‘Mirac… Mirac… Mirac…’ called a distant female voisistently, its to yet somehow also filled with .

  ‘Hmph, is that it? How pathetic!’ excimed another voice, male and disturbingly familiar, dripping with mockery.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mirac…’ sobbed another female voice, sweet and trembling, like the melodig 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 fusion.

  He found himself lying in a soft bed, his head heavy and his gaze lost iricately decorated ceiling of the room. The eborate 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 rge arched window to his right. The walls, painted a delicate shade of red, surrounded him with a sense of fort 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 seds, staring at the ceiling as memories came flooding back, overwhelming him like a releide. Ses from his battle with Krk assaulted him, brutal and vivid, sending a shiver c 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 horrifyiail: half of his left arm… was gone!

  “Huh…” he exhaled, his hand grazing the stump, carefully ed in white bandages. “So it was all real, huh?”

  Even his head and part of his chest were ed in bahe scratches and wounds from the battle with Krk were hiddeh psters and gauze, but the pain alpable, like a living memory that refused to fade.

  “If I’m here, safe and sound, I have to assume Carmen wht?” he wondered, a faint sense of relief mingling with the uhat stirred in his chest.

  Yet despite this clusion, Mirac’s face twisted into an expression of frustration.

  “Tsz!” he burst out, g his fist around the brownish bhat covered him. The soft fabritrasted with the fierce tension of his muscles, uo fully e 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 weling 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 imagihe songs of birds—light melodies that cshed 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—a grotesque trast seared into Mirac’s mind with haunting crity.

  The image materialized before his eyes, vivid and ghostly, like a distorted refle in the gss of the window.

  Frightened by the vision, a shiver of terror ran down his spine, f him to step back. His heart raced, and he found himself paralyzed, uo escape the harrowing memory that gripped him in its icy grasp.

  “It’s all my fault, Mr. Foss…” he hissed in a low voice, g 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, suffog him little by little.

  “Please five me, Mr. Foss…”

  The oppressive silence of the room was broken only by the releig of the clock’s hands.

  Mirac shook his head decisively, trying to break free from the spiral of his thoughts.

  He turowards 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 se himself of the sting within. As he allowed the warmth of the sunlight to caress his face, he felt a faint fort.

  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 newfouermination, as if he were trying to front not only his visible wounds but also the deeper, invisible ohat tio torment him.

  He opehe doors calmly and chose a white shirt. The fabric, soft and lightweight, seemed to promise a hint of fort.

  Wearing it, however, proved to be a challehe empty and sile sleeve was a stant reminder of his loss.

  With patiend a hint of frustration, he eventually mao adjust the shirt, though the emotional weight lingered.

  The bck trousers he already wore were fortable and long, but to plete his outfit, he grabbed a pair of white socks and bck shoes. He bent down to tie the ces but quickly realized how difficult it was to do so with just one hand.

  After several unsuccessful attempts, he gave up, tug the ces ihe shoes instead.

  He left the room and began desding the white marble staircase, the sound of his footsteps eg in the almost sacred silence of the castle. The light’s refles 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.

  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 f 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 pces, each with their own expression, staring at the Prianding at the doorway.

  At the far end of the table sat his father, rigid and gcial, his pierg 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, oher hand, regarded him with indifferent expressions, like detached spectators. Their faces betrayed her affe nor , radiating a sense of estra in respoo his arrival.

  The three twin sisters, however, reacted differently. Their eyes revealed a poorly cealed worry, hidden behind strained and forced smiles.

  Michelle, in particur, seemed the most shaken. Her face was tense, her eyes glistening with uears, uo hide the relief the others masked more effectively.

  But it was his mother who broke the silence.

  As soon as Queen Ginevra saw Mirater, her expression ged immediately. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she shot to her feet, rushing towards him with a face radiating love and relief.

  “Mirac!” she excimed, her voice crag 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 posure, though emotions ed within him. “I’m just a little tired… That’s all.”

  As soon as Miraished speaking, his father rose abruptly from his chair, the seat scraping slightly against the floor. His cold gaze betrayed no particur emotion as he stepped towards his son.

  “Mirac Strongold!” he decred in a deep, authoritative voice, his heavy steps eg through the hall.

  “Wait, dear, please!” Ginevra excimed, ging tighter to her son, desperate to extend this preoment of affe.

  “I’m sorry…” his father retorted without hesitation. “But I have something to say to him, and I will not wait a sed loo do so!”

  Mirac felt his heart race, the pounding filling his ears.

  Ginevra relutly let him go, and he found himself standing alone, face-to-face with his father, who tio approach with firm, deliberate steps.

  ‘Damn it!’ Mirac thought, f himself to stay calm and adopt a posture that veyed fidence. ‘He’s going to se 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 awarehat he hadn’t even witnessed Edward’s final moments—because he had been turned away when Krk killed him—struck 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 bme him if he wao insult me.’

  He struggled to keep his posure, 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 havien Krk. 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 mao 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—after fighting a real oppo— I finally uand why my father has always been so harsh with me: it’s because I’m weak! Very weak! Disgustingly weak!’

  The horrible realization that Krk had been stronger, faster, and more ing than him weighed on him, sm him with no reprieve.

  Once again, Mirac ched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, turning his knuckles white as the sense of helplessransformed 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, uo process what was happening.

  ‘I-I ’t believe it…!’

  While Mirac had kept his gaze lowered, King Arthur—the stern and unyielding father he knew—had k down to embrace him.

  The king held him tightly, a gesture so full of affe and so ued that it felt almost unreal.

  “D-Dad?!” Mirac stammered, momentarily fetting 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 rexed, letting go of the tension that had turned his fingers into cws.

  After a long moment of silend shared warmth, Arthur released the embrace. His hands rested on Mirac’s shoulders, firm yet gentle, as though he wao hold onto him just a little loo preserve that precious, fleeting moment.

  The king’s eyes met Mirac’s.

  The usual ess that had always defined him was gone. In its pce was a newfound iy, something deep and ued that seemed te the chasm that had always divided them.

  “I ’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 sn, now revealed a side of himself that Mirac barely reized.

  “I’m so proud of you!” the king excimed at st, with a siy 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 tless 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—the stao prove his worth, the harrowing memories of his training, and the crushing sense of weakness for having lost to Krk—seemed to dissolve in an instant, like mist uhe 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 ride in his eyes, a pride Mirac had never seen or felt directed toward him before.

  A lump formed in his throat, aion s it hurt, as though the tension of aire 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?” Miraally mao say something, though his voice trembled more than he would have liked.

  Even though he was actually hty years old, Vector felt like a child again.

  But even this fact didn’t matter.

  For Miraow, 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 tensioween them.

  “Of course, my son!” he replied, his tone brimming with sincere admiration. “After all, you mao defeat a skilled assassin all on your own in a true battle! That proves how strong you’ve bee! Well done, my son!”

  Arthur’s voice oozed pride, as if that momehe definitive firmation of his son’s worth.

  But those words struck Mira a pletely ued way.

  ‘Huh?!’

  His smile faltered, repced by an expression of fusion 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 hesitatioraying his bewilderment.

  Arthur noticed his unease and tilted his head slightly, his expression a mix of and tenderness.

  “Wait… Did you fet about it?” he asked in a softer, still affeate tone. “You’re the one who killed the assassin! I mean Krk, 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 desded into chaos as he desperately tried to recall the events of that night.

  But even so, Mirac’s eyes widened, his breath catg 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 Krk?!”

  Too bad, though, that it wasn’t true…

  It had been Carmen, after all, who had dealt with Krk while Mirac had been unscious. Right?

  ‘What the hell is happening right now?!’