ITITPS 10

Chapter : 10

The influence of the choices vanished. I regained control of my body.

“You…”

Serena clamped her lips shut, as if lost for words before such a ridiculous reaction.

No matter how much pain the avatar in the game suffered, I would never feel it—but Serena could never know that.

That was the vast divide between us.

A player and a romance target.
I would eventually return to the cold real world, while she would spend her life in this fake world of zeroes and ones.

Our relationship was just pretend.
The version of me she saw wasn’t real.

So Serena and I could never be friends.

I placed my hand on Serena’s face, twisted with anger and helplessness—emotions whose target I couldn’t guess.

“Don’t cry.”

“…”

Only then did Serena seem to realize she was crying. She hurriedly wiped her tears away.

Perhaps she was ashamed of showing tears in front of others. Her cheeks flushed scarlet. Her wet eyes and lost expression were unbearably pitiful.

On impulse, I pulled Serena into a tight embrace. She resisted at first, but when I held her firmly she soon went still.

Her head rested against my chest.

I patted her trembling back, feeling the front of my clothes gradually dampen. Then, holding Serena close, I lifted my head.

“Asha.”

My eyes met Illya’s. The expression he wore looked like he wanted to tear out his own heart.

He squeezed his eyes shut as if pained.

My vision shifted.

Illya staggered down the corridor of the temple. He could hardly grasp what had just happened.

A destruction of the magic circuit, they had said.

A rare and incurable disease—one with no cure and so few cases that it was something you’d only see in tragedy. Yet he had never imagined it would come for someone before his eyes.

When he closed his eyes, Anastasia’s face flickered behind his eyelids.

A girl with dreamy pink hair and deep ocean-blue eyes smiled at him.

Asha…

He didn’t know why he remembered a future that hadn’t happened. But one thing was certain.

If it were a dream, it wouldn’t feel this vivid. These memories were real.

And if it were fake, there was no way he would know the existence of Asha—someone he shouldn’t even know yet, at this point in time.

He closed his eyes and recalled his first encounter with Anastasia.

A crack that opened during a royal banquet he’d been dragged to unwillingly.

When he thought he was doomed—trapped together with the First Prince who despised him—the pink-haired hero appeared like a comet.

Unlike him, she was strong.
Before the demon king’s lieutenant whom no one had dared kill for centuries, she showed not a flicker of fear.

When she shattered the core of the crack and reality and illusion collapsed together, Anastasia stood within it, shining brilliantly.

“Illya. Join my party!”

She reached out her hand to him—him, who could not even control the demonic instincts flowing in his blood.

Everyone else shrank from touching him, yet Anastasia grasped his hand without hesitation and smiled as bright as dawn. To him, she was salvation incarnate.

“So you’ve got demon blood. Who cares?”

“Being human isn’t that complicated. If you think you’re human and act like it, then you are.”

“Let them say whatever crap they want. Just ignore it.”

Anastasia was strong—not just in power.

Her entire mindset was something no ordinary person could understand.

She saw him, born to a demon father, as human.
She pulled Serena—wrecked by rage—from the abyss of vengeance.

She threw herself forward so that no one would die or suffer.

So it was only natural—inevitable—that Illya fell hopelessly in love with a girl who burned so brightly she lit the world.

“Illya? What’s wrong?”

He knew the First Prince, and even the priest in their party, felt the same way about her.

Even so—if Asha chose him, maybe…

“Illya!”

After their long, brutal battle ended, he dreamed of a future where he stayed beside her.

Even if Asha chose someone else, he believed he could be happy watching her happiness.

Truly, not once—

“Il… lya…”

—not once did he imagine Asha dying.

He saw again her back turned, shielding him from the demon’s attack he’d recklessly charged toward.

She must have been hurting—and yet she never complained, not even at the end.

“…I love you.”

He had never heard those words in this timeline—yet he couldn’t forget the faint voice of the dying girl.

Illya clutched his head and sagged against the wall.

What would it be like—if Asha confessed to him?
If she whispered that she loved him—what would that moment be?

Walking hand in hand through a spring garden?
Across a summer meadow beneath a sun that burned as fiercely as she did?

Perhaps an autumn mountaintop with pretty falling leaves, or a winter street glowing with lights made for lovers.

He had imagined countless idyllic scenes—but dying words on a blood-soaked battlefield were never among them.

Yet reality is always crueler than dreams.

By some miracle, he got a second chance.
But remnants of the past clung stubbornly on.

The hero had gained a disease she never had before.
And the priest’s verdict—that she would die even off the battlefield—made his heart plummet.

It felt as though the whole world wished for the hero’s death.
Dark, pessimistic thoughts overtook his mind.

