior, he let out a cold laugh.

    "Heh, yeah, sure! And you think I¡¯ll believe you? You think your words are enough to scare me?"

    Carmen watched him with an impassive look.

    "You may not believe me," she replied, intertwining her fingers in front of her. "But are you sure you want to take the risk?"

    Those words, spoken with a near mocking calm, hit him harder than any shouted threat.

    Klark fell into deep thought, his mind beginning to whirl in a storm of hypotheses.

    ¡®Damn!¡¯ he thought, feeling his heart pound furiously in his chest. ¡®I can¡¯t afford to underestimate this woman! She knows too much about me, my plans, and maybe even about the Last Storm! She¡¯s not just a spy, that¡¯s clear. But who is she really? Is she part of a secret organization? Yes, it¡¯s probably like that! Earlier, she said ¡°our hostages¡± referring to Lois and Petra... That ¡°our¡± means she¡¯s not acting alone. This confirms she works for an organization, and not just any one. A simple group of bandits wouldn¡¯t even know about the existence of the Last Storm.¡¯

    Klark gritted his teeth, his thoughts spinning in a chaotic whirl.

    ¡®If that¡¯s the case, then it¡¯s not entirely impossible that they really have taken Lois and Petra hostage in my absence! But why? Why them? Is it to strike at me? Or is it because I¡¯m part of the Last Storm?¡¯

    His thoughts chased each other in a spiral of unanswered questions.

    ¡®But even so, who would dare to do such a thing? Who would have the audacity to go up against the Last Storm? Don¡¯t they fear the Boss? Or maybe... they don¡¯t know who he really is? Or worse... they think they have someone strong enough to defeat him? Huh, but that¡¯s impossible! Not even an Elemental Angel would stand a chance against him!¡¯

    Klark rubbed his face, trying to regain control, but frustration kept growing.

    As he desperately tried to figure out which secret organization could be responsible for such an affront, a possibility slowly crept into his mind, relentless and inevitable.

    Klark¡¯s eyes widened in terror, and a cold shiver ran down his spine.

    ¡®Wait a minute! Lois and Petra... they¡¯re both... female! N-No... It can¡¯t be! I-It¡¯s just a coincidence... or-!¡¯

    Klark¡¯s hands started to tremble, followed by the rest of his body.

    "N-No... Don¡¯t tell me that..." he whispered, his voice cracking with fear.

    He swallowed hard, feeling his throat dry and tight like a knot¡ªand this time it wasn¡¯t part of the act, he was genuinely nervous!

    Then, in a trembling voice, Klark finished:

    "A-Are you... part of... the Demon¡¯s Womb?"

    Carmen didn''t respond. The silence that followed was even more eloquent.

    However, her lips curved into an enigmatic smile, full of meaning.

    "Damned woman!" Klark exploded, but there was more desperation than anger in his words.

    ¡®No more doubt!¡¯ he thought, terror gnawing at him. ¡®She really is one of them! In fact, now that I think about it... The color of her hair, that damned red that matches their cult''s belief... It all makes sense now!¡¯

    Klark was certain now: his family was indeed held hostage!

    ¡®Damn it! If that''s true, they''re in grave danger!¡¯

    The certainty hit him like a lightning bolt, a wave of panic and rage setting his blood on fire.

    ¡°Tell me...¡± Klark growled, taking a step forward. His eyes were burning with fury. ¡°Where have you taken them? Where are they?! Have you dared to harm my wife and my daughter?! Come on, answer me! I swear, if you hurt them in any way, I-¡±

    ¡°If you want to see your family safe and sound,¡± Carmen interrupted him, her usual icy calm, ignoring his outburst, ¡°you¡¯ll have to follow two simple rules.¡±

    Klark gritted his teeth, trying to suppress the urge to attack her.

    He took a deep breath to calm himself, but the tension was evident in his stiff jaw and clenched fists.

    ¡°Speak!¡± he barked, almost trembling with impatience. ¡°What do you want?!¡±

    Carmen, with slow and calculated movements, closed the distance between them. Her presence was cold and threatening, like the chill before a blizzard.

    ¡°Rule one: stay away from the young Prince!¡± she declared, her voice firm, leaving no room for doubt.

    Klark clicked his tongue, visibly irritated.

    ¡°Tsk! And then?¡±

    ¡°Rule two: you¡¯ll have to provide us with some information.¡±

    The woman took another step forward, almost eliminating the space between them. Now their faces were so close they could feel each other''s breath.

    Klark¡¯s pupils contracted, filled with primal rage.

    ¡°You filthy bitch!¡± he roared, his voice so full of hatred that anyone who heard it would swear they were facing a wild beast rather than a human.

    Carmen, however, remained unfazed. Her usual unwavering calm was, as always, evident in the way she hinted at a smile without fully displaying it.

    ¡°I would advise you to moderate your tone when addressing me, Klark,¡± the maid replied coldly, not moving an inch.

    The assassin clenched his fists, but in the end, he stepped back suddenly, moving like an animal in a cage.

    With a satisfied expression on her face, Carmen then slowly turned towards the garden.

    The light breeze caressed her red hair, making it dance around her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the young Prince approaching slowly.

    ¡°Now leave,¡± the maid said, her voice an unappealable command.

    However, before leaving completely, Klark stopped for a moment, his breath heavy. He turned towards her with a look full of hatred.

    ¡°Tsk! Laugh as much as you want now, but remember: this story doesn''t end here!¡± he growled. ¡°I swear you¡¯ll pay for all of this, Carmen!¡±

    Without saying another word, Klark spun on his heel and walked away, slamming the large double doors behind him.

    But as he walked briskly, his mind was already racing, planning how to turn the situation around as quickly as possible.

    ¡®I need to contact the Boss as soon as possible and inform him that there¡¯s probably a traitor spy in the Last Storm!¡¯ Klark thought, his heart pounding in his chest. ¡®Yes, it has to be that way! Otherwise, how could that woman know so much about me and our plans?¡¯

    Anger and suspicion mixed in his mind like a fierce whirlpool.

    ¡®And then,¡¯ he continued, gritting his teeth, ¡®how would she have found my house? It can¡¯t be a simple coincidence! Someone must have given her the information... Someone who knows our secrets!¡¯

    The thought of a traitor in their group made his blood boil.

    ¡®If I don¡¯t act quickly, this situation could spiral out of control, and our entire group could be soon caught off guard with a surprise attack!¡¯

    Meanwhile, Carmen remained motionless in her place, gazing at the garden before her.

    A faint smile touched her lips, one that concealed secrets and promises, as she turned to greet the young Prince, once again as if nothing had happened...

 CHAPTER 34: Blind Alley

    { ONE WEEK BEFORE ATTACKING PRINCE MIRAC¡­ }

    It was March 30, 1415.

    ¡°Professor Shirkenn¡±, as he did almost every Sunday, set out in a royal carriage towards the capital of the Kingdom of Ardorya: Magam.

    There was nothing casual about the choice of his destination or the nervousness that seeped through his gestures, even though he tried to hide it.

    He didn¡¯t venture into the heart of the bustling city, with its crowded squares and lively markets. No, as always, he headed towards the outer areas, to the edges of the walls that surrounded the capital, Magam.

    There, where the low population density left space for solitary alleys and forgotten streets, Klark nurtured his usual hope: to find someone alone, away from prying eyes, and vent his anger on them!

    He didn¡¯t care who they were, nor why they were there.

    Each time, he walked those deserted streets in vain search of any victim, someone to kill and pour out the repressed rage that consumed him from within.

    But what had reduced him to this was the nightmare of having lived under Carmen¡¯s relentless threats for almost a whole year!

    That constant oppression had forced him to suppress emotions that now boiled up to the surface, ready to explode at any moment.

    In the last eight months, committing murder had become almost his weekend pastime, so much so that the rumor of the feared ¡°Sunday Killer¡± quickly spread throughout the capital.

    Therefore, by now, after spending so much time in Magam, Klark could recall all the main features of the city by heart.

    For instance, the sloping roofs of the houses that stood out against the clear sky, a succession of dark tiles that seemed to blend with the clouds. The facades, a skillful blend of exposed bricks and half-timbered wood, bore the marks of time and the weather.

    The windows, numerous and of varying sizes, were adorned with colored glass that reflected the sunlight in iridescent fragments. Refined wooden carvings framed the glass, while flowerpots hung from the sills.

    The houses overlooked cobbled streets, made shiny by a thin layer of moisture.

    Few passersby moved slowly, a slight sense of anxiety accompanying them, yet still enjoying the peace of that Sunday morning.

    Despite the rumors circulating about the feared ¡°Sunday Killer,¡± some still walked those streets, either indifferent to the stories about the dreaded murderer or feeling secure in pairs or small groups, confident they could face any danger.

    ¡°Shit!¡± Klark muttered through gritted teeth, drawing suspicious glances from a few passersby.

    Of all people, Klark stood out significantly.

    He was walking with determined, almost furious steps, his face tense, and his hands nervously gripping the strap of his black bag.

    ¡°I¡¯ll kill her! I¡¯ll kill her! I¡¯ll kill her!¡± he repeated, like a mantra he could no longer contain.

    It was just then that, all of a sudden, Klark felt a presence watching him in silence.

    From the left side of the street, at the end of a dead-end alley shrouded in shadow, an imposing figure stood out in the dark.

