Chapter 242: Sylvia (5)

"Which iteration of me stands before you now?" Deculein inquired.

As Deculein’s voice spread through the air, the island fell under a stillness so profound it seemed the world forgot to turn. The breeze stopped where it blew, waves hardened like stone, clouds lost their softness, the sun dimmed, and birds hung motionless in the sky.

"What do you mean by that," Sylvia asked, her eyes dimming like frost settling over still water.

“I’m thinking through the possibilities,” Deculein said, stepping forward with purpose.

“... Thinking through what possibility.”

"That you have grown more than I remembered, and now I question whether the one standing before you is the man I used to be or just the semblance of myself."

Sylvia held her silence, her lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes never left Deculein.

"Time doesn’t behave here like it does beyond these shores. The Voice, from the start, was that sort of demon," Deculein continued, clenching a handful of sand.

Deculein glanced down at the heels beneath her. Sylvia—once a girl who slipped through life in flats—now walked with the poise of someone who had chosen to be seen.

“Sylvia, you’ve been on this island a long time already—three years, four, perhaps even more.”

Sylvia watched him speak, but it wasn’t the real Deculein her eyes held—it was the portrait she had painted of him, brought to life by memory and distance.

“Five years,” Sylvia said, correcting him.

Deculein opened his hand, and the sand slipped through his fingers.

Tsssssssshh...

The sand dropped in a straight line, undisturbed by breeze or breath, settling as if the world had paused to watch it fall.

“You are right. Inside the Voice, time doesn’t follow the same rules. For five years, I never stopped drawing you over and over again.”

"Then that must mean my original self would be—"

“Still out there in the sea, swimming in circles—like a fool,” Sylvia interrupted.

The sea of the Voice stretched into eternity—expanding infinitely, always slipping farther the closer he came. From the start, the island had never been his to reach.

“Because of you, I finally came to a conclusion.”

However, for Sylvia, there was comfort in knowing he hadn’t stopped swimming.

"That, I can draw Deculein to bring him to life on canvas," Sylvia concluded.

From the Deculein caught in that sea, Sylvia gathered his information, remembered, and reimagined—until a different Deculein took shape from the drawing under her pen. And now, with the Voice flowing through her, the sea responded to her touch.

"To draw... to bring to life."

“Yes. You made me angry,” Sylvia replied, nodding with certainty. “I’ve drawn hundreds of Deculeins, but none ever affected me—until you came. You spoke from his heart, and I don’t believe a single word you said to me was false.”

The fact that there was no paradise offering only happiness, not in this world or any other, and that she had his sympathy, were not the words of something artificial. The Deculein she had drawn was changing—becoming more real, more complete with every breath.

“Sylvia, you are misunderstanding,” Deculein replied.

Deculein called it a misunderstanding, though it wasn’t for her, and Sylvia’s brow tightened.

“Misunderstanding.”

"Indeed. To manifest one such as I is not an accomplishment achieved by your ability alone—no, not by the power of someone like you."

“Someone like me.”

Does he still see me as the same student I once was? Does he speak to me as if nothing’s changed?

Sylvia thought.

Heat bloomed across Sylvia’s forehead; however, she found herself hoping it meant it was a good sign.

“Even the god of creation could not manifest what I am. My identity defies confinement within such a shallow shell as this,” Deculein stated.

“... What a narcissist.”

Sylvia startled, just slightly, as his words took on that familiar arrogance; however, she found herself hoping it meant it was a good sign.

“You say no one could create you—but here you are. That alone proves you wrong,” Sylvia replied without hesitation.

“No. The reason I’ve become who I am through your design is because I finally reached

Comprehension

—and in doing so, I gave my consent to be.”

There was something strange in the words he spoke, and for a moment, Sylvia couldn’t follow him, blinking as if trying to catch a thought that had slipped just out of reach.

“You really did take after him—even down to the way you overcomplicate everything you say.”

