—
Waking after four hours of being tortured in the deep quagmire of madness, Gustave was incredibly lucky to survive that delirium ordeal. His body was drenched in sweat, his lips parched, his complexion corpse-like—he looked every bit the part of a terminally ill patient.
If not for his [Recall], which had effectively created a mantra in his mind repeating over and over, "I am Gustave," to keep himself from losing his sense of self, he might not have survived this chilling ordeal.
What enraged him further—and filled him with deep apprehension—was the realization, through his [Knowledge], that the source of his torment was just a single Foglet. Not some ancient relic monster, not a powerful mage, but a simple Foglet.
Because of this, the majority of his recovery time was consumed by emotional outbursts. Yet, beneath the anger and rage, he sensed a dread that he could not put into words. He now knew just how fragile his mind truly was—that with even the slightest push, it could shatter into pieces.
He still operated under the assumption that the [Controlled Madness] within him was tied to his willpower. That willpower had made him believe his mind was an impenetrable fortress. But he couldn't have been more wrong—what truly happened inside his mind was nothing more than a jumble of chaos, crudely patched together with glue.
Perhaps his mind could drive someone who entered it to madness and insanity. But when the attacker was already insane and could assault his mind without actually entering it, all the supposed benefits of [Controlled Madness] became a cruel joke.
Like a glass cannon that could only attack passively, his mind was just as fragile—too delicate, too vulnerable. Being assaulted by a simple illusion from a Foglet, an illusion that any normal human could easily recognize, made him feel as if he were facing a creature like Cthulhu itself.
[Controlled Madness: 2.4 → 3.1]
Even if that ordeal brought him one step closer to Sequence 8, it did not make him any happier—not even a little. He knew that the higher he climbed the Pathway ladder, the more fragile his mind would become. At that point, even a simple scientific hypnosis could reduce him to a bumbling fool of madness without the need for magic.
But thinking over and over, depleting his spirituality repeatedly over the past four days, he could not find any [Knowledge] that might solve his predicament. Because of this, he developed a fear of leaving the cabin.
He was afraid that some random telepath or sorcerer might attack him without even entering his mind first. Most of all, he feared encountering another Foglet—or any creature capable of assaulting the mind.
On top of that, his paranoia had left him unable to sleep deeply over these four days, with only occasional microsleeps as his tired body's natural response.
His behavior not only worried his maids but also unsettled the entire ship's entourage, though for different reasons. Their fear was understandable, as seeing such a monster for the first time would terrify anyone—even a three-year-old child.
Because of this, the entourage decided to stop at the next port to find a healer, wise person, or professor who could help him out of his predicament.
But now, in an agitated state, Gustave could not think calmly. He lashed out at anyone who dared suggest bringing him a helper, fearing that one of them might be someone capable of plunging him back into madness.
—
Seeing the young prince toddler act on the verge of slipping, occasionally forgetting to deliberately mispronounce words and lashing out at times like a normal adult, Rosemary addressed the people present.
"Okay, my lords and ladies, that's enough. Prince Gustave needs some alone time right now. He is uncomfortable having so many people in here. So would the ladies and gentlemen please leave the room?"
"What do you know about what Prince Gustave needs? You are just a simple maid!"
With a stern voice, though her legs quivered at daring to contradict a nobleman, Rosemary repeated, "Prince Gustave needs some time alone… so, my lords and ladies, please leave."
"How dare you raise your voice against me, you lowly wretch?!"
Seeing the hand that was about to strike Prince Gustave's maid, Reynard caught it and shoved the attacker back, causing the nobleman—who had dealings with the sorcerers of Ban Ard and the rebels—to tumble.
Thud.
"Reynard! You—"
Noticing that the woman wanted to retort after he had pushed her to the ground, Reynard addressed her coldly:
"That's not how noblewomen should behave toward commoners. You provide a bad example for Prince Gustave." Pausing, he continued, "And moreover, don't let your hands become another reason for the Queen to send you and your entire family to the gallows."