    He was hooded, the face hidden under a black cloak that seemed to swallow up any trace of light. His large frame, still and threatening, exuded an intimidating aura, as if the darkness itself had taken shape around him.

    Klark stopped abruptly. His heart was pounding in his chest, but not out of fear.

    Instinctively, he grabbed the knot of his tie, ready to loosen it and pull it off his neck.

    It was his way of preparing himself, of bracing for his enemies.

    In fact, if that figure had posed a threat, Klark would simply have tightened the fabric to stiffen it and transform it into his usual sword-tie, using it to fight.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± Klark barked, his voice harsher than even he had expected. There was no fear in those words, only a rage sharp as a knife.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    The hooded figure stood still for a moment. Then, it took a step forward, allowing the dim light to faintly outline the contours of the hidden face.

    When he spoke, his deep and grave voice seemed to echo against the narrow walls of the alley:

    ¡°It¡¯s been a long time, Klark¡­¡±

    Those words, spoken with chilling calmness, were enough to freeze the man in place.

    Klark¡¯s eyes widened, and the tension in his hand loosened, releasing his grip on the tie knot.

    ¡°C-Captain Dilven?¡± Klark asked, almost breathless.

    The figure remained silent. No sign of confirmation, no gesture to dispel the mystery.

    He only made an almost imperceptible motion with his head before turning towards the interior of the alley.

    ¡°Follow me¡­¡± he commanded, with a voice that left no room for objection.

    Klark didn¡¯t hesitate for a second.

    He gritted his teeth and followed the figure into the darkness of the dead-end alley.

    As they neared the end of the short dead-end street, the heavy silence surrounding them grew even more oppressive.

    The twilight played with the shadows, making it difficult to distinguish the boundaries of the walls and the road. The air was thick, as if the alley itself were holding its breath, waiting to listen to their words.

    The man named Dilven stopped just before the rough stone wall that blocked the passage. Then, he turned towards Klark, who was following closely behind.

    Klark, without hesitation, took the initiative to speak. He lowered his voice, both to ensure no one could hear them and out of the reverence he felt when addressing the Captain.

    ¡°Captain, I¡¯ve been trying to contact you for over a year!¡± he said, with a note of frustration. ¡°Where the hell have you been?¡±

    Dilven, the imposing man who seemed to occupy all the available space in the alley, responded in a hoarse, deep voice:

    ¡°You know well, Klark. We¡¯ve been busy with preparations. The organization doesn¡¯t move without a plan. Moreover, we sent practically all our men to other secret associations like ours to spy on them and gather the information we need. But anyway, now let¡¯s talk about you!¡±

    Dilven took a step forward, intimidating Klark, who instinctively stepped back.

    ¡°I see you¡¯ve killed many people in these last few months. I mean¡­ you¡¯re the Sunday Killer, right?¡±

    Klark barely nodded his head.

    ¡°As I thought¡­¡± said Dilven, with an almost imperceptible breath. ¡°Frankly, the Boss doesn¡¯t care who your victims are, as long as they don¡¯t interfere with his plans. But clearly, you were so caught up in having fun in the city that you forgot about this detail, as well as your mission and the real reason you¡¯re here! So, let me ask you directly, Klark: why haven¡¯t you killed Prince Mirac yet?¡±

    Klark bravely took a step forward, rage burning in his eyes.

    ¡°That¡¯s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about,¡± he began, in a lower but tense tone. ¡°There¡¯s another spy in the royal palace besides me.¡±

    Dilven raised an eyebrow beneath his hood.

    ¡°And so? What¡¯s the problem?¡±

    Klark stared at him incredulously, almost hurt by the response.

    ¡°The problem,¡± he emphasized, ¡°is that this woman already knew everything! The first day I arrived at the castle, as soon as I stepped into the entrance hall, that woman immediately recognized me and showed that she knew my name, our plans, and even the name of the organization!¡±

    Dilven stiffened.

    ¡°She already knew about the Last Storm?¡± he asked slowly, as if his mind were sifting through all possibilities.

    Klark nodded firmly, his face rigid.

    ¡°Yes, and not only that: this woman is part of the Demonic Womb!¡±

    At those words, a spark of concern flashed in Dilven¡¯s gaze.

    ¡°The Demonic Womb, you said?¡± he repeated, with a note of disbelief.

    ¡°Exactly,¡± Klark confirmed. ¡°So, as soon as she told me that, I immediately thought there might be a spy in our team as well! There¡¯s no other explanation for how she knew every detail!¡±

    Dilven took a moment to reflect. His eyes narrowed, as if trying to peer into the darkness beyond the alley.

    ¡°Alright,¡± he finally said, in a grave tone. ¡°Once I return to the secret base, I¡¯ll inform the Boss about this matter immediately. However, everything you just told me still doesn¡¯t explain why you haven¡¯t completed your mission yet, Klark!¡±

    Klark snapped like a spring, moving towards Dilven with a weak but sudden motion, his eyes full of desperation.

    ¡°Yes, it does! Because this is exactly where the root of the problem lies!¡± he exclaimed, his voice cracking with frustration. ¡°That woman¡­!¡± He paused for a moment, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists to contain a wave of anger. ¡°That woman said that the Demonic Womb has taken my family hostage!¡±

    Dilven remained still, his gaze becoming cold and analytical.

    ¡°Your wife and daughter?¡±

    Klark nodded slowly, his hands barely trembling.

    ¡°Yes, Lois and Petra! At first, I thought it was just a bluff. But then, when she revealed that she was part of the Demonic Womb, and considering that her hair is as red as blood and she already knew everything about me, I realized she wasn¡¯t lying!

    ¡°The same day I arrived, she also told me,¡± Klark continued, his voice broken by repressed anger, ¡°that she would harm Lois and Petra if I didn¡¯t follow two rules: the first, don¡¯t kill Prince Mirac. I don¡¯t know why they want to protect him, but clearly, they¡¯re getting something out of it. And the second rule¡­¡±

    He paused for a moment, once again clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white.

    ¡°The second rule was to provide her, whenever she asked, with information on other secret organizations like ours. And I had to obey both rules, Captain Dilven! I didn¡¯t kill the young Prince because I absolutely couldn¡¯t risk putting my wife and daughter¡¯s lives in dange-!¡±

    ¡°KLARK!¡± Dilven¡¯s voice abruptly interrupted his subordinate, the tone so menacing it resembled a thunderclap.

    Dilven¡¯s already imposing figure seemed to grow larger, taking on an almost otherworldly presence.

    ¡°YOU¡¯RE A COMPLETE IDIOT!¡± he finally roared, his voice as fierce as the growl of a beast.

    Klark instinctively stepped back, raising his hands defensively.

    ¡°C-Captain Dilven, you can rest assured!¡± he stammered, desperately trying to appear calm. ¡°I didn¡¯t tell her anything about the Last Storm, I swear!¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not what I mean!¡± Dilven thundered, cutting off his protests with unrestrained fury. ¡°Klark, your family was never held hostage by anyone!¡±

 CHAPTER 35: Fallen Into Deception

    The words hit Klark like a whip.

    For a moment, he seemed unable to comprehend them.

    ¡°Huh? W-What do you mean?¡±

    Dilven clenched his fists, his gaze becoming even harsher.

    ¡°After you left,¡± he began, each word landing like a blow, ¡°Lois and Petra came to live at our secret base.¡±

    Klark froze, his mind in turmoil.

    ¡°W-What?¡± he stammered, struggling to believe what he was hearing. ¡°B-But that¡¯s impossible! Carmen said that-¡°

    ¡°Still haven¡¯t figured it out?!¡± Dilven growled, cutting him off sharply.

    He took slow, menacing steps forward, forcing Klark to back away until his shoulders were pressed against the wall.

    ¡°That woman manipulated you, Klark! She deceived you! She pretended to have your family hostage to protect the young Prince and get the information she wanted. And let me tell you something else: she might not even be part of the Demonic Womb! And you, like a complete fool, walked right into her trap!¡±

    Klark shook his head, desperately trying to resist the crushing reality bearing down on him.

    ¡°N-No, I can¡¯t beli-¡°

    He didn¡¯t get the chance to finish.

    With lightning speed, Dilven grabbed him by the throat with one massive hand and lifted him off the ground as if he weighed nothing.

    Without hesitation, he hurled him against the wall behind him.

    The impact was devastating. The bricks shattered, leaving deep cracks like scars in the wall.

    Klark felt sharp pain shoot through his back as a stream of saliva and blood spilled from his mouth. He coughed weakly, but there was no time to recover.

    ¡°Listen to me carefully, Klark!¡± Dilven leaned in close, his face just inches from his, his voice vibrating with a power that seemed to shake the very air. ¡°Not only have you been useless, but you let yourself be tricked this whole time! You¡¯ve endangered the entire organization with your stupidity! This mistake should cost you your life, right here and now! And believe me, I wouldn¡¯t hesitate for a second!¡±

    Klark tried to speak, but Dilven¡¯s fingers tightened around his throat, choking off any words. His hands clawed uselessly at the man¡¯s wrist, unable to break free from the grip.

    ¡°But¡­¡± Dilven continued, his tone more dangerous than ever, ¡°if I came all the way here, it wasn¡¯t to punish you, but to deliver a message from the Boss!¡±

    With slow, deliberate movement, Dilven pressed Klark¡¯s body further against the wall, making it nearly impossible for him to breathe.