“Understanding will come with time. When I come, the meaning will come with me.”

“... Deculein won’t be able to make it back. That sea will keep him forever.”

At Sylvia’s words, Deculein smiled. It was the kind of smile that didn’t belong to a man like him, but rather to a professor who viewed her as little more than a student.

“You’ll know soon enough.”

“... That’s enough,” Sylvia replied, narrowing her eyes as she glared at him. “You are no longer the one I need.”

Crumble—

At that moment, Deculein’s feet began to come apart—thin layers peeling away like paint scraped from an old canvas, the rupture climbing methodically up his legs.

“Sylvia.”

However, the smile on Deculein’s face remained.

“Remember this.”

Deculein’s complete composure unsettled her in ways she couldn’t name.

To be discarded must mean the end of existence itself. Even if he was never real, the death of the self should have given him some fear. That would only be natural...

Sylvia thought.

“It wasn’t you who drew me,” Deculein continued, his lower half already gone, leaving only the upper half behind.

However, the man he used to be would not have stood so composed; therefore, she found herself hoping it meant it was a good sign.

"It is I who came to you."

Whissssssh—

Deculein’s body began to fade—his chest, his neck, his mouth, his nose, his eyes, his shape—all slipping away like paint bleeding through water. When the sea breeze passed, only the crystal orb remained in the sand, the one Sylvia held as her catalyst.

“... No,” Sylvia muttered, shaking her head. “He’ll never make it.”

Sylvia muttered under her breath as she assembled the telescope, then raised it and looked out toward the sea.

“... He is still out there.”

Sylvia found Deculein there, still swimming, his body moving through the infinite waves of the Voice—lost in a current with no end.

"

Indeed. To manifest one such as I is not an accomplishment achieved by your ability alone—no, not by the power of someone like you... I gave my consent to be.

"

Therefore, Deculein’s words were nonsense—foolish, illogical, and never meant to be taken seriously.

"From something that isn't even real."

How dare something that isn’t even real talk like it knows what he would say,

Sylvia thought.

Sylvia set the telescope down and took the crystal orb from where it lay buried in the sand. Deculein had dropped it while swimming, and it had become the perfect catalyst for her work.

“Always leaving things behind,” Sylvia muttered, placing Deculein’s crystal orb in the sand.

Sylvia aligned the Primary Colors onto a single point and then backed away.

One step, two steps, three steps, four steps, five steps, six steps, seven steps, eight steps, nine steps, ten steps, eleven steps, twelve steps, and thirteen steps...

As Sylvia stepped back for the thirteenth time, someone emerged from the shoreline. Through the stormy sea of mana, Deculein stood on the Island of the Voice, spotting her instantly, and with an expression untouched by storm or time, he held her gaze.

“... Sylvia,” Deculein called her name, straightening his tie, running a hand over his soaked coat with

Cleanse

to dry the seawater, and smoothing his hair and tie back into place. "It’s been a while."

Standing before Deculein, Sylvia could no longer tell if what she felt was love—or something darker. Like her father Glitheon’s blind delusion, it might only be love bordering on obsession.

"... Follow me. There’s something I need to say to you," Sylvia said, already turning.

However, in the end, the mage sought only a miracle that asked nothing in return and brought harm to no one.

So this, too, will be something the world remembers as my achievement,

Sylvia thought.

"Good, I had something to say—"

"No, don’t take another step," Sylvia said, stopping him from moving.

“Explain,”

Deculein said.

... As Deculein had only just been drawn, and like any stroke of oil on canvas, he needed time to dry before he could move; otherwise, moving too soon would only smear the edges.

“This is the Island of the Voice. Those who died long ago, entire races that were extinct a long time ago, and the Voice’s fanatics, they all live here."

Therefore, Sylvia was the first to approach, her steps uncertain—but she kept walking, each one bearing the weight of conflicted emotions.

