"I thank you… I thank you immensely for this extraordinary opportunity!" Mirac's voice came out low at first, almost a stifled whisper, then gradually grew firmer and more resolute. "But unfortunately, I must decline the offer…"
"D-Decline?!" Master Oryn's eyes widened in disbelief. "B-But young Prince, we are talking about the restoration of a vital limb! There is not a warrior in the world who would turn down such an opportunity!"
Mirac did not answer at once.
He stepped toward his desk, set down the books, and turned to face his astonished father and the bewildered old Healer.
"I am more than aware of that, yet I will not back down from my choice," Mirac declared, in a tone that brooked no argument, though it was steeped in infinite sadness.
King Arthur's hands slowly slid behind his back.
His gaze hardened, shedding any trace of benevolence to make way for a regal, inquisitorial authority.
"Explain yourself," the king ordered, without raising his voice, yet with a weight that made the air in the room vibrate. "For what reason would a young Prince, future heir to the throne, voluntarily wish to remain in this condition?"
Mirac did not lower his gaze.
He knew that in front of that man there was no room for childishness or half-truths.
"Because I am not worthy of it," Mirac answered, and his words rang clear, charged with a self-inflicted severity that took the others aback. "That day, Mr. Edward died because of me. He was an innocent man, an honest worker who knew nothing of court intrigues, of blades, or of power struggles. All he knew was that in a few weeks he would leave this palace to enjoy his old age with the woman he loved… And instead, he was cut in half right here, before my eyes."
Mirac's right hand moved slowly, coming to rest with painful delicacy precisely over his left stump.
"I was not strong enough. I failed to protect him, and I nearly lost my own life as well. If I am still alive today, it is only thanks to an absurd, undeserved stroke of luck. To have my arm regrown now…" Mirac imperceptibly tightened his fingers against the cloth, as if wanting to feel the absence of flesh and bone beneath it. "…would only erase the one tangible reminder of my failure."
His voice grew darker, driven by a fierce ambition and a sense of duty that consumed him from within.
"This stump is a constant reminder. It is the weight of my guilt, the scar that reminds me every day how dearly my weakness has cost me. But at the same time, it anchors me to the responsibility I now bear. I must become strong! I must become so damn strong that a horror like this never happens again, that no other innocent has to die because of me. If I regained my perfect body now, I would risk losing the flame that fuels my determination. And I cannot… I will not allow myself that."
Master Oryn was left literally open-mouthed. He stared at the young Prince with a mixture of astonishment and deep disquiet.
'Incredible! I would never have expected such a strong moral compass and such depth of character from someone so young…' the old Healer thought to himself, overwhelmed by that speech, one more worthy of a man marked by life than of a prince raised in luxury.
King Arthur, for his part, uttered not a single word.
He remained motionless, hands behind his back, staring straight into his son's eyes.
His gaze had grown cold, crossed by a subtle yet unmistakable disappointment.
'Tsk! What nonsense…'
To a sovereign like him, the idea that an heir to the throne could refuse healing and accept remaining mutilated over the death of a mere commoner was inconceivable—a dangerous surrender to sentimentalism unworthy of one who was meant to rule.
Yet he continued to stare at him in silence, trying to decipher the outlines of that stubbornness he found both shortsighted and irritating.
Several seconds passed, heavy as boulders, in which the ticking of the clock was the only sound that broke the silence of the room.
At last, the King's lips parted in an almost imperceptible movement.
"As you wish…" Arthur murmured.
Then, with a nod of his head, he turned to the elderly guest.
The tone of his voice shifted, becoming gentler and more formal:
"Master Oryn, I sincerely apologize for having disturbed you and made you travel all this way for nothing."
The old Healer, recovered from his astonishment, shook his head with a bitter yet respectful smile. "It was no trouble at all, Your Majesty. It is rare, and in certain respects admirable, to encounter such resolve."
King Arthur, with a measured gesture of his hand, warmly invited the elderly man to follow him toward the door.
"It will soon be time for lunch. And of course, you are invited to our table."
Master Oryn inclined his head respectfully. "I am honored, Your Majesty."
As the two made their way toward the exit, skirting the young Prince who remained motionless in the center of the room, King Arthur slowed his pace for a fraction of a second.
Before crossing the threshold, the sovereign cast him one last, fleeting glance.
It was no longer a look seeking explanations, but one that revealed the full extent of his cold disappointment.
"And to think I was beginning to have such high hopes for you…" King Arthur murmured, in a cutting voice.
With that, he turned his back and crossed the threshold. With a dull, muffled thud, the heavy door closed behind him.
Mirac remained motionless in the center of the room, enveloped in sudden silence.
His father's contemptuous judgment burned almost more than the stump hidden beneath the cloth, yet there was no room for second thoughts in his burdened heart, only the relentless weight of the past and the cold certainty of the path he had chosen.
* * *
{ PRESENT… }
The roar of memories faded, returning Mirac to the muffled silence of the meeting room.
Afternoon light still filtered through the windows, and President Jun and Captain Hanaë were right there before him, waiting with encouraging smiles.
'Since that day, my father has gone back to being the same as always… Cold and detached toward me,' Mirac reflected, tasting a strange bitterness in his mouth. 'It's clear that my choice disappointed him deeply. But then… why didn't he simply order me to undergo treatment? He could have forced me to be healed, completely disregarding my wishes. Why didn't he do it?!'
A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped his lips, hidden by the mask.
'Well, it doesn't matter anymore. What's done is done…'
And yet, it had been precisely that plunge into the past that stirred something deep and unresolved inside him.