    ¡°¡®Klark Minet,¡¯¡± Dilven recited, his voice tolling like a funeral bell. ¡°¡®From the moment you receive my message, you will have exactly one final week: if within seven days you fail to complete your mission, you can say goodbye to your dear family!¡¯¡±

    At those words, Dilven fixed him with an intense glare, his eyes blazing with rage and disdain.

    ¡°And this time, Klark, your family is truly at risk of dying!¡±

    Then, with a sharp motion, he released his grip.

    Klark collapsed to the ground, coughing violently as he clutched at his throat. Every breath was a blade stabbing into his lungs.

    Dilven looked down at him like an executioner who had just postponed the sentencing.

    ¡°Hey! What¡¯s going on here?¡±

    The voice rang out with authority, breaking the oppressive silence of the alley.

    Dilven turned slightly, his piercing gaze landing on the man approaching them.

    The newcomer wore a pristine black-and-red military uniform, adorned with the city¡¯s crest gleaming on his chest.

    ¡®A city guard?¡¯ Dilven thought, remaining still. ¡®Well, with the whole ¡°Sunday Killer¡± case, it¡¯s no surprise law enforcement is patrolling even desolate areas like this.¡®If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    The man advanced with firm steps, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it at the first sign of danger.

    His eyes narrowed as they settled on Dilven¡ªa figure too large, too menacing to overlook.

    ¡°Are you perhaps the Sunday Killer?¡± the guard demanded, focusing his gaze on the hooded giant, whose face remained obscured by shadows. ¡°Well, it doesn¡¯t really matter. Whoever you are, I order you to step away from that man and identify yourself.¡±

    The request sounded more like a warning, but Dilven showed no intention of complying.

    Instead, he slowly turned towards the guard, his towering figure exuding an aura of silent menace.

    With chilling composure, he raised his right arm, extending his open hand towards the guard as if to grab him from a distance.

    The guard didn¡¯t hesitate. In an instant, he drew his sword, ready to defend himself.

    But he didn¡¯t even have time to take another step or consider his next move before his sword flew out of his hand, embedding itself in the wall.

    ¡°What the-?!¡± the guard exclaimed, baffled.

    Suddenly, the guard¡¯s body was yanked towards the towering figure with superhuman force, as though an enormous invisible hand had plucked him from the ground.

    In the blink of an eye, the guard¡¯s head was trapped in Dilven¡¯s deadly grip, caught in the same hand he had raised moments before.

    The guard thrashed wildly, panic consuming him as he struggled desperately to free himself from the colossal figure¡¯s grasp. He tried to scream, but his words were muffled and incomprehensible, his mouth¡ªalong with most of his face¡ªsmothered by the hooded giant¡¯s massive hand.

    Dilven stared at him in silence for a few seconds, his face showing no emotion.

    ¡°Pathetic!¡±

    That said, with a decisive and relentless movement, Dilven tightened his grip.

    The sound of the skull cracking echoed through the alley walls like the strike of a hammer.

    The guard¡¯s head exploded in a macabre shower of bone fragments, blood, and grey matter, scattered everywhere like a grotesque mosaic.

    The lifeless body of the guard collapsed to the ground with a dull thud, leaving a spreading trail of blood on the cobbled floor.

    The remains of the skull and eyes lay scattered around, a grim reminder of the fate awaiting anyone who dared to obstruct Dilven.

    Klark, still kneeling, desperately tried to recover. But he could do nothing to avoid the guard¡¯s remains from hitting him.

    The warm, viscous blood splattered onto him, staining his face and clothes.

    Dilven dropped what was left of the head, shaking his hand to rid it of the chunks of flesh and bone still stuck to his right palm.

    Then, with a calm and deliberate gesture, he pulled out a large sack from under his cloak and threw it in front of Klark.

    ¡°From the Boss,¡± he said, his voice low and threatening. ¡°On these clothes are inscribed runes of invisibility. They will be useful to you.¡±

    Klark stared at the sack, still trembling and covered in blood. He tried to speak, but his voice was caught, suffocated by the confusion.

    Dilven turned without saying anything more, his black cloak flowing behind him like a living shadow.

    He walked towards the end of the alley, his pace slow, yet every movement seemed charged with unstoppable power.

    Before leaving for good, however, Dilven paused for a moment and spoke without turning around:

    ¡°Don¡¯t mess this up, Klark!¡±

    And with those words, the towering hooded figure vanished into thin air, as if swallowed by the darkness itself.

    Klark remained still for a moment.

    He was breathing heavily, his body still shaking with involuntary tremors as his mind tried to absorb the reality of the situation.

    The smell of fresh blood and death surrounded him, while the sack in front of him seemed to pulse with dark energy.

    ¡°Ugly bitch!¡± Klark¡¯s voice grew fierce as the realization that he had been played by the servant settled into his mind. ¡°Did she really dare lie to me all this time?!¡±

    Klark jumped to his feet and quickly changed, putting on the new clothes the Captain had given him: black pants, shirt, and shoes. Keeping his old black tie on, he placed the previous bloodstained clothes in his black bag after using them to wipe his face.

    He then walked towards the center of the capital to board the royal carriage that was waiting for him and return to the castle. Along the way, he would ask the coachman to stop under the pretext of needing to relieve himself, but with the true intent of throwing his old bloodstained clothes into a trash ditch, where a large fire was always burning deeper down.

    But aside from that, two goals now echoed in his mind, an obsessive thought pulsing as strongly as his furious heart:

    ¡®I will kill the young Prince¡­ AND THEN IT WILL BE YOUR TURN, CARMEN!¡¯

    { PRESENT¡­ }

    The sharp hiss of fabric slicing through the air was relentless.

    Klark¡¯s movements were a lethal dance, a spiral of fury that drew ever closer to Carmen, but never managed to touch her.

    ¡®All this time, you lied to me!¡¯ Klark roared inwardly, continuing his barrage of blows. ¡®You humiliated me in front of the Captain, and as if that weren¡¯t enough, now my family is at risk of dying because of you! But today you¡¯ll pay dearly, Carmen. I swear it! I swear it on the name of Zeus!¡¯

    As Klark¡¯s disdain grew, Carmen retreated slowly, her eyes focused and locked on her enemy. With a grace that seemed to defy the laws of physics, she parried every blow with surgical precision, moving like a shadow among the trees.

    Whenever necessary, she darted sideways, narrowly avoiding the strikes of Klark¡¯s whip-tie.

    The towering trees around them, innocent victims of their duel, were shattered and splintered with every blow of the whip-tie, crashing to the ground with a deafening roar.

    Klark, already furious and determined, intensified his rage, advancing with increasingly savage movements.

    The tie lashed out at everything in its path, relentlessly seeking to reach Carmen, but the assassin¡¯s mind, clouded by vengeance, made him less precise.

    ¡®Tsz!¡¯ Each missed strike only fueled Klark¡¯s fury. ¡°You can¡¯t run forever!¡± he shouted, rage burning inside him like an uncontrollable fire as he intensified his attacks once more.

    Carmen, however, remained unshaken, skillfully wielding her sword and carefully studying her opponent¡¯s every move.

    Every lunge from Klark, every strike, every breath was recorded in her mind like a melody she was slowly deciphering.

    ¡®It¡¯s almost time¡­!¡¯ thought the red-haired servant, ready to seize the opportunity she had been waiting for since the very beginning to bring their fight to an end, once and for all¡­

 CHAPTER 36: Red Roses

    The tie whistled through the air once more, tracing a wide and menacing arc, but Carmen moved with the agility of a panther, dodging it without any apparent effort.

    Her eyes, cold and relentless, left no room for misunderstanding: she was ready for the finishing blow!

    ¡°So, what¡¯s the matter? Not so tough anymore, huh?!¡± Klark shouted, his voice loaded with insane satisfaction as his face twisted into a mask of pure madness. ¡°Stop running and face me!¡±

    Not far from the heart of the clash, Mirac still lay semi-reclined against the trunk of a tree, his body battered by wounds and exhaustion. Every fiber of his being screamed in pain, every breath was a battle.

    And yet, despite his blurred vision and heavy limbs, his eyes remained fixed on Carmen and Klark, like a helpless spectator to that savage fight.

    His heart pounded furiously in his chest as he watched Klark gain ground.

    ¡®Damn it!¡¯ thought the young Prince, gritting his teeth. ¡®I have to do something!¡¯

    With agonizing effort, he tried to push himself up. Every movement was a declaration of war against the pain consuming him. His arms trembled under the weight of his own body, his muscles stiffened by exhaustion and wounds. The world around him seemed to sway, shrouded in an oppressive fog that threatened to overwhelm him.

    ¡®Damn it!¡¯ Mirac cursed inwardly, feeling helplessness grip him like a vice. What was the point of training so hard all this time if I can¡¯t even help those I care about?!¡¯

    Frustration and despair swirled in an emotional vortex as his mind rebelled against every physical limitation.

    ¡®I have to get up¡­ I have to help her!¡¯

    The thought echoed in his mind like a roar.

    Mirac clenched his fists again, his nails digging into his palms until they left bloody marks.

    His body trembled violently as he gathered every fragment of energy left.

    ¡®I won¡¯t just sit here while she risks her life to protect me! If I have to die trying to help her, then so be it!¡¯

    Blood began to stream from his eyes, a thin and unsettling trail that further blurred his vision. It was a sign of the toll his body was paying for this inhuman effort.

