For a while, we enjoyed conversation and sweets together—the kind of meandering talk that follows exhausting events, where words flow easily and laughter comes without effort.
Well, it was the night after a massive party. There were plenty of things to discuss, stories to share, moments to relive and dissect.
Combined with confections crafted by a first-rate patisserie—each bite a small work of art, flavors expertly balanced—it was a truly enjoyable time. The macarons melted on the tongue, the cakes were impossibly light, each sweet a tiny piece of luxury.
"Shall I prepare some tea as well, since we're at it?"
As the arranged plates began to empty, Erica suggested this—though it felt somewhat late for the thought.
She extended her white, delicate hand toward the cabinet. Pale skin that seemed to glow even in the dim candlelight, fingers slender and graceful.
But it certainly wasn't a distance she could reach by simply stretching. The cabinet stood across the room, far beyond human reach.
Naturally, she wasn't trying to grab it with her own hand. So what was that gesture just now?
As if answering that question, shadows writhed with a slithering motion—nura.
Black tentacles.
They skillfully opened the cabinet, rummaged through it as if possessing intent and purpose, and seized only the wooden box containing tea leaves—wrapping around it with their entire form before bringing it over to us. The movement was disturbingly organic, purposeful in a way that made my skin crawl.
Using magic to manipulate objects remotely isn't particularly rare.Even I could reproduce something like this if I wanted to.
But the fear emanating from that tentacle was… fundamental—instinctive.
those tentacles emanated something indescribably unsettling—a primal fear that bypassed logic and struck directly at instinct. Wrong. That's what every fiber of my being screamed. Wrong.
"Here, Liam?"
"...Eh? Ah, yes. ...So I'm the one making it after all, aren't I?"
Her voice snapped me back to awareness. I accepted the wooden box from the tentacle, trying not to flinch at the brief contact. The wood felt ordinary enough, but the memory of those black appendages lingered.
I selected tea leaves by sight, generated hot water with magic, and poured it into the pot—each movement mechanical, automatic.
These were steps I'd performed countless times since becoming a servant. By now, I should be able to do it smoothly. I should have been able to.
In reality, the selection took longer than usual. my water magic fluctuated—too hot, then too cool. My hands shook slightly as I worked.
Things went strangely wrong, one after another. Small failures that shouldn't have happened.
But Erica said nothing even while watching this struggle. She didn't comment, didn't criticize, didn't ask what was wrong.
She simply watched my fumbling with downcast eyes, her expression unreadable in the candlelight.
After finally succeeding and pouring into teacups—"Here you are," "Thank you very much"—we exchanged only brief words. An indescribably heavy silence settled between us like fog, thick and suffocating.
We remained like that for some time. When Erica reached for her third cake, I finally broached the subject that had been eating at me.
"Um..."
"Wh-what!? Today is a day without formalities, so eating as many as I want is fine, isn't it!? Besides, I've already eaten them, so one or two more at this point won't change—"
"Ah, no. That's not what I meant."
She overreacted to my voice, rattling off words in rapid succession. The intensity was almost comical—I nearly laughed despite the tension—but something about it felt wrong.
She was clearly more talkative than usual. Too talkative.
The timing of my interruption had been poor, certainly. But even accounting for that, her obvious agitation... the wrongness I could sense... it all pointed to something deeper.
"About that magic from earlier..."
"..."
When I continued the interrupted thought, she fell silent. The hand reaching for cake withdrew, pulling back as if burned.
Her expression carried something lonely—a resignation that made my chest ache—as she opened her mouth to speak.
"Yes. It's my... Black of the Heretic God unique magic, Celestia."
She said it as if it were nothing—casually, carelessly. But the trembling of her lips told a different story. This mattered. This hurt.
Celestia—the individual magic granted to each person, something only they could use. A power unique as fingerprints, as fundamental as breathing.
