TINOT 11

Chapter: 11

Lysithea suddenly found the sound of her own footsteps irritating. She wanted to erase every noise in the world—

so that she could focus on that voice alone.

“Ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five.”

Following the slow, steady voice, Lysithea moved forward.

It wasn’t difficult. She had already done this twice before.

“Ninety-six, ninety-seven…”

She felt two conflicting urges at once—wanting this moment to last forever, and wanting it to end as soon as possible.

At last, she stopped in front of a door at the end of the second-floor corridor, faint light leaking out through the crack.

The floor was slippery. When she looked down, she saw blood pooled and spreading across it.

She pushed the open door and stepped inside. Suspicious figures in masks lay scattered across the floor, their joints twisted at impossible angles.

Stepping over the bothersome obstacles, Lysithea walked toward her goal.

“Ninety-eight.”

A dim interior. Bodies grotesquely contorted in death. A beautiful voice brushing against her ears.

And a single man, reclining diagonally against a long chair, endlessly counting numbers.

He was exactly as he had appeared in her dreams—no different at all.

Disheveled clothing. Pale gold hair that shone alone in the darkness. Long, straight fingers tapping against the armrest.

And—

“…Ninety-nine.”

The moment his voice, slow and languid until then, abruptly stopped.

Lysithea knew what was supposed to happen next.

“—Ninety-nine, ninety-nine, o—”

In the first dream she ever had, the man hesitated, counting ninety-nine again and again, unable to reach one hundred, eventually returning to the beginning.

But she had not dreamed only once.

She preferred the ending of the second dream.

“Ninety-nine, ninety—”

“One hundred.”

“One hundred.”

Just as in her second dream, Lysithea spoke the number the man could not finish.

“….”

His chest swelled and fell deeply.

For the first time, a crack appeared in his statue-like elegance.

After a deep sigh, he slowly lowered the arm that had been covering his eyes.

The eyes that met hers were just as beautiful as she had expected—far more vivid than in her dreams.

Each time he blinked, the coral-colored irises deepened, as though red paint were layered over them.

His expended mana was replenishing.

To witness mana restoring itself in real time—this was a man who possessed power beyond belief.

“Uninvited guests just keep coming today.”

Rising from the chair, the man tilted his head left and right as though weary.

At that moment, one of the masked figures at his feet kicked off the ground and leapt up.

Even with one shoulder twisted unnaturally, the assassin thrust his sword straight toward the man’s heart.

“I let you be because I knew,” the man said with a hollow laugh as he waved his hand.
“But why rush toward death? You could’ve just played dead and gone back to your master.”

A red glint passed through his eyes, and the surrounding air suddenly grew heavy.

The ground felt as though it were melting and heaving. Lysithea felt nauseous, like severe motion sickness.

The blade aimed at his heart clattered uselessly to the floor, and the masked man collapsed to his knees.

Both arms and legs were crushed and warped, as if pressed down by immense weight—

as though the earth itself had dragged him under.

Then Lysithea heard the sound of air being cut behind her.

It was the presence that had been bothering her all along.

Without even looking, she bent at the waist to avoid the first strike, spun, and kicked her attacker’s chin upward.

As the masked man staggered back in surprise, Lysithea pulled the ornament from her hair and stabbed it into his throat.

A fountain of blood burst forth, splashing across her face.

The body collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud.

Having dealt with the remnants side by side, the two finally faced each other.

The man stepped over the corpses and approached her. Reaching out, he wiped the blood from her cheek.

“So,” he asked gently,
“may I ask what business my final guest of the day has with me?”

It was far too kind a voice for addressing an intruder.

“I’d prefer it if you weren’t here for my life.”

He rubbed his brow dramatically and glanced around the room filled with fallen assassins.

His eyes, now fully restored with mana, were blood-red.

“And you… who are you?”

The moment he whispered near her ear, a pendulum clock—somewhere unseen—began to ring.

Dong. Dong. Deeeong—

The sound announcing noon made Lysithea realize once again that this was no dream, but reality.

“Lysithea Aster. Your Highness will take my hand.”