    But he didn¡¯t care.

    ¡®Whatever happens, I¡¯ll give it my all!¡¯

    With a muffled roar that reverberated in his gut, Mirac continued to push his young body beyond its limits.

    ¡®I must defeat that bastard! I must help Carmen¡­ I have to do it! I¡­ I absolutely must-!¡¯

    ¡°YOUNG PRINCE!¡±

    Carmen¡¯s voice tore through the air like thunder, abruptly interrupting Mirac¡¯s tormented thoughts.

    The kid looked up, startled. Despite the pain gripping every muscle, his heart seemed to stop for an instant.

    Carmen, still locked in a fierce battle with Klark, moved with the agility of a dancer, retreating with a series of elegant leaps. Her stance was firm, her sword in hand gleaming menacingly, yet her movements possessed an almost otherworldly grace.

    ¡°Listen, young Prince,¡± Carmen said in a firm, authoritative tone, never taking her eyes off her opponent.

    She parried Klark¡¯s strikes with surgical precision, her dancing blade tracing lines of light in the air.

    ¡°I imagine you¡¯re trying to get up to help me¡­ and I thank you for your courage¡­ However¡­!¡±

    With one last long leap backward, Carmen found herself once again at Mirac¡¯s side, turning slightly towards him.

    Her eyes, which until that moment had shone with cold determination, softened imperceptibly when they met Mirac¡¯s.

    ¡°Don¡¯t underestimate me!¡± she continued, her voice resolute. ¡°As I said before, I will handle him personally. Your task now is to rest and recover. Do not push your body beyond its limits, or I¡¯ll have to punish you later for disobeying me. Understood?¡±

    Mirac stared at her, speechless. Carmen¡¯s confident, protective tone, so unexpected, struck him like lightning.

    ¡°C-Carmen¡­¡± he stammered, feeling the tension melt from his body like snow in the sun.

    His shoulders gave way, and he slowly leaned back against the tree trunk. His eyes barely closed, and before he could realize it, Mirac lost consciousness and fainted.

    ¡°It¡¯s over!¡± Klark roared, charging at them like a furious bull.

    His tie whistled through the air, snapping like a deadly whip.

    His objective was clear: to bring down Carmen and the young Prince with a single, devastating strike.

    But Carmen turned sharply, her movements as lightning-fast as those of a predator.

    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s over¡­¡±

    Her voice, firm and unyielding, rang out like a sentence.

    With lethal precision, Carmen delivered a sharp strike with her sword. The blade hit the tie with perfect timing and force.

    The fabric, worn down silently throughout the battle, snapped in several places, exploding into shreds. The fragments of the weapon scattered into the air like leaves carried by the wind.

    Klark froze, paralyzed. His gaze locked, incredulous, on the remains of his weapon.

    ¡°What?! H-How is this possible?!¡± he shouted, his voice trembling with shock.

    In that silent fraction of a second, a thought crept into his mind, a revelation that struck him like a punch to the gut:

    ¡®This woman¡­ She wasn¡¯t just retreating to avoid my blows¡­ NO! From the very beginning, she¡¯s been striking the same exact spot on my tie, weakening it little by little until it gave way completely!¡¯

    Carmen stared at him with an unshakable gaze, her features etched sharply under the colors of twilight.

    ¡°So, you¡¯ve figured it out, have you?¡± she said with icy calm, before vanishing.

    Klark barely had time to hear the faint whistle in the air before Carmen reappeared in front of him, just inches away.

    As before, the palm of her left hand pressed against his abdomen, the pressure as intense as it was inescapable.

    ¡°However, it¡¯s far too late now¡­¡±

    With an explosive blow, Carmen hurled him backward.

    The force of the impact was inhuman: Klark flew like a rag doll, crashing through the trees. Trunks splintered under his passage, cracking with sinister sounds, and branches burst into the air like shards of glass.

    His flight seemed to last an eternity before his body slammed violently onto the gravel path of the garden.

    He rolled through the white roses, an immaculate carpet now stained red. The delicate petals, torn and soaked with his blood, floated in the air like a tragic rain.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    Klark lay still for a few moments, disoriented, struggling to catch his breath.

    Every breath was a painful ordeal, every fiber of his body screaming in agony. He spat a mouthful of blood, further staining the roses around him, as he tried to rise with slow, uncertain movements.

    ¡®D-Damn it¡­!¡¯

    His legs trembled under the weight of his body, yet he managed to stand. Staggering, his muscles burning like fire, he raised his gaze towards the forest from which Carmen could emerge at any moment.

    ¡°Damn bitch!¡± he hissed, his face twisted into a mask of hatred and pain.

    Clutching what remained of his weapon¡ªa strip of fabric barely half a meter long¡ªhis eyes burned with a crazed light.

    His mouth curled into a chilling grin, revealing blood-stained teeth.

    ¡°I¡¯ll cut out your tongue, rip off your arms and legs¡­ and torture you in the worst ways you could imagine!¡± he screamed, his voice distorted by rage.

    Then, with a theatrical gesture, he spread his arms wide, motioning toward the roses around him, their petals glinting under the dying light.

    ¡°And finally, I¡¯ll use every single drop of your blood to paint all these roses red!¡±

    For a moment, the garden seemed consumed by his madness.

    The fake professor didn¡¯t spare a glance for the body of the old gardener he had killed earlier, left abandoned on the white gravel path not far from the killer.

    No: Klark had no time for the dead!

    His gaze was fixed straight ahead, his feverish, sharp eyes scanning the darkness of the forest.

    At that moment, he had to ignore the pain ravaging his body: the only thing that mattered now was killing his opponent!

    Then, the waiting ended.

    From the shadowed forest, something moved with terrifying speed.

    A gleaming sword shot out of the darkness, flying straight towards him with precise, lethal intent.

    Klark reacted on instinct. Summoning the last reserves of strength in his battered body, he moved with surprising agility.

    Drawing what remained of his weapon-tie, Klark struck the flying sword with precision, intercepting it before it could hit him and deflecting its trajectory.

    The blade hissed through the air, then veered off to land just to his left, embedding itself in the ground.

    A triumphant smile spread across Klark¡¯s twisted face.

    ¡°Huh, foolish!¡± he exclaimed, panting but still full of rage. ¡°What did you think you¡¯d accomplish by throwing your swor-?!¡±

    His words echoed in the silence of the garden, but they were quickly smothered by a sudden sensation.

    A shiver.

    Cold as the touch of death, it crawled up his spine. The chill wasn¡¯t just physical¡ªit seemed to pierce him from the inside, seeping into his nerves and paralyzing him.

    Klark stiffened, the smile disappearing from his lips as a dark realization began to settle into his mind.

    Slowly, almost against his will, he lowered his gaze. His breath grew irregular, his chest rising and falling with labored gasps.

    It was then that he saw it.

    The blade of a sword was emerging from his chest, a deadly, gleaming point making its way in with surgical precision, sinking deeper and deeper.

    Blood began to stain the black fabric of his shirt, a vivid red spreading slowly like poison coursing through his body.

    ¡°W-What-?!¡± Klark tried to speak, but blood filled his mouth, choking his words.

    A coughing fit seized him, expelling a crimson jet that slowly dripped from his chin and stained the ground beneath him.

    Klark staggered, trying to turn, his movements stiff and shaken by the agony tearing through his muscles. His face, a mask of suffering and rage, contorted further as he realized what he already knew.

    Behind him, Carmen stood watching. Her gaze was unshaken, the chill in her eyes seeming to pierce him more than the blade embedded in his body. With firm hands on the sword¡¯s hilt, her stance was still and certain, betraying an icy calm that was terrifying in its simplicity.

    ¡®She stabbed me in the back? H-How did she-? No¡­ Wait¡­ The one she threw earlier¡­ That was the second sword!¡¯ The realization hit Klark like a lightning strike.

    As Klark had suspected, Carmen had acted with merciless calculation, considering every detail.

    Immediately after hurling him away with force, the red-haired servant had wasted no time. She had rushed to retrieve the second sword, the one that had fallen during the initial clash between Mirac and the fake professor. With impressive agility, she had grabbed it and swiftly moved to confront Klark.

    Before emerging from the woods, Carmen had thrown the second sword towards Klark, using the weapon as a perfectly calibrated distraction.

    While he was focused on deflecting the flying strike, Carmen had stealthily moved to his left side, exploiting his blind spot.

    Indeed, Carmen knew very well that Klark¡¯s left eye¡ªseverely wounded at the start of the fight by the small stone she had thrown with precision¡ªmade him vulnerable: his field of vision was halved, and his left side was completely exposed!

    Moving with the lightness of a shadow, Carmen had taken a wide arc, calculating every step to avoid betraying her position. Meanwhile, Klark had no idea that the threat was approaching from behind.

    Finally, Carmen had reached the perfect spot.

    With a decisive and lethal move, she had driven the sword straight into her opponent¡¯s back. The blade had pierced with force, breaking any chance of resistance.

    And in that moment of realization, as the blade tore through his back, Klark could do nothing but release his grip on his weapon, which slowly fell onto the rose petals: after all, Klark had lost.

    ¡°D-Damn!¡±

    Klark coughed again. Blood sprayed from his lips, staining the roses at his feet, already soaked with the red of his blood.

