SOTBW - 218

Belshua dragged his weary body back to the quarters. Juggling the training of both the young recruits and the mercenaries was, quite frankly, insane. Physically, he could endure it, but the myriad issues that arose during the training sessions had completely disrupted his daily life.

From writing training reports to be shared with the Knights’ Captain and the Mercenaries’ Guildmaster, handling medical expenses for injuries sustained during sparring, ordering armor and weapons for the recruits, and dealing with the mercenaries’ endless trivial requests—there was no end to the tasks.

By the time he returned to his quarters after finishing the training, there was barely enough time to sleep before he had to tackle over ten pages of paperwork. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do it—it was just that filling page after page with dense handwriting would frustrate even someone like Belshua, a dragon who had endured countless trials over tens of thousands of years.

As he lamented alone about how he’d somehow ended up shouldering responsibilities meant for the Knights’ Captain, thoughts of abandoning everything and disappearing crossed his mind more than once. But Belshua didn’t want to act impulsively like humans often did, so he swallowed his irritation and methodically worked through the tasks forced upon him. 

One small consolation was that taking charge of the recruits’ and mercenaries’ training had exempted him from the grueling, repetitive sparring sessions unique to the Romsoa Knights.

After finishing his shower and returning to his quarters, Belshua opened the door without much thought, only to freeze at the sight of Maximón lounging on his bed, casually reading through an unfinished report Belshua had been working on.

The sheer audacity of the scene made Belshua narrow his eyes as he tossed the towel around his neck into the laundry basket.

“What brings you here?” 

His tone carried clear disapproval. Maximón glanced up briefly from the report, unfazed.

“Is the mercenaries’ training going smoothly?”

“It’s all written in the report.”

Belshua deliberately threw unnecessary firewood into the stove, his response curt. Maximón, aware of Belshua’s irritation, ignored it and tossed the report onto the desk.

“You’re proving to be reliable as always. While I’m at it, maybe I’ll leave the documents for the Noctis Office to you as well.”

Belshua turned sharply, water pitcher in hand, his expression one of horror. Maximón lay sprawled out lazily, his fingers laced behind his head. The sight of him brought back all the hardships Belshua had endured, and frustration welled up inside him.

“I’ll pass. If you dump all your work on me, what exactly will you be doing?”

“Playing with Najane.”

At the mention of Najane’s name, Belshua froze mid-pour, the water jug hovering over the kettle. Only then did he realize why Maximón was here—it was all because of Najane. To somehow cure her illness…

Placing the kettle on the stove, Belshua stared into the flickering flames within the hearth.

“Just replace her heart.”

Gwyneth’ words echoed in his mind. Belshua knew Najane couldn’t possibly die. And yet, she was destined to face a life-threatening crisis at some point.

Whether that moment was now or later, even Belshua couldn’t say. He had glimpsed fragments of the future while tracking Emaydis’ reincarnations, but in trying to foresee too many events, he had failed to confirm certain details.

It was clear that Najane Schnicks was living out a specific fate as Emaydis. But Belshua could no longer be certain that this destiny was fixed. Doubts crept in—he began to wonder if Najane might actually die.

Of course, he wouldn’t let her fade away meaninglessly. Yet, Belshua hesitated to intervene directly in Najane’s life.

Even after wandering through eternity and awakening to the truths of the universe, there were things he couldn’t be certain of. Belshua—no, Mahilen—still felt powerless and weak when it came to matters involving Emaydis.

Though he was certain Najane wouldn’t die, he feared his assumptions might be wrong. Part of him wanted to take her and hide somewhere, dig a cozy burrow in a place even Mackanon didn’t know about, and lock her safely inside to ease his anxiety.

Belshua loathed himself for being unable to accomplish anything properly. Even the future he had glimpsed felt unreliable, and the uncertainty gnawed at him, making his stomach churn.

“Why are you here?”

Steam rose steadily from the kettle on the stove. Belshua deliberately avoided turning around, acutely aware of Maximón’s presence behind him.

“The merchant’s son identity—is that fake?”

“The Holy Church created it for me.”

“So they know you’re a dragon.”

Maximón was certain, and Belshua didn’t deny it.  

“Did you come here to interrogate me about my true identity?”  

“You’ve lived for a long time, so you must know more than I do.”  

“Of course.”  

Belshua knew things even Maximón wasn’t aware of.  

For instance, that Maximón was Sainth Philux himself. Half of his soul was trapped inside the body of the first Serith, Bersha. Whenever he thought of Sainth, Belshua couldn’t help but feel a chill. Whether it was jealousy toward Sainth for monopolizing Emaydis or guilt for turning him into “that existence,” Belshua couldn’t say.  

As Belshua peeled bark off a piece of firewood, he waited for Maximón’s next question.  

Staring up at the uneven ceiling, Maximón asked casually:  

“Do you believe in past lives?”  