The protagonist had one. Razer and Caesius, as capture targets, had theirs. Of course I had mine too. These unique abilities were important elements that colored the PumitraCelest Kingdom world, defining characters and creating dramatic moments.
It wasn't that I didn't know what kind of magic Erica possessed. I'd known from the beginning, actually.
Her Celestia had appeared many times in the story, after all.
...Of course, as the enemy's—no, as the final boss's magic. The power of the villainess who would destroy everything.
"It's rather creepy, isn't it... But it's a little bit useful, you know? See, like now, I can transport things..."
When she stirred the empty air with her finger, the black tentacle followed that movement exactly—spinning round and round in a grotesque display. The motion was almost playful, obedient.
Taken alone, it resembled a street performer manipulating a snake. But the sight of it evoked something visceral—an instinctive revulsion, like seeing something that shouldn't exist.
"Well... that's about the only good point. My Celestia... seems to frighten people."
She laughed self-deprecatingly, the sound hollow and bitter. A smile that held no joy, only resigned acceptance of something she couldn't change.
...I know.
That's why Erica was called a "cursed child" and an "enemy of humanity." Those weren't just cruel nicknames—they were assessments of her power, judgments passed before she'd done anything to deserve them.
In fact, in the story, she did commit acts befitting the title "enemy of humanity." The prophecy became self-fulfilling.
"...I apologize. Just now, and earlier too—I wasn't trying to frighten you, Liam. ...Really, I promise."
"Earlier" probably referred to when I'd entered this room—dragged in by those very tentacles.
And that indescribable sense of intimidation I'd felt from her, the primal fear that had frozen me in place.
"...Since when?"
My question was incomplete, lacking context, but she understood perfectly what I meant.
"Last month, perhaps? I woke up one morning, and it was suddenly overflowing from me..."
Last month. That was... fairly recent? Relatively long ago? I couldn't decide which perspective felt more accurate.
I hadn't noticed at all until tonight. How had I missed something so significant?
"Why didn't you tell me?"
My voice came out sharper than intended, accusation bleeding through despite my efforts at gentleness.
"That's..."
She looked at me with eyes on the verge of tears—blue irises swimming with moisture that caught the candlelight. She covered her eyes, then her mouth, then pressed her brow. Each gesture an attempt to hide, to hold back, to contain what threatened to spill over.
The words she finally managed to weave were trembling beyond her ability to conceal.
"I was scared... that you would come to hate me."
Tears overflowed from both eyes unstoppably, streaming down her cheeks in silver tracks. The sight struck me like a physical blow.
Come to think of it, I might never have seen Erica lose control of her emotions to this extent before. She'd always been so composed, so controlled, even in private. The mask she wore was thorough, professional.
I reflexively reached out and rubbed her back in soothing circles. She leaned into me as if clinging to a lifeline, her small frame shaking against mine.
"Either way, you'd have noticed eventually, so it shouldn't matter. In fact, I let my guard down and ended up frightening you anyway."
She'd calmed slightly, perhaps—her voice still trembled, but she pulled back a little, creating distance between us. Just a few inches, but it felt like miles.
Yet the content of her words remained self-deprecating, condemning herself for crimes she hadn't committed.
...And I couldn't clearly deny what she was saying. She was right—I had been frightened. I had felt fear, experienced that primal terror when confronted with her power.
Whatever I said now would just be empty words, pretty lies to make us both feel better.
"Today... when you were knocked down by Razer... I manifested 'this' just a little bit."
She held her right hand over empty space, and black tentacles emerged from seemingly nowhere—manifesting like smoke, like shadows given form.
She gazed at the sight with something like disgust in her eyes, as if watching something she despised but couldn't escape.
"When I did, everyone's eyes changed when they looked at me. Well, it was only for a moment... so only those present at the scene noticed, but..."
...
The strange looks from the nobles—I'd thought they were reacting to Razer and me grappling, to the violence and impropriety of the scene.