    For a moment, the pain reflected on his face, a twisted grimace that, however, concealed something else: a hint of sadness¡­

    ¡°W-Who are you?¡± he suddenly asked, his voice broken.

    Carmen didn¡¯t flinch. Her hands remained steady on the hilt of the sword, her tone unchanged. ¡°Why do you care to know?¡±

    ¡°J-Just answer! W-Who are you?! H-How did you know about me¡­ and t-the Last Storm?! W-Who gave you this information? A-A member o-of our organization?!¡± Klark¡¯s voice grew louder, filled with rage and desperation. ¡°C-Come on, answer, damn you!¡±

    Carmen tilted her head slightly, as if those accusations were irrelevant to her.

    ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m just someone¡­ who wants to protect the young Prince. That¡¯s all.¡±

    The words rang out like a verdict.

    Klark remained silent for several long moments, his face streaked with blood, his breath ragged.

    Then, without warning, he burst into a choked, broken, painful laugh. Every laugh was accompanied by a coughing fit and another wave of blood, but he couldn¡¯t stop.

    ¡°Heh¡­ f-funny!¡± he finally exclaimed, his voice hoarse and convulsed, but laced with a dark irony. ¡°S-Saving the young P-Prince, huh? W-Well¡­ that¡¯s bullshit!¡±

    The mad smile returned to his face as his eyes gleamed with a manic light.

    ¡°If¡­ you¡¯re here¡­¡± he continued, pausing to catch his breath, ¡°it¡¯s because¡­ you already knew¡­ I-I¡¯d try to¡­ kill him¡­ today!¡± He coughed again, his body doubled over in the effort to speak, but he didn¡¯t stop. ¡°And you¡­ you still decided to¡­ go to¡­ the capital¡­ for your¡­ damn ¡®commissions¡¯¡­ and show up¡­ only at the last moment!¡±

    His voice, despite everything, grew louder, fueled by rage.

    ¡°If¡­ if you really wanted to save him¡­ why¡­ why didn¡¯t you warn¡­ anyone?!¡± he stammered, his words broken by the lack of air and the weight of the blade in his chest. ¡°Why¡­ didn¡¯t you tell¡­ the guards? If you had¡­ the Prince¡­ would have been protected! No¡­ n-no, actually! You¡­ you would have stopped me¡­ from the very first day¡­ I arrived! But no¡­ y-you didn¡¯t! So¡­ stop¡­ messing with me!¡± he shouted, or at least tried to, his voice now reduced to a hoarse roar. ¡°Tell me¡­ THE TRUTH! W-Who are you¡­ really?!¡±

    His words faded into silence, broken only by the ragged sound of his dying breath.

    Carmen remained still, her expression unchanged. Only her gaze, impassive, betrayed an awareness that seemed to weigh on Klark like a boulder.

    Finally, after a couple of long seconds, she spoke:

    ¡°Klark¡­ whether you know the truth or not, it won¡¯t change the outcome. You will die anyway. And with you, your family as well. After all, wasn¡¯t that how Captain Dilven had warned you?¡±

    ¡°Y-You¡­!¡± stammered Klark, his face rigid, his gaze suddenly tense.

    Those last words from Carmen confirmed to Klark that the servant was already aware of his meeting with Captain Dilven, and the message he had relayed on behalf of the Boss.

    But how did Carmen already know about it?

    It was impossible that she had spied on him the day he was at the capital, because Captain Dilven would have surely noticed.

    But then, how did she find out?

    What else did she know?

    Was that rhetorical question the servant had just asked perhaps a way to hint to Klark that she really knew everything?

    But why not say it clearly? Why just insinuate it?

    And in the end, who was Carmen really?

    Feeling once again mocked, a tremor of rage coursed through him.

    ¡°D-Damn¡­ damn b-bitch!¡± Klark barked, spitting a clot of blood that stained his lips. ¡°Y-You think you¡¯ll get a-away with it? W-With whoever you¡¯re w-working with¡­ d-do you really think you s-stand a chance a-against the Captain or the Boss?¡±

    Carmen didn¡¯t answer immediately. Her gaze was cold, devoid of any emotion.

    Then she tilted her head slightly, and her words slid out like an unappealable verdict:

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. You¡¯ll find out the answer when they come to greet you themselves.¡±

    Klark wanted to respond, to shout again, even to try to turn and strike her with his bare hands, but his strength was leaving him. Even keeping his eyes open had become an unbearable weight.

    Carmen¡¯s voice then dropped, a whisper as sharp as the edge of the sword still piercing Klark¡¯s chest.

    ¡°Goodbye, Professor Shirkenn¡­¡±

    With a fluid and precise movement, Carmen withdrew the blade from his body.

    Blood erupted from the wound, a crimson cascade staining the purity of the white roses.

    Klark staggered. His body, now devoid of strength, suddenly gave way. He collapsed forward among the flowers, the soft petals seeming to embrace him in a funeral hug.

    His eyes tried to focus on the sky above him, but all he could see was the dying light of twilight, distorted by the veil of death that was advancing.

    After pulling the sword out, Carmen no longer looked at him. She circled his body with measured steps and walked away, leaving him there, among the flowers and the blood.

    Klark, lying on the ground, struggled to lift his gaze. His vision was now a mosaic of blurry images and flickering lights. But he still managed to distinguish the figure of Carmen moving away, the silhouette of the red-haired woman disappearing into the woods.

    ¡®I¡¯m sorry, Lois¡­ Petra¡­ Please forgive me.¡¯

    That thought, heavy with remorse, echoed not only in Klark¡¯s mind, as he barely breathed, but also in Carmen¡¯s as she silently headed toward Mirac...

    Moments later, the garden returned to an eerie silence, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the petals.

    The roses, soaked in blood, swayed gently in the evening breeze.

    Suddenly, Klark¡¯s breath stopped.

    And while the lies had trapped him for an entire year, the silence that precedes death was the only truth he had left.

 CHAPTER 37: Shadows of Pain, Light of Pride

    ¡®Mirac¡­ Mirac¡­ Mirac¡­¡¯ called a distant female voice insistently, its tone flat yet somehow also filled with concern.

    ¡®Hmph, is that it? How pathetic!¡¯ exclaimed another voice, male and disturbingly familiar, dripping with mockery.

    ¡®I¡¯m sorry, Mirac¡­¡¯ sobbed another female voice, sweet and trembling, like the melodic song of a siren. ¡®It¡¯s all my fault! I¡¯m so sorry¡­ If only¡­ I had helped you properly!¡¯

    Suddenly, Mirac woke up, struck by a wave of confusion.

    He found himself lying in a soft bed, his head heavy and his gaze lost in the intricately decorated ceiling of the room. The elaborate patterns seemed to dance before his still sleep-blurred eyes.

    ¡°W-Where¡­ am I?¡± he mumbled, his voice barely more than a faint whisper.

    Turning his head slowly, he noticed a beam of sunlight streaming through the large arched window to his right. The walls, painted a delicate shade of red, surrounded him with a sense of comfort and familiarity.

    ¡°This¡­ this is my room¡­ isn¡¯t it?¡± he murmured, the thought flickering in his mind like a dim light.

    He remained motionless for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling as memories came flooding back, overwhelming him like a relentless tide. Scenes from his battle with Klark assaulted him, brutal and vivid, sending a shiver coursing through his body.

    ¡°Was it all¡­ just a dream?¡± he asked himself, his heart pounding.

    As he sat up slightly, supported by a pillow behind his back, he froze at the sight of a horrifying detail: half of his left arm¡­ was gone!

    ¡°Huh¡­¡± he exhaled, his hand grazing the stump, carefully wrapped in white bandages. ¡°So it was all real, huh?¡±

    Even his head and part of his chest were wrapped in bandages. The scratches and wounds from the battle with Klark were hidden beneath plasters and gauze, but the pain was palpable, like a living memory that refused to fade.

    ¡°If I¡¯m here, safe and sound, I have to assume Carmen won¡­ right?¡± he wondered, a faint sense of relief mingling with the unease that stirred in his chest.

    Yet despite this conclusion, Mirac¡¯s face twisted into an expression of frustration.

    ¡°Tsz!¡± he burst out, clenching his fist around the brownish blanket that covered him. The soft fabric contrasted with the fierce tension of his muscles, unable to fully come to terms with what had happened.

    With effort, his back still stiff, Mirac rose from the bed and moved to the window beside him. The sun shone brightly, flooding the room with a warm and welcoming light, as if trying to banish the shadows within him.

    Outside, the sky stretched clear and vast, an endless sea of blue that radiated deceptive calm. Though he couldn¡¯t clearly hear them, he imagined the songs of birds¡ªlight melodies that clashed painfully with his stormy thoughts.

    Then, all at once, another wave of violent memories overwhelmed him.

    This time, he saw the lifeless body of the old gardener Edward, lying on the ground, brutally cut in half. His hands still clutched the white roses from the bouquet he had been preparing, the pure petals soaked with blood¡ªa grotesque contrast seared into Mirac¡¯s mind with haunting clarity.

    The image materialized before his eyes, vivid and ghostly, like a distorted reflection in the glass of the window.

    Frightened by the vision, a shiver of terror ran down his spine, forcing him to step back. His heart raced, and he found himself paralyzed, unable to escape the harrowing memory that gripped him in its icy grasp.

