“You said you couldn’t know the man from the previous game... but I can’t help but see things. Some of them are so vivid it’s... honestly embarrassing.”

Fragments of emotion Yuder had unknowingly scattered throughout that life.

But no matter how deeply hidden, no trace left by Yuder Aile could deceive Kishiar la Orr. After all, they had been left by himself.

And yet, it was obvious why Kishiar had never spoken of those fragments until now—even without asking.

Because I didn’t want him to.

It hadn’t been long since Yuder finally accepted that the Kishiar of his past life and the one before him now were the same person. Until recently, he had kept them separated in his mind, and doing so had helped him survive reality.

When Yuder had spoken about the man from the previous life, the pain he revealed had been unmistakable—and Kishiar surely hadn’t missed it.

Just as Yuder had now begun to sense the complex feelings in Kishiar’s voice—feelings that were different when directed toward him.

Something has changed.

Kishiar had always been harshest with himself. Though generous to others and capable of smiling even in adversity, he’d long seemed incapable of extending that same warmth inward. Perhaps it was the natural result of a life where perfect control over his power was non-negotiable.

Whenever he mentioned his former self, or the white gloves, that same unrelenting coldness would surface. And in those moments, the warm yearning he usually directed at Yuder would vanish—replaced by an impenetrable gray wall.

A wall so tall and thick it couldn’t be seen past. So cold it looked like it would burn your hand if touched.

But now, that unreachable side of Kishiar—hidden even from Yuder—was more visible and honest than ever.

It must still be the aftereffects of the rut...

With the wall down, Kishiar was showing what lay beyond, perhaps without even realizing it. He still looked deeply pained—but within that pain was something new.

A hesitant emotion, like facing someone he’d long avoided for the first time.

He had spoken of himself with the same voice used for a pitiful, foolish stranger. Yet, within that tone was unmistakable understanding. And it was clear now—he no longer intended to hide that understanding from Yuder... or from himself.

I said I didn’t want Kishiar to suffer... but I didn’t expect it to be easy.

Still, he was trying. In his own way, Kishiar was trying to answer Yuder’s wish—not with grand magic, but with sincerity.

That jumble of words he’d just shared had been the start of it.

“......”

Yuder said nothing. He simply pulled Kishiar closer into a quiet embrace.

If he said he wanted to swallow up all of Kishiar’s self-loathing, pain, and fear—would he laugh? Or would he say it wasn’t possible?

It doesn’t matter either way.

So long as he could hold them in his hands.

“I remember now. Right before the rut came... you held me like this, didn’t you?”

Kishiar murmured softly, his face buried against Yuder’s chest. It seemed he was recalling the moment Yuder had forced his way inside the locked room to embrace him.

“That was the first time I felt like... maybe everything really would be okay, even for no reason.”

Yuder loosened his scent to help calm the still-uneasy man in his arms and answered quietly,

“It wasn’t for no reason. It was because you trusted me. And everything turned out fine, didn’t it?”

Kishiar chuckled low at Yuder’s firm tone, the vibration against his chest tickling slightly.

“Yeah. It really did.”

After that, he fell silent. Long enough that Yuder wondered if he’d fallen asleep—until a faint voice broke the stillness.

“That dream... it’s starting to come back to me now, more clearly.”

“You can tell me about it later.”

“No. I think it’s better to say it now. You never know when memories might fade or twist into something else.”

Kishiar lifted his head from Yuder’s embrace. His gaze, which had been hazy from the aftereffects of the rut, was now noticeably clearer.

“Looking back, it really was a strange dream. Not something I’d call ‘just a dream.’”

“What kind of dream would make you say that?”

In the moment their eyes met, Kishiar’s red gaze deepened.

“An execution.”

“......”

“I’ve dreamed it before. This time was a continuation.”

“...That one.”

Yuder remembered it. After healing Emperor Keillusa’s vessel, Kishiar had fallen into a series of unusual dreams—ones he couldn’t recall, save for one that grew clearer over time.

An execution.

Petals fluttered «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» under a bright blue sky. A platform erected in the center of the square. A guillotine raised for all to see. An empty throne beyond it. The crowd’s jubilant cheers.

The prisoner, dragged like a beast, was so mutilated one couldn’t believe they were still alive. Two soldiers hauled the body, leaving behind a slick, black trail of blood like spilled night.

The once-smooth skin had festered, its original color lost. The limbs no longer moved with purpose, just dead meat attached to a ruined form. It looked agonizing to witness—but the aura the prisoner exuded was strange: cold, sharp, clean, like a blade honed to perfection.

—Criminal Y■■■ ■■■ ■■■...! ■■■ sentenced to ■■■ for the crime of...!

The final judgment echoed, unintelligible.

And yet, the corpse-like figure did not flinch.

Then, beneath the filthy, matted hair, bloodied lips lifted into the faintest of smiles.

A cold, empty sneer. So faint, no one could have noticed.

The verdict concluded. Petals scattered again. Cheers erupted. The prisoner was thrown beneath the blade—no chance for final words, as would normally be granted to traitors of the highest order. The blade rose swiftly.

The crowd watched eagerly. Some hurled rotten fruit and eggs—but they didn’t reach the high altar.

As if none of the chaos mattered, the one beneath the blade calmly gazed somewhere. And Kishiar realized—he stood in that gaze’s path.

A gaze that nearly met, but never quite. A lone eye peeking through bloodstained strands.

That gaze shredded his body into pieces.

Kishiar, not even knowing who he was, had reached desperately for the prisoner.

In that moment, the prisoner let out one exhausted breath.

The blade fell.

And with the loudest, brightest cheer—

The sky cracked. Everything shattered.

Kishiar la Orr realized—he was falling into endless despair.

“......”

It had clearly been difficult to speak, but Kishiar had done his best to describe the dream. As he looked at the silent Yuder, he exhaled and said in a hoarse voice,

“...It was vivid. More than ever. And that’s what’s strange. If this were your dream, I shouldn’t have been able to see what I did.”

Knowing he’d dreamed this, it made sense why Kishiar had sent out such a desperate scent during the rut. If their roles were reversed, Yuder would’ve done the same.

He nodded slowly.

“...Yes. Now I understand why you said it wasn’t just a dream.”

It wasn’t some distorted nightmare built from earlier memories. Everything Kishiar described matched Yuder’s own recollection too perfectly.

But what’s most disturbing... is that he saw me, not from my own eyes—but from a third person’s perspective. How is that possible?

“Do you... have any ideas?”

“Unlike the first time I dreamed it, we’ve been through a lot more now. So I have a guess...”

Kishiar lowered his eyes—then met Yuder’s gaze again.

“...What if that dream was actually someone else’s memory?”