A painful groan escaped him.

“Urgh!”

“Ah.”

Lost in thought, he bumped into someone.

Not a priest—a nobleman in fine attire, likely staying in Rezenka.

“My apologies.”

Illya bowed without hesitation. It was his fault, after all.

“No, if you’re going to barge into someone—”

The nobleman—face reddened from a hit to the nose—looked up mid-complaint, saw Illya, and fell silent.

His gaze caught Illya’s black hair and eyes. Fear and disgust twisted his expression.

“A demon? No—His Grace the Grand Duke Zaharov. I was under the impression you were not permitted entry to the temple.”

“I have not been forbidden.”

“R—right. Of course. Well then, I’ll be going…”

Illya watched the noble retreat at speed.

Before his regression, he had spent long days with the hero’s party. Afterward, he had shut himself inside his room.
It had been a long time since he’d received such a reaction.

Right. This is where I truly stand.

A cursed half-demon, born of the imperial princess whom all the empire adored.

A man who inherited his father’s black hair and eyes instead of his mother’s shining silver hair and blue gaze.

Gloom crept over him—until a sun-bright voice cut through.

“Your Grace?”

Illya flinched and turned.

“Is something wrong? You don’t look well.”

“…Asha.”

The moment he saw her face, the sticky despair evaporated.
In its place surged a consuming ache, and a breathless wave of joy.

A sudden urge to pull her into his arms seized him.

Mute’s room faded, replaced by a brief narration on the screen.

[Mute has asked your party to stay at the temple for a day. What will you do during your stay?]

[(Rest inside your room)]

[(Walk the temple halls)]

[(Head to the prayer chamber)]

“I have no clue,” I muttered.

Résoudre spun out countless stories depending on player choices.

Each character had picks closest to the “right answer,” but even I couldn’t always predict the correct one.

Especially with encounter events like these.

The first choice probably restored a bit of HP, or prompted a visitor to show up.
With my HP bar full, it had zero appeal.

That left two.

And the person I wanted to meet was decided from the start.

Which path leads to Illya?

This choice was pivotal—it tied into the later Forest of Shadow chapter.

After a moment’s thought, I chose the hallway.
Confident in my guess, the scene shifted.

[Illya encounter event!]

[Illya is a lonely man rejected by all. Approach him in his despair and raise his affection.]

Lucky.

I grinned, pleased I’d hit the mark.

I knew what this was—one of those surprise events forcing you to confront a character’s trauma and save them.

If the hallway had Illya, then the prayer room would’ve been Mute.
And the room—probably Serena, since neither guy barges into your quarters.

Surprise events were rare, but they raised affection far more than regular choices—and revealed hidden backstory.

I quickly ducked behind a stone pillar.

Familiar lines played clearly: a pained grunt, an arrogant NPC’s voice.

“Demon? No—His Grace the Grand Duke Zaharov. I thought you were forbidden from entering the temple.”

“I have not been forbidden.”

“R—right. Of course. My mistake…”

These events never failed to irritate me.

I clicked my tongue and waited for options.

[(Approach Illya)]

[(Chase after the nobleman)]

What, stomp that jerk for the second option?
Tempting—but wildly off my chosen persona.

I selected the first.

“Your Grace?”

My avatar walked toward Illya, chirping away on her own.

A flicker of emotion crossed Illya’s shadowed face—hard to name, but unmistakable.

Maybe he pitied her—
a hero doomed to die upon touching magic, yet sacrificing herself to save the world?

Beautiful.
In reality I’d never do something like that short of a bullet to the head—but in a game, who cares?

I decided to revel in the rush of the scene.

“Is something wrong? You don’t look well.”

“…Asha.”

His face twisted as he looked at my avatar—worried for someone else while her own body deteriorated.

How does it feel, being pitied by someone suffering more than you?

With a flutter of anticipation, I looked up at him—
and suddenly his arms wrapped around me.

Through the firm chest pressed against my cheek, I felt the pounding rhythm of his heart.

[Illya’s affection +50]

“Il—Illya?”

Fifty?!
Sure, surprise events raise affection, but not by fifty.
I’d never seen that before.

Affection never rose through pity.
So which part of the choice rattled Illya so much?

While I reeled, he spoke haltingly through ragged breaths.

“…I’ve… wanted to see you. Ever since you…”

That makes no sense either.

Later story routes would explain it.
But from his lines—Illya and the player must’ve met before the prologue.

It felt just like playing the first run again—heart pounding with mystery.

[Have we met before?]

[I don’t know what you mean.]

[…I missed you too, Illya.]

A set of ominously meaningful choices appeared.