    ¡°It¡¯s all my fault, Mr. Foss¡­¡± he hissed in a low voice, clenching his fist so tightly that his knuckles turned white. ¡°If only I had been more careful¡­ quicker to react¡­ but above all, stronger, you definitely wouldn¡¯t have died!¡±

    Frustration mingled with remorse, a growing burden that weighed heavily on his chest, suffocating him little by little.

    ¡°Please forgive me, Mr. Foss¡­¡±

    The oppressive silence of the room was broken only by the relentless ticking of the clock¡¯s hands.

    Mirac shook his head decisively, trying to break free from the spiral of his thoughts.

    He turned towards the desk, where the clock rested beside a disordered pile of hardcover books in a variety of colors. His eyes fell on the clock face.

    ¡°It¡¯s about 1 PM¡­¡± he muttered, his tone heavy with exhaustion.

    He forced himself to take a deep breath, filling his lungs with air as if to cleanse himself of the storm raging within. As he allowed the warmth of the sunlight to caress his face, he felt a faint comfort.

    It wasn¡¯t much, but at that moment, it was all he had.

    With slow and measured steps, Mirac approached the wardrobe in his room. Every movement carried a newfound determination, as if he were trying to confront not only his visible wounds but also the deeper, invisible ones that continued to torment him.

    He opened the doors calmly and chose a white shirt. The fabric, soft and lightweight, seemed to promise a hint of comfort.

    Wearing it, however, proved to be a challenge: the empty and silent left sleeve was a constant reminder of his loss.

    With patience and a hint of frustration, he eventually managed to adjust the shirt, though the emotional weight lingered.

    The black trousers he already wore were comfortable and long, but to complete his outfit, he grabbed a pair of white socks and black shoes. He bent down to tie the laces but quickly realized how difficult it was to do so with just one hand.

    After several unsuccessful attempts, he gave up, tucking the laces inside the shoes instead.

    He left the room and began descending the white marble staircase, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the almost sacred silence of the castle. The light¡¯s reflections danced on the polished surfaces, creating shadowy patterns that seemed alive.

    ¡°They should all be in the dining hall, if I¡¯m not mistaken¡­¡± he thought, his heart pounding harder with every step.

    The castle seemed shrouded in an unnatural silence, and the rhythmic sound of his footsteps filled the auditory void, amplifying its weight.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    When he reached the double doors of the dining hall on the ground floor, Mirac paused for a moment. He took a deep breath, letting the fresh air fill his lungs and his thoughts settle.

    Then, with a slow but determined motion, he pushed the right door open.

    ¡®Just as I thought¡­¡¯ Mirac mused, a faint smile forming on his lips as his eyes swept across the room, finally resting on the long white table.

    Before him, all the members of his family sat in their usual places, each with their own expression, staring at the Prince standing at the doorway.

    At the far end of the table sat his father, rigid and glacial, his piercing eyes fixed on Mirac as though they sought to pierce his soul.

    ¡®Not even a smile after I almost died, huh?¡¯ Mirac thought, feeling momentarily small and vulnerable under his father¡¯s unyielding gaze.

    The three stepmothers and their daughters, on the other hand, regarded him with indifferent expressions, like detached spectators. Their faces betrayed neither affection nor concern, radiating a sense of estrangement in response to his arrival.

    The three twin sisters, however, reacted differently. Their eyes revealed a poorly concealed worry, hidden behind strained and forced smiles.

    Michelle, in particular, seemed the most shaken. Her face was tense, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, unable to hide the relief the others masked more effectively.

    But it was his mother who broke the silence.

    As soon as Queen Ginevra saw Mirac enter, her expression changed immediately. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she shot to her feet, rushing towards him with a face radiating love and relief.

    ¡°Mirac!¡± she exclaimed, her voice cracking with emotion as she enveloped him in an embrace that held all her pain and joy.

    Her soft hands trembled slightly as she caressed him, as though trying to assure herself that he was truly there before her.

    ¡°You¡¯re finally awake! How do you feel? Are you all right? Are you dizzy? Does anything hurt?¡±

    ¡°Calm down, Mom. I¡¯m fine!¡± he replied, trying to maintain his composure, though emotions churned within him. ¡°I¡¯m just a little tired¡­ That¡¯s all.¡±

    As soon as Mirac finished speaking, his father rose abruptly from his chair, the seat scraping slightly against the floor. His cold gaze betrayed no particular emotion as he stepped towards his son.

    ¡°Mirac Strongold!¡± he declared in a deep, authoritative voice, his heavy steps echoing through the hall.

    ¡°Wait, dear, please!¡± Ginevra exclaimed, clinging tighter to her son, desperate to extend this precious moment of affection.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­¡± his father retorted without hesitation. ¡°But I have something to say to him, and I will not wait a second longer to do so!¡±

    Mirac felt his heart race, the pounding filling his ears.

    Ginevra reluctantly let him go, and he found himself standing alone, face-to-face with his father, who continued to approach with firm, deliberate steps.

    ¡®Damn it!¡¯ Mirac thought, forcing himself to stay calm and adopt a posture that conveyed confidence. ¡®He¡¯s going to scold me for not being strong enough, isn¡¯t he?¡¯

    Suddenly, the memory of Edward¡¯s lifeless body resurfaced in Mirac¡¯s mind, a grim reminder of his failure. The awareness that he hadn¡¯t even witnessed Edward¡¯s final moments¡ªbecause he had been turned away when Klark killed him¡ªstruck him hard, making him lower his gaze, overwhelmed by despair.

    ¡®Well, he¡¯s right after all¡­¡¯ Mirac thought, feeling tears sting his eyes. ¡®I couldn¡¯t blame him if he wanted to insult me.¡¯

    He struggled to keep his composure, as the knot of frustration and guilt tightened in his throat.

    ¡®It¡¯s true that I¡¯m only 8 years old, and for many, that might be a perfectly valid reason for not having beaten Klark. But not for me! I am Mirac Strongold, son of King Arthur Strongold! People, especially my father, expect great things from me! But I, even with two swords, barely managed to protect myself before Carmen came to save me¡­¡¯

    Every fiber of his body stiffened as the memory of the fight still burned in his mind.

    ¡®Only now¡ªafter fighting a real opponent¡ªcan I finally understand why my father has always been so harsh with me: it¡¯s because I¡¯m weak! Very weak! Disgustingly weak!¡¯

    The horrible realization that Klark had been stronger, faster, and more cunning than him weighed on him, smothering him with no reprieve.

    Once again, Mirac clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, turning his knuckles white as the sense of helplessness transformed into a simmering anger.

    At that moment, just as he was about to raise his gaze towards his father, who now stood directly in front of him, Mirac¡¯s thoughts were abruptly interrupted.

    He suddenly felt warmth envelop him, different from his mother¡¯s embrace: it was more intense, more solid, yet strangely familiar.

    ¡®W-What¡­?¡¯

    Mirac¡¯s eyes widened, unable to process what was happening.

    ¡®I-I can¡¯t believe it¡­!¡¯

    While Mirac had kept his gaze lowered, King Arthur¡ªthe stern and unyielding father he knew¡ªhad knelt down to embrace him.

    The king held him tightly, a gesture so full of affection and so unexpected that it felt almost unreal.

    ¡°D-Dad?!¡± Mirac stammered, momentarily forgetting the rigid royal etiquette.

    Only afterward, in his mind, did he correct himself to ¡°Father¡± as Leonard had always taught him.

    But in that moment, there was no room for formalities. There was only an embrace that spoke more than a thousand words.

    Slowly, Mirac¡¯s hands relaxed, letting go of the tension that had turned his fingers into claws.

    After a long moment of silence and shared warmth, Arthur released the embrace. His hands rested on Mirac¡¯s shoulders, firm yet gentle, as though he wanted to hold onto him just a little longer, to preserve that precious, fleeting moment.

    The king¡¯s eyes met Mirac¡¯s.

    The usual coldness that had always defined him was gone. In its place was a newfound intensity, something deep and unexpected that seemed to bridge the chasm that had always divided them.

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe it, Mirac!¡± Arthur said, and for a moment, his voice trembled.

    The man who had never shown a hint of vulnerability, who embodied the rigor and strength of a sovereign, now revealed a side of himself that Mirac barely recognized.

    ¡°I¡¯m so proud of you!¡± the king exclaimed at last, with a sincerity that seemed to fill the entire room.

    Mirac¡¯s heart nearly stopped for a moment.

    ¡°P-Proud¡­ of me?!¡±

    Those words¡­

    The same words Mirac had dreamed of hearing in countless nights, imagined a thousand times in his mind.

    Now they were real, spoken by his own father!

    The weight Mirac had carried within himself for so long¡ªthe constant need to prove his worth, the harrowing memories of his training, and the crushing sense of weakness for having lost to Klark¡ªseemed to dissolve in an instant, like mist under the sun.

    ¡®My father¡­ King Arthur¡­ is proud of me?!¡¯

    Even after hearing those words, Mirac struggled to believe them.

    But the expression on King Arthur¡¯s face left no room for doubt. There was pride in his eyes, a pride Mirac had never seen or felt directed toward him before.

    A lump formed in his throat, an emotion so strong it hurt, as though the tension of an entire year had built up only to explode in that single moment.

    In such circumstances, Mirac had no idea how to react.

    Or rather, without even realizing it, he smiled. Not a polite or forced smile, but something genuine and pure, something that came from the heart.

