ITITPS 15

Chapter : 15

Rewind to just before Asha lost consciousness.

Mikhail stared blankly at the scene unfolding before him.

At the moment his wind-forged blade was about to pierce the crack’s core, he had fully expected victory—yet it had never been close.

He failed to dodge the sudden burst of blue flame. That mistake came back as Asha’s injury.

A flame so bright it hurt to look at crawled up Asha’s arms. The terrible stench of cooking flesh reached his nose.

“Anastasia!”

The mask he normally hid behind had been cast aside long ago.

Without realizing it, Mikhail screamed Asha’s name until his throat tore.

Unlike him—pathetic, frozen with fear of death—she threw herself forward without hesitation to save him.

She must have been suffering unimaginable pain, and yet she showed none of it as she raised her arms and swung her sword.

Refusing to give up, pressing forward, baring her teeth and enduring agony willingly.

Beautiful.

It was a strange, trembling sensation.

A world that had been flat, like looking through a thin film, suddenly turned real.

Asha’s pink hair—something he had only thought unusual before—shone dazzlingly bright.

“Truly excellent swordsmen! When next we meet, hero, I will be sure to ask your name!”

As the core split cleanly in two, the space trembled.

The chilling aura of the mighty foe vanished with its last words.

From there, the crack shattered completely. While Mikhail stood frozen, Asha rolled across the ground, smothering the flames on her arms.

“Are you all right, Your Highness?”

Her fierce aura nowhere to be found, Asha smiled innocently and reached out to him—then froze.

Even he, merely looking, sucked in a sharp breath.

Had it been Mikhail, he would have thrown aside his princely dignity and rolled on the floor sobbing.

But Asha, lightly covering her arms with her cloak, looked perfectly calm.

No—there was no way she was fine.

Words caught in Mikhail’s throat.

“Th-that wound…”

“Hm? Don’t worry about it. I’ll be perfectly fine once it’s treated.”

“….”

Had the nerves burned away so she couldn’t feel pain? Even so, she must have felt it before.

Proof glistened on her brow—cold sweat. Eyes wavering, Mikhail moved toward her.

That was when—

“Ghk!”

“Anastasia!”

Without him noticing, she must have taken damage inside. A trickle of red spilled from her mouth.

Her body collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Mikhail rushed forward and caught her limp body. Fearing she might be dead, he held a finger under her nose—there was breath.

His knees nearly gave out in relief. Still holding Asha, he sank to the ground.

A distant bell tolled midnight.

“What is the meaning of this.”

Under Ilya’s fierce questioning, Mikhail hung his head.

For someone who normally sought out fights instead of avoiding them, it was an unusual sight—but no one pointed that out.

“A crack appeared, and—”

“We can see that much! I’m asking why Asha ended up like this!”

“Duke, calm yourself.”

Serena stepped between the raging Ilya and Mikhail.

She tried to stay rational, but she too was close to losing control.

Ever since she saw Asha limp in Mikhail’s arms—

Serena knelt and lifted the cloak covering Asha’s arms. She heard Ilya’s strangled gasp behind her.

It’s bad. Bad enough that fainting is a blessing.

Her breath hitched.

Even for someone accustomed to fire and burns, it was horrific.

Knowing exactly how much pain such wounds caused, Serena exhaled shakily.

It felt as if someone was carving up her heart. She had sworn to protect Asha—yet at the moment that mattered most, she hadn’t been there.

Always… I only arrive after you’re hurt.

She forced out a long, rough breath. She shoved her rage down.

What would help now was not a furious girl, but a clear-headed adult.

And she was the oldest person here. She had to be.

“Guards! Inform His Majesty that the crack is destroyed and the prince has returned safely. Then summon the priest assigned to the palace—immediately!”

“Y-yes! Right away!”

The guard stationed nearby sprinted off at her urgent command.

Serena watched his retreating figure, eyes clouded.

Depressing.

No—really, I don’t even know if this is a dream or reality.

“You have three months.”

“You have three months left to live.”

Stefan’s calm expression replayed in my head along with the impossible situation I’d been thrust into.

Logically, I understood.

I had been engineered to rely more on reason than emotion.

It made me useful to society—as an exceptional programmer.

But I was still human.

Receiving a death sentence at twenty-five, told it was because of a researcher’s unrelated mistake?

I could not accept it.