Perhaps because the echo of the bells lingered in her ears—

her own voice felt as though it were coming from far away.

***

“My hand?”
Diamuid asked, pointing to himself.

Was there anyone else here?

Maintaining eye contact, Lysithea nodded.

“Like this?”

Diamuid reached out and gently clasped both of her hands.

They stood facing each other, hands joined, as if about to dance.

He gave her hands a small shake—an awkward motion that barely counted as rhythm.

“Haha. If that’s an invitation to be your dance partner, I’ll accept it this way. I haven’t attended a banquet since I was five.”

Laughing out loud in embarrassment, he released her hands and stepped back.

“I wouldn’t want to disgrace a lady with my clumsy dancing.”

It was a refusal as smooth as flowing water—gentle, considerate, and impossible to take offense at.

Lysithea had the distinct feeling that he wouldn’t be easy to deal with.

Once again, she was impressed by the version of herself in the story who had managed to pull such a grand duke onto her side.

“Instead—well, it’s not much of a substitute, but I’ll serve you tea. Though… there’s hardly anywhere to sit.”

He casually tossed the bodies scattered around the sitting room into a corner.

Dragging a chair that had been tangled among corpses back into place, he gestured for her to sit.

Lysithea took the seat and quietly watched his back as he brewed the tea.

Pouring hot water, adding tea leaves, preparing cups—his movements flowed together as though painted in a single stroke.

“I’m not sure if it’ll be to your taste,”
he said, sliding a cup toward her.

The tea was dark in color.

Perhaps he preferred it brewed strong.

With that thought, Lysithea lifted the cup.

“I sent a letter two days ago to inform you of my visit. Did you not receive it?”

Two days earlier, she had sent word through Marie to announce her visit.

Since no reply rejecting her had arrived, she had assumed permission was granted.

But judging by his reaction, it seemed he had known nothing of her arrival.

“Two days ago… I think I did receive something.”

He hummed low in his throat, then offered a bright apology.

“Sorry. I rarely check letters from people I’m not acquainted with.”

His demeanor never changed.

Gentle, but not easy. Kind, yet indifferent.

Though he had likely lived only a fleeting moment bathed in blessings and spent most of his life isolated in misery, there was nothing servile or gloomy about him.

A man born with a brilliance nothing could conceal.

Facing Diamuid, Lysithea could not understand this world’s taste at all.

Why, in a world with someone like him, had Joel Spencer been chosen as the protagonist?

His appearance, his presence, even the brief glimpse of his character—his very existence was overwhelmingly superior.

Still, there were days when one craved coarse rye bread over a perfectly prepared feast.

Having settled her thoughts thus, Lysithea took a sip—

then stared fixedly at Diamuid’s smiling face.

There was no change in his expression. He calmly drank his tea.

The taste shouldn’t be different from mine…

She glanced down at her cup and took another sip.

The flavor remained the same.

Bitter, astringent, and strangely hard to describe—much like the painkillers she took regularly.

Even for Lysithea, who didn’t care much about taste, it was unpleasant. For most people, it would be torture to swallow.

Is this his way of telling me to get out?

She briefly tried to read his intentions—then gave up.

There was no poison in the tea, and she saw no reason not to indulge a bit of petty mischief.

Without blinking, she finished the entire cup.

Setting the empty cup down with a soft clink, Lysithea opened her mouth.

“Since you’ve treated me to such a precious tea, I too wish to offer Your Highness something precious in return.”

Diamuid’s brows knit slightly in confusion.

For some reason, Lysithea felt amused.

Having a fine face before her—and watching it waver because of her—was a rather enjoyable experience.

“Grand Duke Cassius, I, Lysithea of Aster, offer the Cullinan Mine in exchange for Your Highness’s unbreakable loyalty. I hope you will accept it gladly.”

She had no intention of moving according to Spencer’s will, the emperor’s will, or the Marquis of Aster’s will.

That being the case, she needed someone to protect what they coveted most—even after her death.

Grand Duke Cassius Diamuid.

This man would become the heir to her legacy.