    ¡°R-Really?¡± Mirac finally managed to say something, though his voice trembled more than he would have liked.

    Even though he was actually over eighty years old, Vector felt like a child again.

    But even this fact didn¡¯t matter.

    For Mirac now, nothing mattered more than the words he had just heard.

    Arthur nodded, his face slowly softening into a smile that seemed to sweep away all the tension between them.

    ¡°Of course, my son!¡± he replied, his tone brimming with sincere admiration. ¡°After all, you managed to defeat a skilled assassin all on your own in a true battle! That proves how strong you¡¯ve become! Well done, my son!¡±

    Arthur¡¯s voice oozed pride, as if that moment were the definitive confirmation of his son¡¯s worth.

    But those words struck Mirac in a completely unexpected way.

    ¡®Huh?!¡¯

    His smile faltered, replaced by an expression of confusion as his thoughts began to spiral.

    ¡®Defeated¡­ a skilled assassin?¡¯

    He couldn¡¯t piece it together. Those words echoed inside him like a discordant note, something deeply wrong.

    ¡°Defeated¡­ an assassin?¡± Mirac repeated aloud this time, his hesitation betraying his bewilderment.

    Arthur noticed his unease and tilted his head slightly, his expression a mix of concern and tenderness.

    ¡°Wait¡­ Did you forget about it?¡± he asked in a softer, still affectionate tone. ¡°You¡¯re the one who killed the assassin! I mean Klark, the imposter posing as Professor Shirkenn. Don¡¯t you remember?¡±

    Arthur¡¯s words reverberated through the room, striking Mirac like a bolt of lightning.

    His mind suddenly descended into chaos as he desperately tried to recall the events of that night.

    But even so, Mirac¡¯s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. His heart, once filled with joy, now seemed ready to leap from his chest, trapped in the grip of a false truth.

    ¡°W-What?¡± he stammered, incredulous. ¡°M-ME?!¡±

    His hands began to tremble, his body overwhelmed by a wave of disorientation that left him utterly unmoored.

    ¡°I-I killed Klark?!¡±

    Too bad, though, that it wasn¡¯t true¡­

    It had been Carmen, after all, who had dealt with Klark while Mirac had been unconscious. Right?

    ¡®What the hell is happening right now?!¡¯

 CHAPTER 38: Bodyguard

    { A FEW HOURS LATER¡­ }

    ¡°I see¡­ Yes, now it all makes more sense!¡±

    Mirac set the quill pen back into the inkwell and observed the lines he had just written in his notebook.

    It had taken a while, but he had finally managed to organize his thoughts, piece together the events that had happened while he was unconscious, and formulate some hypotheses.

    During lunch, his parents had told him everything that had happened during the week he had been unconscious.

    On the evening of Sunday, April 6th, the same day the entire incident occurred, Mirac¡¯s mother had immediately grown alarmed by her son¡¯s absence, as he had failed to show up for dinner on time, something he had always done without fail.

    Worried, she had ordered everyone in the castle to search for him.

    Not long after, a young gardener had found him lying beside the corpse of the old gardener Edward on the white gravel path.

    In that gruesome scene, Mirac was clutching a bloodstained sword, and not far away, amidst the white roses, lay the lifeless body of another man. Examining the wound on the latter¡¯s chest, it was discovered that he had been pierced by the same blade Mirac was holding.

    For this reason, everyone was convinced that Mirac had killed him.

    Shortly after he was found, the castle¡¯s doctors rushed in to check on him and tend to his injuries, followed shortly by some wizards skilled in healing.

    Despite their efforts, however, no one was able to save his arm.

    But that loss didn¡¯t trouble him in the slightest. Even without a limb, Mirac was grateful and happy to be alive.

    The day after the incident, it was discovered that the man among the white roses was none other than Klark Minegot, a notorious assassin wanted in most kingdoms for his many crimes.

    For years, however, Klark had seemed to vanish without a trace. Some believed he was dead, while others theorized that he had abandoned his life as a killer.

    No one, however, could have imagined that he had infiltrated the Strongold family¡¯s royal court under a false identity.

    Indeed, had infiltrated the castle and spent an entire year pretending to be Professor Shirkenn, thanks to an Artifact known as the ¡°Deceptive Glasses¡±.

    This Artifact, originating from the mysterious Kingdom of Noctara, was capable of altering the wearer¡¯s appearance. With it, Klark had been able to copy and assume the likeness of the real Professor Shirkenn throughout his time in the castle.

    Additionally, engraved on the fake Professor¡¯s tie were runes of Rock Magic, which had transformed the simple piece of fabric into a lethal weapon, capable of stiffening like steel when firmly gripped by its wielder. With this, Klark had been able to move undetected through the castle for so long, carrying a concealed weapon right under everyone¡¯s noses.

    Investigators found the shattered remains of the Deceiver¡¯s Glasses in the forest, next to a trail of felled trees¡ªevidence of a violent battle. The fragments of the tie, on the other hand, were found in two separate locations: one part lay in the woods, while the other had been discovered next to the assassin¡¯s corpse.

    And throughout all of this, the real Professor Shirkenn had not been seen for at least a year.

    The investigators concluded that Klark had eliminated him before infiltrating the castle to avoid any complications, disposing of the body in some remote location.

    ¡°I still can¡¯t believe it¡­¡± Mirac murmured as he leaned back comfortably in his chair, his exhausted gaze fixed on the ceiling. ¡°All this¡­ just to kill me?¡±

    His words hung in the air, accompanied only by the soft breeze that fluttered the white curtains of the partially open windows.

    Amid the chaos of all these events, Mirac was plagued by a myriad of questions, only a few of which had found plausible answers.

    One in particular would not let him rest: why had he been found in the garden with a weapon in hand when he distinctly remembered passing out in the woods?

    Mirac, however, was not the only one searching for answers.

    After lunch, the investigators had arrived to question him about what had happened that evening.

    With a feigned expression of disorientation, Mirac had explained that his memories were confused and that he could not recall anything with absolute clarity.

    The excuse, though improvised, turned out to be surprisingly effective. In fact, when they asked him where he had found the sword ¡±he had used to face Klark¡±, Mirac had replied with apparent uncertainty:

    ¡°I think I found it near the garden tool shed, but I¡¯m not sure¡­¡±

    Mirac certainly couldn¡¯t tell the truth, which was that the sword had appeared out of nowhere behind him, at the exact moment he had needed it the most.

    Even though his explanation was vague and not very convincing, no one dared to contest the young Prince¡¯s words. Perhaps because of his social standing, perhaps because they were too relieved to see him alive and well, or perhaps simply because they saw him as just a child. In any case, no one seemed interested in digging deeper, just as had happened when he had miraculously ¡°come back to life¡° immediately after his cardiac arrest at birth.

    From that brief interrogation, however, Mirac had deduced that the investigators had only found the original sword that ¡°he had used¡±. In fact, no one seemed to know anything about the second one, the one he had created himself using his ¡°Multiplicative Touch¡± ability.

    And so, a new question arose in the young Prince¡¯s mind: where had the second sword gone?

    ¡®Another mystery to solve¡­¡¯ thought Mirac, rubbing his temples with a distracted gesture. ¡¯Well, there¡¯s only one person who can give me the answers I¡¯m looking for¡­¡¯

    Suddenly, a soft knock on the door broke the silence of the room, interrupting Mirac¡¯s train of thought.

    The sound was measured, as though whoever was on the other side had carefully chosen the moment to disturb the quiet.

    ¡°Come in,¡± Mirac said, his tone calm but firm.

    He straightened in his chair, shaking off the exhaustion that had built up from hours of overthinking.

    His eyes fixed on the door as it slowly creaked open.

    ¡®Here she is!¡¯ thought Mirac.

    Closing the door behind her, Carmen entered with her usual grace.

    Her steps were silent, almost imperceptible, as though she intended to blend into the hushed atmosphere of the room.

    The air seemed to ripple slightly as she moved, and Mirac couldn¡¯t help but notice the shadow of worry on her face.

    ¡°I heard that you¡¯ve recovered, young Prince,¡± Carmen said warmly, bowing as was customary.

    Her hands were clasped respectfully in front of her, though her eyes sought his, eager to gauge the young Prince¡¯s state of mind.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    ¡°I¡¯m truly glad to see you safe and soun-¡±

    Mirac interrupted her with a sudden wave of his hand.

    The boy¡¯s gaze, usually lively and cheerful in the servant¡¯s presence, had turned abruptly serious.

    ¡°I appreciate your concern for me, Carmen,¡± he said, lowering his hand. ¡°However, I have many doubts about you and what happened that evening. Therefore, I have three questions to ask you¡­¡±

    Those words seemed to freeze time for a moment.

    Mirac was so determined to find answers that he was willing to speak as an adult, even if it risked shattering his pretense of being an 8-year-old child!

    Carmen remained still for a moment, watching him with a mix of respect and caution. Then, she nodded and positioned herself before him. Her hands remained clasped in front of her, her face serene but with a faint shadow of awareness glimmering in her eyes.

    ¡°Alright,¡± she said, her voice soft but with a note of seriousness. ¡°As I promised, I will be happy to answer each of your questions, young Prince.¡±

    Mirac nodded slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on her. He wanted to catch every nuance, every hesitation, in her demeanor.

    ¡°My first question is very simple: why did you do it?¡±

    Carmen tilted her head slightly, her expression serious yet puzzled.