Ignoring the women, now pale as sheets at the reminder of Queen Meve's power, Reynard turned to the other lords and ladies. "Okay, everyone, just as the lass said—let's leave Prince Gustave alone. He needs time to rest."
"All of you may go, but I will stay here with my brother."
"Y-yeah, me too."
Shaking his head, Reynard said to Villem and Anséis, "No, Your Highness. Your brother clearly needs some time alone. He is still agitated from seeing the monster four days ago. To him, we all look like monsters. It's better to leave him alone and let time heal his fear."
Slightly annoyed that his little brother thought of him as a monster, Villem sighed, understanding that Gustave was still a child.
Nodding to Reynard and Anséis, who also wanted to stay, Villem said, "You're right, General Reynard. My brother needs some time alone. Come, Anséis—let's leave Gustave to himself for a while. Hopefully, he will be cheered up again before we arrive in Cintra."
"B-but—"
"Let's go."
And just like that, seeing his maids come to his rescue, aware that his mental state was fragile, Gustave felt no regret in naming his first creation after their initials.
Looking at Rosemary with gratitude after everyone had left the cabin, he immediately fell into a deep sleep, the ordeal having served as the last straw for his exhausted body.
—
The low ceiling rocked slightly with the ship's movement, and the wooden beams creaked under the strain. The fire flickered behind the candle's glass, casting a dim glow that melted into the quietly patient shadows. Tiny motes of dust drifted lazily through the air, glinting whenever the ship tilted just enough for the firelight to catch them.
The air was dense with fragrance—the mingled scents of lavender, chamomile, feverfew, and crushed mint leaves steeping together in the warmth. A small pot of herbal water steamed gently on the table, its vapor curling toward the ceiling beams before vanishing into the dimness.
Their sweetness warred against the damp chill seeping through the floorboards—the breath of the river outside that never quite left the wood.
The boy, barely three years of age, lay wrapped in swathes of wool and linen, so small beneath the heavy folds. His hair, pale and sweat-damp, clung to his brow in fine golden curls.
His cheeks were flushed a bright, almost alarming pink, and his lips were dry from restless sleep. Every so often, his lashes fluttered, and his small hands twitched against the sheets, chasing—or fleeing—some unseen thing in his dreams.
Delilah once again took a fresh towel and dipped it into the pot of herbal water. Her hands, reddened from the heat of the basin, trembled slightly as she wrung out the cloth until it dripped no more. When she placed it on the boy's temple, the fabric hissed faintly as it met the feverish heat of his skin.
Feeling the burning warmth of the young prince's fever, Delilah couldn't help but sigh helplessly. Turning to Rosemary, who always seemed to be in sync with the young prince, she asked softly, "Rosemary, do you know what's happening to Prince Gustave?"
Shaking her head, Rosemary replied, "I know as much as you do, Delilah. Prince Gustave never tells us anything about his condition—except that he says he's an angel. He—"
Breathing in a new scent mingled with the herbs, Rosemary abruptly stopped speaking.
Delilah glanced up from the prince's bedside. "What is it?" she whispered, but Rosemary didn't answer right away. Her brow furrowed, her gaze drifting toward the far corner of the cabin—the place where the firelight faltered and shadows pooled the deepest.
"I thought…" Rosemary murmured, her voice uncertain, "I thought I smelled something different."
"Smelled something?"
Twitching her nose, Rosemary described softly, "Yes… wormwood. Basil. Sage. Aniseed. Cinnamon."
Turning to Brenna, the one responsible for arranging the herbs, she asked, "Brenna, did you put any of those in the censer?"
"No, I didn't."
Instantly trusting her instincts, Rosemary snatched the RDBM from the table and frantically aimed it toward the darker corners of the cabin.
"Get out!"