But I'd sensed something else too, hadn't I? Fear mixed with contempt. Revulsion wrapped in curiosity. And all of it had been directed not at the fight, but at her cursed magic.
"I overheard their conversations. And I realized... this power really is unacceptable. People will never accept it."
She exhaled deeply—haa—while gazing up at the dark ceiling. The shadows made her face look gaunt, older than her years.
"And simultaneously, I became certain. I really am cursed, aren't I? No matter how much I try to suppress it, these tentacles... they're established like my own limbs. I use them as naturally as breathing—before I even realize I'm doing it."
"..."
"Eventually, I'll keep using this unconsciously... and frightening people. And surely, everyone will leave me. There'll be no one left by my side."
"...But I—"
"Liam. You'll leave too, eventually."
If she continued talking like this, she'd sink into darkness too deep to pull her back from. I tried to speak up, to interrupt that spiral—but she suddenly pushed me away. Not violently, but firmly.
Without light dwelling in her eyes—those beautiful blue irises gone flat and lifeless—she continued speaking.
"Because that's what Mother said before she left."
Mother...
Erica's mother didn't appear in the story. Count Adelbater had little presence too, but I remembered his name appearing in text descriptions occasionally. Background information, flavor text.
And in this reincarnated world, I'd never met Erica's mother either. Not once in three years.
Come to think of it, maybe I should have found it strange that in all my time at this estate, the subject of her mother had never come up. Not once. Not even in passing.
"Mother held me—when I couldn't yet control my magic, when everyone avoided me—and said similar things. That she'd stay with me, that she loved me despite everything."
Her gaze traced empty space, seeing something I couldn't—memories from years past, already fading at their edges.
"But by the time I turned five, even Mother stopped appearing before me. Father says she returned to her family home. The marriage hasn't been annulled yet, but... I'm sure she has no intention of seeing me again."
I couldn't easily deny it, couldn't simply say "that's not true." The evidence was damning.
In these three years, she'd never once appeared. Not for Erica's birthday, not for holidays, not even to check if her daughter was still alive.
That experience had probably stolen Erica's confidence—her ability to affirm her own self-worth. Those eyes when we first met had said everything: I am worthless. I am wrong. I should not exist.
Wounds carved into the heart couldn't be dismissed lightly or pretended away. They couldn't be erased.
...But.
Affirming her as a person—that was something I could do, wasn't it?
Maybe she'd been abandoned by her mother. Maybe that was true. But that didn't mean Erica herself had done anything wrong.
Everything was the fault of this world that gave her such power... and the culture that unjustly disparaged that ability.
"Lady Erica—"
"...It's fine. This is my fate. I'm sure no one will—"
"Lady Erica!"
She was trying to shake free and sink into darkness, pulling away from me and from hope itself. I forcibly grabbed her shoulders and held her in place.
Whether surprised by the sudden loud voice, or by being grabbed unexpectedly, or both—she gave a start and her eyes went round.
But she stopped.And that was enough.
"Your Celestia may be frightening to others.But even so—"
I stopped caring about polite speech.I needed to speak with my true feelings.
I took her small, white, trembling hand.
"I will not let go of this hand."
She stared with wide eyes, wearing an expression like kyoton—somewhere between confusion and wonder. She blinked rapidly, repeatedly, staring at my face without saying anything.
(Did I mess up? Well, yeah, suddenly saying something like this is kind of creepy... but it's my true feelings!)
The blank silence stretched too long. The line itself was embarrassingly earnest, the kind of thing that sounded better in your head. I rapidly lost confidence as the seconds ticked by.
But right then, she suddenly laughed—a sound like a hiccup, breaking the tension.
"Fufu... I really am hopeless."
She lowered her gaze, and that laugh wasn't mocking me. Rather, it was directed at herself—gentle self-deprecation mixed with relief.
"Actually... I was hoping you'd say that. Expecting it, even. Taking advantage of your... kindness..."