"If they see you alone, they'll try to kill you," Sylvia added, extending her hand toward him—no, only two fingers. Then, with just her thumb and forefinger, she pinched the edge of his sleeve delicately for him not to break. "Don't die just yet."

Now, standing before Deculein once more, Sylvia remembered what it was like to feel alive.

"It won't be dangerous as long as you stay with me.”

After Cielia was gone, misery became Sylvia’s only constant. In that long night, the one flicker of light had always been the self-portrait of Deculein inside her—an image cracked by grief, tinted with resentment. Yet, she could neither erase him nor let him go, for he was too much a part of her to ever release.

“

So stay close to my side.

”

I want to survive, and I want to do it with you.

***

“... Not a total blockhead, then," Sophien said.

At the sixty-eighth move, Yulie finally earned praise from Sophien. A rush of joy, bright and immediate, welled up within Yulie, but it passed behind her eyes before it could reach the surface.

"Your Majesty, I am honored. However, they say that a game with a seven-stone handicap holds little meaning, for whether one wins or loses, there is little to be gained—"

“Enough talk. You may ask me one thing.”

Surprise swept across Yulie's face as her eyes widened.

“Consider this your reward. One question—I’ll answer it,” Sophien added, chin in hand, her eyes gleaming with a mesmerizing smile.

At Sophien’s words, Yulie’s face settled into seriousness as she straightened her posture, placing her fists upon her knees and asked, “Yes, Your Majesty. If I may—though I am but a knight—might I ask why Your Majesty would take interest in a matter so closely held between myself and the Professor?”

“I’m searching for the Professor’s weakness,” Sophien replied with a nod.

“Weakness...”

“The Professor’s influence has grown abnormally large. It’s only natural that it demands a counterbalance. But don’t mistake this for an investigation—just a few reports from the Intelligence Agency, a recollection or two, a glance at the circumstances. From there, the answer fell into place. And Yulie, you were the final piece of that confirmation.”

In the full armor of a sworn knight's spirit, Yulie absorbed the voice of the Empress.

“It was clear enough that the Professor killed Rockfell. Veron, I wasn’t certain about, but your response answered that for me. Whatever the world may not know, it seems you are holding the evidence that no one else could find,” Sophien continued.

“... Yes, Your Majesty.”

Everything Sophien had said was right—with the support of Josephine, Yulie retrieved what little was left of Veron, as if piecing a name back together from the dust.

“However, a single death of a knight won’t be enough to topple a man like him.”

“Perhaps not topple—but it will leave a mark on him, Your Majesty.”

“A mark, you say? You certainly have the will to stand against Deculein,” Sophien said, raising an eyebrow.

Yulie remained silent.

“I find myself wondering if you will come to regret this.”

“That... Sophien, Your Majesty,” Yulie replied, barely above a whisper.

Sophien said nothing as her fingers closed around the white stone, preparing for her next move.

“There isn’t much life left in me, Your Majesty.”

At that moment, the Empress’s hand paused above the board.

“Of course I live as any knight must—to survive and carry out my duty as a knight to stay alive,” Yulie continued, placing a hand over her heart. “But what is true must still be accepted, Your Majesty.”

Yulie had overcome what none believed she could—a heart bound by curse, a fate pronounced final. But even as she lived, she understood that her time left was no more than ten years, and perhaps no longer than tomorrow.

“Many of my comrades have gone before me in this life, too many left with injustice unspoken, Your Majesty.. Rockfell and Veron were only the most recent. I only hope I have the strength to see their justice done.”

“... Very well,” Sophien replied, directing her eyes toward the report Yulie had raised before her.

It began in the academy—an incited murder, suicides no one questioned, systematic cruelty beneath a polished name, and later, a stolen thesis, all while Louina McQueen was blackmailed into silence.

But that was only the beginning—through lies and manipulation, Deculein stole visions from the families of magic, crushed noble houses beneath the weight of debt, and absorbed merchant guilds into silence. By the end, the damage was so extensive that no ledger could contain it.

