Chapter 20: Actually

Solene stood quietly by the window, but Ian would not allow her to step outside the room.

The entire space seemed to be gently wrapped in a world of plush velvet; even lying lazily on the floor, one could feel a wave of encompassing warmth.

Solene did exactly that. When Ian entered and saw her, he was thoroughly frightened, thinking she had collapsed.

He rushed to pull her into his embrace, his body trembling uncontrollably for a long while.

Even in an environment as warm as spring, Solene could clearly feel that she likely would not survive this long winter.

Thinking of the tomatoes in the yard that hadn't been checked in a long time, a trace of worry flickered in her heart. "The wind is strong at the window; don't stand there," Ian’s voice drifted from behind her. Solene hadn't even noticed the sound of the door opening.

She helplessly moved back a few steps, sat lightly on the bed, and whispered, "The tomatoes I planted... they’ve probably all rotted away."

"No, I gathered the seeds before winter arrived. We can plant them once spring comes."

Ian squeezed into a corner of the room to handle his official duties. Solene could clearly feel the fear within him; he was so terrified of losing her that they were almost inseparable. Only during his meetings with officials were there fleeting moments of separation.

"If Wesil knew I was still alive, how would he react?" Solene let out a cunning, soft laugh. She was truly curious about the expression that would appear on Wesil's face. After all, her life now was simply too boring.

"He will never know. If the day comes that he finds out, it will be the day of his death," Ian said calmly. Solene raised an eyebrow, not expecting such decisive words from him.

Ian gently set down his pen and pulled a book titled

Dreamland

from the shelf. Flipping through the pages, he murmured to himself, "3812 sunrises... it is said one can receive the Goddess’s favor, but I’ve searched everywhere and haven't found any trace of this legend."

Solene yawned and stood up listlessly, reclining on the lounge chair. She closed her eyes and held her father’s pocket watch to her ear, listening to the faint, crisp ticking. This watch was once held firmly in her father's hand; now it drifted between her fingertips.

Back then, before her father died, he had sat just like this—quietly on the only sofa in their home.

The room was as warm as spring, and the logs in the fireplace burned cheerfully. Everything seemed normal.

However, her mother had secretly discovered that her father had met with Count Degut before his suicide.

Shortly after, her father chose to leave this world. No one knew what they had discussed, but at that moment, her mother swore an oath—Degut must suffer a miserable death. Her mother told Solene, "You must not die; you must live well. Only then can you remember your father."

And so, Solene told herself she had to survive. When her mother’s hatred was finally unleashed, she watched those once-lofty nobles discuss her family like jumping clowns, and a strange hatred surged within her.

She realized that, like her mother, she had a vengeful nature. She would make these so-called nobles the laughingstocks of their own tales.

Including you, Ian. Back then, you had that high-and-mighty look, tacitly allowing everyone’s gossip and ridicule.

She truly hated it—and because she cared about his opinion, she hated it even more.

Ian had thought Solene was merely sleeping. He expected to find something by following the numerical guide of the page numbers, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't find anything corresponding.

After exhausting every permutation and combination he could think of, he still found no valuable clues.

Just as he was exhausted and ready to give up this fruitless search, a flash of inspiration struck him—there was one way of turning the pages he hadn't explored. He split the four digits in half: page thirty-eight, paragraph twelve.

Ian’s eyes widened as if seeing the truth hidden within the mist.

The first line of text caught his eye: "The lover in my dreams has eyes as deep and blue as lake water; I wish for his gaze to stay only for me."

"I can only meet him in that illusory dreamscape, for he is no light, dancing butterfly. I am but a fragmented butterfly; yet he is like the most noble and beautiful flower, radiating a captivating fragrance. Thus, I wake from the dream, and that kingdom of interwoven pain finally reaches its conclusion at this moment."

This was exactly the third page from the end. The final two pages depicted the establishment of a new Kingdom of Butterflies—a brand new world full of the unknown and hope.

Some poets interpreted this with deep emotion, saying the butterfly symbolizing beauty had perhaps long since perished, its passing carrying endless sorrow and regret.

Others said the butterfly died upon waking and witnessing the new kingdom, unable to bear the gap between reality and the dream.

Since this book was designated as forbidden, no one had delved deeper into its hidden meanings.

And the author of this mysterious, fantastical book was none other than Solene’s father, Vance.

Hidden behind the text was an imperial taboo, yet it stood like a brilliant star, serving as a solid cornerstone of the Empire's fantasy literature.