Belshua paused mid-action, splitting a log thicker than his thigh. Though Maximón’s tone suggested mere personal curiosity, the question carried profound weight for Belshua.  

Holding the split logs in both hands, Belshua tossed them into the bucket and brushed his palms clean. The day Najane collapsed, Maximón had drawn out the personality of Sainth sealed within Mahilen. If this had caused some kind of dissonance…  

“Do you believe in past lives, Captain?”  

Belshua countered, expecting Maximón to deliberate before answering. Maximón wasn’t a man prone to clinging to fanciful notions. But without hesitation, he replied:  

“After considering everything I’ve experienced, yes—I think past lives exist.”  

Belshua inwardly sighed, squeezing his eyes shut as he stared intently at the hearth. He could feel Maximón’s gaze boring into his back. Maximón was probing him, questioning his own existence and what it meant for Najane.  

Determined not to reveal his darkening expression, Belshua broke another piece of firewood with unnecessary force, pretending to prepare kindling as he steadied his emotions.  

“I don’t know what experiences you’ve had, but…”  

“Ever since meeting Najane, memories keep surfacing.”  

Maximón muttered, ignoring Belshua’s words. At this, Belshua felt a cold shiver run down his spine and glanced over his shoulder. Those “memories” undoubtedly belonged to Sainth, sealed within Maximón’s body.  

Damn it… Belshua silently cursed, his heart heavy with despair. Long ago, Mahilen had visited Edwin one last time to ensure Maximón was growing up safely. Edwin had fallen to his knees in sorrow, pleading:  

“Sometime after Maximón began searching for someone named Emaydis… Every day, he cries until he collapses, begging me to take him to her. Who is Emaydis? Who could possibly make my young son suffer like this?”  

It was then that Mahilen belatedly realized his magic had partially failed.  

Mahilen had always been inept at sealing memories, no matter how meticulously he performed the spell—it never worked perfectly. Recalling his failure to seal Emaydis’ memories after losing Sainth, Mahilen faced seven-year-old Maximón. But it wasn’t Maximón—it was Sainth, trapped in a child’s body, endlessly weeping and begging to be reunited with his lover.  

Mahilen sealed half of Sainth’ soul once more, using up the last of his magical crystals in the process. He poured every ounce of his power into the spell, believing it would hold until the very end—but he had foolishly miscalculated.  

Belshua turned to face Maximón, feigning calmness.  

“I have no interest in past lives. After living alone for tens of thousands of years, why should I care about human reincarnation? If you came here to talk nonsense, leave. I’m exhausted from training those sluggish brats today.”  

His deliberate rudeness seemed to deter Maximón from pursuing the topic further. It appeared Maximón also needed more time to reflect on the matter. Ending the awkward conversation here was a relief.  

But just as Belshua began to relax, Maximón brought up an even heavier subject.  

“Do you know any way to save Najane?”  

The moment Maximón mentioned Najane’s name, Belshua inexplicably panicked. For a brief moment, he said nothing, fiddling absently with an empty cup.  

From that single phrase, Belshua could vaguely guess Najane’s condition. Her health must have rapidly deteriorated due to the sigil Kieron had engraved on her body.  

After tightly closing his eyes and reopening them, Belshua finally turned to face Maximón. By now, Maximón was sitting on the edge of the bed, his dark green eyes shadowed and darker than before.

Belshua truly envied Maximón. How could he so openly display all his emotions and worry for Najane like that? Belshua lowered his gaze, concealing the turmoil within.

“Najane’s condition...”

“The divine power user said she won’t last more than a month.”

Taken aback, Belshua furrowed his brow.

“Did Archbishop Spello say that?”

“No. A boy named Boris.”

Maximón recalled Boris’ words—that Najane wouldn’t even survive a month—and rubbed his face wearily. Though Boris had claimed curing Najane was impossible, Maximón clung to the belief that there must be some way.

Najane was sleeping more with each passing day, much like an aging elder whose vitality was fading. She no longer rose with energy, her responses dulled as if her senses were numbing. Every part of her seemed to be visibly dying.

Watching this, Maximón had to fight back tears countless times. He didn’t deserve to cry or worry over Najane—not after everything.

“If anyone would know how to extend Najane’s life, it’s you.”

Belshua remained silent.

Maximón stared at Belshua’s back as if in prayer, bowing his head deeply.

“I’ll give you everything I have… If you can just tell me how to save Najane, I’ll live my entire life as your slave. If she can keep facing the rising sun, I’ll do anything… Please. Please, I beg you, Mahilen…”

At the mention of “Mahilen,” Belshua tightened his grip on his wavering expression, clenching his jaw shut. His lower jaw trembled faintly as he struggled to suppress the rising tide of emotion. After exhaling a long breath, Belshua recalled Gwyneth’ suggestion—replace her heart—and forced himself to meet Maximón’s gaze calmly.

“...If we replace her heart, she might live.”