“Despite all he’s done, Deculein has yet to move toward the greater of what he has already achieved. It will begin once he returns from the Voice—that much is widely understood.”

“And you wish to stop it?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Even the weakness you shared with me—the one that could have seen you driven from the Imperial Palace—was that also a move against Deculein?”

“... Yes, Your Majesty. I’d rather bare my own wound than let him turn it into a weapon.”

“

Hmm

,” Sophien murmured, her eyes resting on Yulie.

“Also, Your Majesty, there has been progress in the matter of the attempted poisoning,” Yulie said with composed solemnity.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I will not fall short of your expectations—and will give you no cause for disappointment.”

“

Hmm

. As I suspected—knights sit better with me than the Professor’s ilk,” Sophien replied.

“... I’m honored beyond words, Your Majesty,” Yulie said, unable to hide the emotion welling up on her face.

Sophien smiled and placed her stone on the board. The moment it clicked against the wood, Yulie refocused on the game.

Soon, Sophien’s lips curled into a smile that never reached her eyes. Humanity, for all its pride, was nothing special and predictable in function. Beneath the layers of reason and language, they behaved no differently than the simplest livestock, such as dogs or pigs. Ironically, it was their intellect that only served to blind them further.

Perhaps it all began the moment Sophien assigned her that task or granted Yulie access to the Intelligence Agency. From that point forward, as Yulie followed the trail of the attempted poisoning and raced after Deculein’s truth, someone had been silently watching every step—and that someone was Sophien.

No, Sophien hadn’t stayed silent; she had quietly manipulated the evidence Yulie would find—just enough to keep her circling near the truth, but never reaching it. Just enough to make her despise Deculein, to make her ruin herself, one step at a time. This was manipulation at its most elegant.

Of course, what Sophien had done went far beyond mischief. Sophien might deny it with every breath, but something inside her had already leaned toward something she dared not name.

“

Even now, there’s still a part of me that wants to see you, even if only once.

”

That single phrase, spoken by the Professor as if to himself, never left her. Sophien repeated it again and again, carrying it through each turning sky—under sun and stars, moon and floating clouds—until one day, without ceremony, she surrendered to its meaning.

As the white stone touched the board, Sophien met Yulie’s eyes. What she wanted was simple—whatever tied this woman to Deculein would fracture, piece by piece, until there was nothing left, until Yulie became nothing more than a forgotten possibility.

“Now, let’s see your move,” Sophien said, leaning back slightly as her stone clicked into place.

Then Sophien’s eyes settled on the snow globe atop the table. It brought Keiron to mind, and without moving her lips, she spoke to him as one speaks through his thoughts.

—

... As time goes on, even without the Professor speaking a word or showing his heart, I find myself doubting Rohakan’s prophecy. More and more, I catch myself murmuring that perhaps fate never existed at all.

Keiron gave a silent nod.

—

Now here I sit, finding myself rationalizing my reason.

—

May I ask what you are rationalizing, Your Majesty?

—

Freyden—yes, they were the ones who attempted to poison me. They claimed that the continent would breathe easier without me.

From across the stones, Sophien looked at Yulie as if she were pulling her apart, piece by piece.

—

Therefore, I tell myself that the child of a traitor has no right to be remembered by the Professor—no right to be held in his heart... That is the rationalization I’ve made for myself.

—

Which means Your Majesty has built this rationalization upon the inherited guilt of her bloodline.

Inherited guilt of her bloodline for rationalization. How perfectly damnable,

Sophien thought.

—

However, isn’t that a fair punishment for a house that has killed me through a hundred lives? To take away even the only possibility I’ve ever known—would that not be too harsh a fate?

—

Is Professor Deculein the last star in the only possibility left in Your Majesty’s sky?

The Empress’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile at Keiron’s question.

—

That man remains the most likely, for the moment, as no other possibility even comes to mind...