The snow outside quietly stopped. Ian slowly set down the book and looked up to see Solene’s face, pale as paper.

A surge of indescribable tension rose in his heart. He leaned in cautiously to check her breath, but the faint, nearly imperceptible respiration caused his heart to sink into a bottomless abyss.

Unwilling to accept this cruel reality, his knees buckled and he fell to the ground. He then scrambled up in a panic to find a doctor.

Solene lay quietly on the bed, like a sleeping angel. Ian waved everyone away and knelt alone by the bedside.

His grief poured out like a flood breaking a dam; his heart-wrenching sobs echoed through the empty room until he uncontrollably vomited blood.

At this moment, his strength seemed to have been drained away. He lay powerless beside Solene, leaning close to her body, his trembling hands clutching hers.

Solene’s hand gripped that pocket watch; the ticking sound was exceptionally clear in the silent room, like the sigh of time's ruthless passage.

Ian gently took the pocket watch.

His movements were incredibly soft, as if Solene were staring at the watch with him.

He slowly opened it to reveal a blurred portrait—a young Solene with her parents.

A trace of tenderness appeared in Ian’s gaze as he whispered, "You look so much like your mother." They seemed to be chatting as they usually did, but the only response was an endless silence.

"Your father was a great man of letters; his masterpieces will be praised by the world for eternity. Your mother was the Church's most devout and responsible Saintess; people still remember her achievements today. And all you have done for the new Empire will surely leave a deep mark in the long river of history. Solene, I love you."

The clasp of the watch loosened, and the portrait popped open. Ian flipped it over to find a small slip of paper tucked inside. Unfortunately, most of the handwriting had been torn away, leaving only this short fragment:

"Ian, live well. Don't let me down, and don't let everything I've done become a ridiculous farce. Actually, I liked you from the first time I saw you—definitely earlier than you liked me. But that feeling didn't stop me from loathing you at the time. Now that I've told you my secret of liking you, you owe me a favor. In the days to come, work hard and repay me through your actions."

Ian froze. He never expected the usually dignified and serious Solene would write such words.

His eyes still filled with tears, he carefully placed the note back into the watch and pressed it tightly against his chest.

Wiping the tears from his face, he suppressed his grief and had a maid bring in a painter. He sat on the sofa, cradling Solene’s body—a sight that would make anyone’s heart turn cold.

The painter looked at them tremblingly, his whole body shaking.

"Your Majesty... am I to paint her exactly like this?" the painter asked, bracing himself.

"Yes. You must paint the eyes as if they were alive," Ian forced a faint smile.

The painter wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. A chest of gold shimmering nearby made his eyes widen. Suddenly, it felt as if he feared nothing. "Then... may I save the eyes for last? I ask Your Majesty to show me other portraits of the lady so I may better capture her eyes."

Ian nodded gently. After the painter finished his meticulous work, Solene was placed in a coffin overflowing with fresh flowers.

The black lacquer coffin was engraved with her full name in gold thread, using her biological father’s surname—an act that seemed to pull the Idehai family out of the mire of sin and restore their name as a family of merit.

The portrait was soon completed. Ian would often stare at the pocket watch in a daze. In those silent moments, he seemed to suddenly understand Solene’s pain.

During the long, dark years of aristocratic rule, a peerless mage had quietly risen from the Lowlands of the Aslan Empire.

She was like a star shining in the darkness, founding the hospitals and orphanages that gave warmth and hope to countless people, and becoming the beloved fiancée of the Crown Prince.

With fearless courage and extraordinary wisdom, she broke the heavy chains of the nobility that had lasted three hundred years, bringing earth-shattering change to the Empire.

Through her tireless efforts, the profession of mage was finally unshackled, gaining the right to develop freely.

The giant tomatoes she meticulously cultivated were like miraculous fruits of life, allowing the citizens of the Empire to bid farewell to the threat of hunger and welcome a new life of abundance.

She passed away in the year 812 of the Empire, at the age of twenty-eight, from sudden death.

A white-haired Ian, filled with deep respect and love, solemnly inscribed her great achievements on the Wall of Merit of past Emperors. He carefully placed her portrait in the position preceding his own.

Time flowed on to the year 842 of the Empire. In this year, Ian passed the throne to his nephew, Ostan.

Ian, who never married, dedicated his entire life to the Empire with utmost diligence. He passed away at the age of fifty-eight from sudden death.

[THE END]