"...I'll say it as many times as necessary. It's not kindness or politeness. It's... well, my true feelings."
When I said that while searching for the right words, Erica cried again. She flew into my chest while crying—holding it in, suppressing her voice, but unable to stop the tears.
Her appearance was like a child's. And indeed, she was still a child—only ten years old.
And yet, just for possessing this ability, she'd been unjustly demeaned. Condemned for existing, for circumstances beyond her control.
I gently embraced her as she wept. Her grip on my hand tightened—kyuu—squeezing as if afraid I might disappear if she let go.
...I have to protect her.
Surely more calamities would befall her in the future. The story demanded it. Fate had written this trajectory long before either of us existed here.
As her servant, as her friend...
As her childhood friend—I absolutely couldn't let her follow the same path as in the main story. Couldn't let her fall into darkness and become the villain everyone expected.
My resolve solidified in my heart. And as it did—
Something suddenly surfaced in my memory.
That mysterious tangle of thoughts from earlier, triggered by my conversation with Shelly. The nagging feeling I couldn't quite grasp.
Erica's childhood friend... something that shouldn't have existed in the main story. Or so I'd thought.
Had there really been no one?
As if helping my thought process, memories from my previous life brought up another keyword, another piece of the puzzle clicking into place.
Why did Erica in the main story... become someone who made people suffer? Why did she fall into darkness?
Was it the unjust discrimination from childhood? Well, that wasn't nothing. Certainly a factor.
But was that everything? Could that alone explain the transformation?
As a result of discrimination, she'd lost confidence and tried to give up on everything. I could infer that from tonight's exchange.
But I didn't sense much aggression toward others in that. Just self-deprecating emotions directed at herself. Internalized pain, not externalized rage.
It felt insufficient as a complete reason. Something was missing.
So what else was there?
My previous life's memories helpfully produced another keyword, another fragment I'd overlooked. Something from the official fanbook—a single line included in the character design materials.
This is...
No, it can't be. That's impossible.
"...I understand now, after tonight's conversation."
While I was trapped in suddenly entangled thoughts, she murmured quietly from within my embrace.
"If you weren't here... I might break completely."
"...What?"
My stomach dropped—a sensation like all the blood draining from my core, leaving me cold and hollow.
"I mean, if you had pushed me away, Liam... I imagine frightening things would have happened—"
Erica laughed weakly, trying to make it sound like a joke. Keeping her tone light, as if discussing hypotheticals rather than genuine fears.
But that surely... wasn't a joke at all.
It would become reality. At least, in the main story, it had.
I felt shaken to my core.
By her reliance on me, and by the future that would unfold. The future I suddenly understood with terrible clarity.
The reason for Erica's fall into darkness: the death of someone precious. Someone irreplaceable.
And that precious person was a childhood friend from her early years. Someone who'd known her before everything went wrong.
And now, that childhood friend was... me. This me, standing here, holding her.
I questioned whether I was misremembering, asked myself over and over if I'd gotten it wrong. But I felt a strange certainty, conviction that bypassed logic.
And Erica's statement just now increased that credibility, made the terrible possibility feel more like inevitability.
So, wait. That meant—
I would die before the main story began at age fifteen. Within five years, I'd be dead.
And because of that, Erica would become the final boss who tormented people...?
The realization hit me like ice water, freezing the breath in my lungs. My hands went numb. The room spun slightly.
"Hey, Liam?"
My consciousness, threatening to fly away into panic, was pulled back by her voice. An anchor in churning seas.
"You'll let me believe those words from earlier, won't you?"
"Yeah, of course."
Such a simple response caught in my throat like a physical obstruction. Something lodged there, choking me.
I tried to nod, but my neck trembled and wouldn't move. Paralyzed by understanding, by the weight of fate I'd just glimpsed.
I felt as if something enormous was holding down my head and neck, pinning me in place... whispering in my ear: "You will betray her."