Analyzing his own feelings with the coldness of a veteran, Mirac realized something fundamental: the paralyzing guilt he had once felt over poor Mr. Edward's death had gradually faded over the years, until it had almost entirely disappeared.
Normally, he would have considered it wonderful news—a crucial step toward leaving his trauma behind and living a more peaceful life.
'But then… why am I hesitating again?' he wondered, inadvertently clenching his fist. 'I mean, getting my arm back would instantly erase my greatest weakness in combat. And considering the mortal dangers and the uncertain future that await me from now on as a Chaotic, accepting the proposal would be the most logical and intelligent move… right?'
He was just about to deliver his final verdict when a sharp, merciless thought suddenly forced its way into his mind.
'But… if I said yes right now, what would that make me?! Back then I refused the offer with a solemn speech, but the truth is I was a Prince. I lived protected by palace walls, surrounded by luxury. It was far too easy to play the martyr, to convince myself I was a noble, magnanimous soul willing to make sacrifices when I had nothing real to lose. But now? Now that every protection has collapsed and my life is at risk every single day, if I went back on that decision purely out of convenience, I'd be proving that my ideals were nothing but worthless scraps of paper. It would mean my guilt was nothing more than the whim of a privileged boy playing at being a tormented hero… And the mere thought of revealing myself as such a hypocrite turns my stomach!'
Rejecting that image of himself, Mirac straightened his shoulders almost imperceptibly.
His gaze refocused on the elegant figure of the President, and another bitter consideration forced its way into his mind.
'And as if that weren't enough… what have I done to deserve a gift of this magnitude? Absolutely nothing! Was it offered to me simply because I'd earned President Jun's favor? It almost seems that, once again, the invisible strings of power and favoritism are deciding who rises and who stays on the ground…'
If there was one lesson etched into his soul, tempered by the weight of two lifetimes, it was that life was a ruthless race where no one started from the same line.
Some were forced to run barefoot over stones, bleeding with every step. Others wore custom-fitted boots, while still others were escorted in carriages along roads that had already been paved for them.
Injustice was a cruel, intrinsic, and unyielding cog in the machinery of life.
And he, after all, knew it better than anyone, having experienced both extremes of that wheel of fortune. He had once been a miserable street beggar, slowly starving to death for the sake of a crust of bread, only to find himself later wearing the robes of a Prince entitled to every luxury by birthright.
And at that thought, a spark of pure, irrepressible pride ignited in his chest.
'Do I really want yet another miracle served to me on a silver platter? Do I really want to perpetuate this cycle of privilege? Of course not! After going from having nothing to having everything, I want to be the one who builds something for once! Step by step. And I'll do it alone, with my own two hands!'
Mirac lifted his chin.
The silence in the room had lasted only a handful of seconds, but to him, it had been the equivalent of an entire lifetime spent in reflection.
"Thank you, Mr. President. And thank you as well, Captain Evaine, for this immense opportunity," Mirac began, his voice deep and unwavering, utterly devoid of hesitation. "But unfortunately, I must decline your generous offer."
Unlike Master Oryn years earlier, no one in the room flinched.
President Jun did not so much as twitch. He merely tilted his head, keeping his inscrutable smile intact.
"An unexpected answer, I'd say…" he commented calmly. "May I ask why you've made this choice, young man?"
"Simple: because I haven't earned it," Mirac replied, articulating every word with cutting clarity. "I haven't yet accomplished anything so magnificent or essential as to justify a privilege like this. A gift of this magnitude should be the final reward for a worthy achievement, not a favor granted in advance."
The two studied each other in the silence of the hall.
The President's dark eyes tried to probe the void hidden behind the lenses of the mask, in a silent and oppressive clash of wills, very similar to the one Mirac had faced years earlier with King Arthur.
But this time, the boy did not look away. There was no trace of guilt or hesitation in him—only an unyielding determination.
At last, Jun let out a brief, amused laugh.
"I see…" The President inclined his head slightly, a hint of genuine esteem in his gaze. "To turn down an offer like this out of such uncompromising moral conviction… Very well, Isaac. I won't insist further: I accept your decision."
"Thank you again," Mirac concluded.
Without adding another word, he gave a respectful, measured bow, retrieved his coat, and turned away, leaving the room at a brisk pace, ready to head downstairs and meet Carmen.
When the door closed with a metallic click, cutting off the sound of his footsteps, silence reclaimed the room.
Hanaë Evaine, who until that moment had maintained a statuesque composure, turned toward Jun.
A look of perplexity crossed her perfect elven features.
"You were right, Mr. President," the Healer murmured, her voice light yet vibrant like a breeze. "He really is… an unusual young man."
Jun let out a low laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah, you can say that again."
Hanaë hesitated for a moment, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her robe before finally voicing the question that had been troubling her.
"Forgive my indiscretion, but… what would have happened if he had accepted?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "You know perfectly well that my abilities have limits. Even with a Third-Grade Syntony, I am only able to regrow body parts lost recently. From what I gathered, that certainly doesn't apply to his case. If he had said yes, we would have found ourselves in a rather embarrassing position. So how could you be so certain he would refuse?"
Jun did not answer at once. His gaze drifted toward the large window, settling on the amber hues of the sunset setting Raerno's rooftops ablaze.
A faint, enigmatic smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"It's difficult to explain, Hanaë…" the President murmured, with a shade in his voice that seemed to conceal secrets far older than he cared to admit. "But, to put it simply… I just trusted that he hadn't changed…"