The command shattered through the cramped air, yet no sound followed. The cabin fell utterly still. Even the river's gentle rhythm seemed to falter beyond the hull. The fire hissed once, as if smothered by an unseen breath. Candlelight trembled upon the table, wavering across glass and copper—but in the far corner, the darkness did not move.
It should have swayed. Every loose object on the ship shifted with the current: ropes groaned, the lantern hook swayed, droplets trembled on the edge of the basin before slipping free. Yet the shadow there remained steady—untouched by the ship's rocking.
"I said get out," Rosemary hissed through clenched teeth. "I know you're in there!"
The other three maids each grabbed something sharp and began aiming toward every dark corner of the room. But even then, despite their trembling vigilance, the darkness did not move. Only the sharp, invasive aroma of unfamiliar herbs and spices cut through the usual calming scent of mind-soothing mixtures—an unsettling note that broke the room's fragile normality.
For a long moment, no one dared to breathe. The cabin seemed caught between heartbeats, as though the world itself had forgotten to move. The flame within the glass lantern quivered once, then stood perfectly still—too still, like a held breath.
"Out with you!"
Delilah's knuckles whitened around the small kitchen knife she held, her pulse loud in her ears. Then she saw it—something emerging from the shadow. In a literal sense. A grizzled head first, then a face, marked by a noble, aquiline nose belonging to a slim, middle-aged man.
"It never ceases to amaze me," the figure said quietly, his tone calm and genuinely curious. "You're no Witcher, yet your senses are nearly as sharp. Remarkable, truly. Most men wouldn't notice half as much. Tell me—have humans changed so greatly over the course of a single winter while I was away?"
Without waiting for a reply, Rosemary loosed the bolt that had already been loaded in the RDBM. Fhoowm! A sharp thud followed as the dimeritium bolt struck true—right into the figure's heart.
"That's rather unkind of you, my dear," the figure remarked in a dry, almost amused tone, glancing at the bolt lodged in his chest. "If this is how you choose to greet strangers, I daresay your prospects for companionship may prove… limited."
A dreadful heaviness spread through Rosemary's body. Her limbs trembled, her throat tightened—she wanted to scream, but her voice refused to obey.
"Fascinating," he murmured, tilting his head as he examined the weapon with genuine intrigue. "Such craftsmanship—inefficient, yet undeniably elegant. Tell me, what do you call it? A self-loading crossbow?"
An overwhelming exhaustion pulled her down, her eyelids drooping despite her will to stay awake.
"Now then, sleep, my dear. By morning, all of this will be but a fading dream."
Just before sleep claimed her, she heard the figure's voice again—soft, distant, and disturbingly curious—as he turned his attention toward the young prince.
"Ah… and now, to the matter at hand."
His nose wrinkled almost imperceptibly. "Good gods, that stench… It's not merely on the docks—no, here it's far worse. What, I wonder, has this twenty-three-year-old youth suffered to bear such wretched blood?"
Rummaging through his spatial expansion satchel, the figure began muttering to himself.
"Let us see… what might dull this abominable stench. Silver? Hardly. Dimeritium? Equally useless. Salt?"
He paused, arching a brow. "Ah… perhaps the affliction runs deeper—spiritual in nature, then. Even if its efficacy proves negligible, it is, at the very least, something."
As his left ring finger brushed against the young man trapped in a toddler's body, the figure's brow lifted in mild surprise. Instantly, the symptoms vanished, as though something unseen had blocked its touch.
"Sanguenite, huh? Now that is… novel. In all my years, I've encountered few things that could astound me. Consider me surprised."
Removing the ring from his own hand, he slipped it gently onto the boy's finger.
"I doubt Villentretenmerth will appreciate me giving away his handiwork to a stranger," he murmured with faint amusement. "But since the metal came from me, I trust he'll forgive the sentiment."
Then, as his form began to dissolve into a curling mist, he whispered, almost to himself, "Sleep well, young enigma. The night is long, but it does not last forever."
And with that, the vapor drifted soundlessly beyond the ship, swallowed by the quiet vastness of the darkened river.
—