    ¡°Do you mean¡­¡±

    ¡°Why did you cover up the incident and make sure I received the credit for defeating Klark?¡± Mirac asked firmly. ¡°Everyone in the castle looks at me with admiration, convinced that I was the one who eliminated the infiltrator. BUT THAT¡¯S NOT TRUE! You were the one who saved me, but no one seems to know it. I assume you¡¯re behind all of this. Am I not right?¡±

    The silence that followed was heavy and palpable.

    Carmen lowered her gaze for a moment, as if searching for the right words to say. Her face was impassive, but something in her posture suggested inner tension.

    After a few seconds, she raised her eyes to meet his again.

    ¡°Young Prince¡­ I believe the time has come to reveal my true identity.¡±

    With a fluid, controlled movement, Carmen knelt before Mirac, her gaze directed at the floor. The wood creaked slightly beneath her, only accentuating the solemnity of the moment.

    Her hands rested on her thighs as her long black skirt spread softly across the floor.

    ¡°My name is Carmen Veloth, and I am your secret bodyguard.¡±

    Mirac flinched slightly, startled by the revelation.

    ¡°My secret bodyguard?¡± he repeated, incredulous.

    ¡°Yes, exactly,¡± Carmen replied, her tone carrying the weight of a long-held confession. ¡°My mission, since I arrived here at the castle, has always been to protect the future son of King Arthur, and therefore, you! In fact, your safety is my only priority, young Prince.¡±

    With that being said, Carmen lifted her gaze to meet his and continued:

    ¡°Since I was a child, I have been trained in the arts of combat and assassination. Because of this, I was chosen among many as the most suitable to protect you. But for now, I cannot reveal more about myself.¡±

    Mirac remained silent. His face was motionless, but his gaze betrayed deep inner contemplation.

    ¡°I see¡­¡± he finally said, his voice barely audible. ¡°What you just told me answers the second question I wanted to ask you. In fact, I intended to ask you right after who you truly were and where the strength you used against Klark came from. And finally, I would say I understand it¡­¡°

    The young Prince studied Carmen intently, trying to decipher the mystery surrounding her.

    ¡°But you still haven¡¯t answered my first question, Carmen: why did you hide your actions? You saved me, yet you made sure I received all the credit for killing Klark. Why?¡±

    Carmen didn¡¯t answer immediately, and silence fell over the room once again. For a few seconds, it seemed she was deep in thought.

    ¡°You see, young Prince,¡± she began at last, her tone measured, ¡°my presence here at the castle is a carefully guarded secret. Not even His Majesty the King or the Queen know my true identity. No one at the castle does, in fact. I was sent here without anyone¡¯s knowledge, under orders from someone I cannot, unfortunately, speak to you about.¡±

    The red-haired woman paused briefly, as if gathering her strength before continuing:

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t simply claim that I was the one who had confronted Klark, because that would have revealed my true identity. That¡¯s why I had to make sure you were credited with his death. That evening, after defeating him, I carried you to a spot close enough to his body and ensured you held the same sword I had used to take him down. Then, a gardener found you unconscious, exactly where I had left you. The rest, as you can imagine, unfolded on its own.¡±

    She lowered her gaze, a shadow of unease crossing her face.

    ¡°I know all of this may seem strange and suspicious to you, but I assure you it¡¯s the truth! Protecting you is the only thing that truly matters to me!¡±

    The tension in the room grew with each passing moment of silence.

    ¡®Hmmm¡­¡¯

    Mirac studied the woman¡¯s face intently: there was certainly sincerity in her words, but there was also something that continued to elude him¡­

    ¡°I have one last question for you, then, Carmen¡­¡±

    Carmen looked at him intently.

    ¡°Ask away, young Prince.¡±

    Mirac took a moment to think. Every word had to be chosen carefully, every question precisely formulated.

    He slowly crossed his arms, and his expression grew even more serious and probing.

    ¡°For all this time, did you already know who the ¡®Professor Shirkenn¡¯ really was?¡±

    The question echoed through the room, making it feel suddenly smaller.

    In that moment of silence, a subtle tension seemed to ripple through the air.

    Seeing that his ¡°bodyguard¡± showed no sign of responding, Mirac pressed on, his voice growing more insistent but never losing its composure:

    ¡°Actually, there¡¯s no need for you to confirm anything, because I¡¯m quite convinced about it, and now I¡¯ll explain why. When you arrived to save me, after throwing that rock into his eye, you called him by his real name: ¡®Klark¡¯. That means you knew who he was from the very beginning. So, as I see it, the only plausible explanation is that you already knew the true identity of the fake Professor Shirkenn.¡±

    The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken meanings.

    Carmen¡¯s face was inscrutable, but the slight stiffening of her hands betrayed an inner conflict.

    ¡®I can¡¯t back out now¡­¡¯ she thought, exhaling deeply.

    Then, Carmen lifted her gaze to meet Mirac¡¯s.

    ¡°For someone your age, you¡¯re remarkably perceptive, young Prince¡­¡±

    She allowed herself the faintest hint of a smile, almost affectionate, but her face quickly turned serious again.

    ¡°Yes, you¡¯re right. I already knew that Professor Shirkenn was, in fact, an imposter. But once again, I can¡¯t tell you how I knew it. It¡¯s part of the secrets of my profession. And, of course, I couldn¡¯t tell anyone for that very reason. So, I had to handle it on my own. I hoped that constant threats would make him back down eventually, that he would leave the castle without the need for a direct confrontation. Unfortunately, things didn¡¯t turn out that way.¡±

    ¡°Constant threats?¡± Mirac repeated, surprised.

    ¡°Exactly,¡± Carmen replied. ¡°The first day Klark arrived, I threatened him by telling him I had his family hostage. Of course, it wasn¡¯t true, but for a number of reasons, he believed it. In exchange for the ¡®safety¡¯ of his loved ones, I imposed two rules on him: not to lay a single finger on you and to provide me with some information.¡±

    Mirac, still seated at the desk before her, watched every subtle movement on the face of the red-haired woman.

    ¡°And for over a year, this strategy of mine was working successfully!¡± exclaimed Carmen. ¡°He showed no hostility towards you and simply adapted to the role of Professor. He seemed to have given up. But that lasted only until that evening, when Klark decided to take advantage of my absence¡ªand that of your father, Grand Knight Leonard, and the Infernal Knights¡ªto try to kill you after discovering that I didn¡¯t actually have his family held hostage.¡±

    The memory of the confrontation surfaced in Carmen¡¯s mind, her expression growing heavier.

    ¡°I¡¯m grateful, at least, that I arrived in time to stop him,¡± she said, her voice trembling slightly. ¡°But¡­¡±

    Her words trailed off for a moment, and her gaze dropped to the floor.

    ¡°It¡¯s entirely my fault that you lost your arm! If I¡¯d dealt with him the very first day, none of this would have happened!¡±

    Her voice faded into a whisper as she clenched her trembling fists in frustration.

    ¡°I humbly beg your forgiveness, young Prince¡­¡±

    Mirac remained silent for a few moments.

    Then he took a deep breath, and his fingers, which had been drumming idly on the edge of his chair, stilled.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± he said, his tone soft, almost as if to comfort her. ¡°After all, it wasn¡¯t you who cut off my arm. And besides, without you, my family would probably be mourning over my grave right now. You undoubtedly did your best to help me, and I¡¯m very grateful to you for saving my life.¡±

    Carmen raised her head, surprised. Her eyes, usually so impenetrable, widened slightly.

    Her lips parted faintly, as though she was at a loss for words.

    Finally, a smile, warm and affectionate, graced her lips.

    ¡°I¡¯m glad to hear that, young Prince¡­¡±

    Mirac returned a faint smile and nodded, letting the silence stretch briefly between them. Then, with his gaze drifting to the horizon beyond the window, he seemed to gather his thoughts.

    When he looked back at her, the smile was gone, replaced by an expression of renewed seriousness.

    ¡°But, Carmen¡­¡± he began, his tone heavy with doubt, ¡°are you sure you¡¯re not hiding something else from me?¡±

    The ¡°maid¡± widened her eyes, visibly caught off guard.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°Nothing, really,¡± he replied, shrugging. ¡°But the reaction you just had makes me think you¡¯re hiding something else¡­ Something that, for no reason in the world, you want me to find out¡­¡±

    Before Carmen could respond, Mirac continued speaking, his tone growing more resolute:

    ¡°For instance, there might be another reason why you didn¡¯t alert anyone to Klark¡¯s presence. Come to think of it, you could have warned about the infiltrator¡¯s presence at the castle without compromising your identity. You could have, for example, simply sent an anonymous letter to the royal guards, or even better, to the King. And yet, you didn¡¯t.¡±

    The tension in the room escalated sharply, and it was then that Carmen realized where this conversation was heading.

    ¡°Did you want to keep gathering the information that Klark was forced to provide you based on the second rule you had imposed on him? That¡¯s possible, but I doubt it¡¯s the only explanation,¡± Mirac pressed on. ¡°Maybe you wanted to learn something more from him¡­ For example, find out who hired him to kill me¡­¡±

    With a decisive gesture, he rose from his chair and stepped closer to Carmen, who was still kneeling before him.

    His expression grew more intense, as did his voice.

    ¡°Because perhaps, just like me, you suspect that it was someone residing here at the castle who hired Klark to kill me¡­¡±