Genetic defects are found in only one out of a thousand children born in the Child Factory.

Statistically not small, not large. But once it was my problem, probability became one hundred percent.

The manuals drilled into my head since the moment I was born swarmed my thoughts.

You hit the 0.1%. How unfortunate.

Your luck just ran out.

Accept death quietly and spend your remaining time making programs for Zone A residents.

That’s your purpose, isn’t it?

“…No.”

A word I had never dared to say slipped out.

I clapped a hand over my mouth in shock.

But once doubt started, it only grew.

In the name of population control and a peaceful society—

Was it really acceptable to measure lives and decide who must sink?

Was assigning letters from A to E to rank human beings and forcing them to live within those constraints right?

I was born in Zone B—the best possible zone short of the privileged class. My elite future guaranteed. I had welcomed it.

Obedience had carried me upward with ease. I had never bothered questioning the system.

Had I not turned out defective, I would have stayed that way my entire life.

Standing frozen, I noticed the sanitation workers cleaning the junkyard.

Born to scrub trash, they could only follow orders; they didn’t have enough cognition to speak.

If I had been born in Zone E, I wouldn’t even have the intelligence to question any of this.

“…haha.”

The anger deflated like a popped balloon.

There was nothing I could do. I trudged home on weak legs.

“Games… yeah. Let’s just play games.”

Escape was the only thing someone ordinary like me could manage.

[Logging into Raison d’Etre.]

My view shifted with the familiar login window. I blinked at the ornate ceiling overhead.

‘So I was right.’

For some reason, the game had changed. Even while I was logged out, time inside continued to flow.

Once, I would’ve been curious enough to dissect the code—but now, I no longer cared.

I reached out and stroked Ilya’s sleeping head, his hand still clutching mine.

“Ilya, wake up. I’m here.”

He twitched his nose at my whisper. His eyes fluttered open, and the moment he saw me sitting up, he jumped.

“Asha!”

“Mm. I’m back.”

He was desperate; I spoke lightly with a smile. I wasn’t even sure what expression I was making.

Probably a mess.

“…Asha.”

Warm arms wrapped around me.

A heartbeat later, I realized I was being held.

Ilya’s steady heart pounded against me.

So alive.

“Thank goodness… thank goodness… If you hadn’t woken up, I…”

Like a child clinging to its mother, he held on.

He was nearly 25 centimeters taller than me, yet the earnest, awkward way he behaved made him look like a boy.

Strip away the mature front he always put on, and there was just a child still trapped in old wounds.

[(Hug Ilya back tightly)]

[(Kiss Ilya on the cheek)]

…Already a kiss?

The second option startled me, but with his affection level at 184, it wasn’t strange.

Not that I planned to choose it.

Too soon.

Romance has stages—there must be buildup.

Even if I’ve built walls and bridges with him across 99 loops, the current Ilya has none of those memories.

And going too fast doesn’t fit my current persona either.

I chose the first option. My avatar burrowed into his arms playfully.

He smelled like freshly baked cake.

Delightful.

“A-Asha…?”

[Ilya’s Affection +10]

[Ilya’s Affection +10]

[Ilya’s Affection +10]

Startled by my sudden warmth, Ilya’s dark eyes trembled like dancing ripples.

He must think I’m unbelievably naïve. The truth was anything but—but misunderstandings are free.

His large hands hovered awkwardly along my back before finally settling and holding me firmly.

After a long, hesitant pause, he spoke.

“This incident made me realize something. I can’t bear seeing you hurt.”

“Ilya…”

“I know. You are the hero chosen by the Goddess of Light. And you are not someone who shirks responsibility.”

The more he spoke, the more certainty filled his voice.

I looked at his neat, handsome face—and the resolve painted over it.

“Therefore, please, allow me to stay by your side.”

[Ilya wishes to join your party.]

[Accept?]

Of course I accepted. When I nodded, he smiled—the corners of his eyes curling beautifully.

A breathtaking smile.

[Ilya has joined the party.]

[Current party members (3/5)]

And just as he leaned toward me—

“Lady Anastasia! You’re awake at last!”

“Anastasia!”

Mute and Mikhail burst through the door.

Whatever Ilya had been thinking, his face went scarlet.

“So, umm… Your Grace. Why are you embracing the patient…?”

“T-This is a misunderstanding!”

Ilya cried out desperately.