IYAMD: Episode 22

Jaha’s sword was recovered without much difficulty. Since it had been stored with the capital guards, retrieving it took less than a day.

However, things were too busy, and with the sudden affairs in the Ferento territory, there was no time to return to the imperial residence.

“Your Majesty, you should return for today.”

“Shall I?”

With his aides unable to return from the imperial library, Marsilia’s workload had suddenly tripled. He was buried in paperwork, receiving no assistance from anyone.

For the second consecutive day, Marsilia only managed to stand up after midnight. How many times had he even left his chair these past few days?

Malek had prepared a carriage, so on the way to the imperial residence, Marsilia closed his eyes for a moment. His eyes were so sore that he could hardly endure it.

The sword he had set beside him tipped over with the carriage’s movement. It was Jaha’s sword, retrieved from the capital guards.

He had brought it today intending to show it, but was it too late at night? He would probably have to wait until morning.

But as if to mock that thought, as soon as he returned to the imperial residence, his steps headed straight for Jaha’s room.

The knights standing guard at the door straightened at the sight of the emperor. Marsilia gestured for them to stay quiet, then personally opened the closed door.

The lights in the room were off, as if Jaha had already prepared for bed. However, he was not in bed but crouched by the door leading to the balcony.

Jaha was sitting there, head tilted upward, eyes closed, bathed in faint moonlight through the glass door.

Crying again?

Marsilia, approaching quietly, called his name in a dry voice.

“Jaha.”

Slowly, he turned his head. He wasn’t surprised—had he known Marsilia was coming even before the door opened?

Standing a short distance away, Marsilia lifted the sword he had brought.

“I found your sword and brought it. Do you want to see it now?”

Jaha immediately sprang to his feet. It seemed his condition had improved with regular meals; his movement was light and effortless.

He stepped closer and lifted his gaze. His outstretched hand hesitated, as if asking for permission to see the sword now.

“If it’s just for a moment, it’s fine.”

Jaha’s sword was much lighter than the ones used in the Western Continent. Even its scabbard was thin, almost making it feel like a toy.

When Marsilia handed him the sword, Jaha quietly gripped the hilt and unsheathed it.

A sharp metallic sound rang out from the well-maintained blade.

Jaha took a few steps back, then began moving his arm, turning the sword this way and that.

At first, his arm wavered slightly, but gradually, his movements widened. Then, stepping back twice and forward once, he lowered his body and thrust his sword forward.

A wind-like sound trailed from the blade as it swung past his shoulders and head. The chain attached to the hilt jingled, producing a sound almost like a musical instrument.

Marsilia took a step back, crossing his arms as he watched.

Jaha’s swordsmanship was completely different from what Marsilia had learned.

He wielded the sword with one hand, while the other performed what seemed like utterly meaningless movements.

Was it because it was slow? The unfamiliarity made it even harder to understand. His footwork was no exception.

Unlike the swordsmanship of the Western Continent, which primarily involved charging or retreating, Jaha’s steps moved in circular patterns, at times spinning alone like a waltz.

His long, flowing hair followed the movements of his sword, fluttering as if it were the hem of a dress.

His movements were so fluid that they captivated the eye. Each time the silver blade gleamed under the moonlight, Marsilia unconsciously parted his lips, a small sigh escaping.

Jaha skillfully maneuvered around the furniture in the room as he swung his sword. As he turned, his profile, eyes closed, flickered past.

The man, who had moved as if dancing, finally stopped. His scattered hair slowly settled around his thin frame, partially veiling his face like the hood of a robe.

Lowering his head, Jaha sheathed his sword.

During that moment, Marsilia had quietly drawn closer.

He reached out and brushed aside the hair covering Jaha’s face. Startled, Jaha lifted his head.

His face, backlit by the moon, was cast in deep shadow, but his golden eyes gleamed.

Marsilia cupped Jaha’s cheek in his palm. His thin face barely filled even one hand. With his thumb, Marsilia gently stroked his cheek.

Jaha’s gaze dropped slightly, following the movement of Marsilia’s thumb.

At first, his skin had felt quite rough, but now it was much softer.

Without realizing why, Marsilia kept touching Jaha’s cheek, remembering how it had once been completely drenched.

Only when he snapped out of it did he realize Jaha was saying something.

His lips moved, but no matter how much Marsilia tried to read them, he couldn’t understand.

Not knowing the Eastern Continent’s language, he could only guess.

Jaha took a step back. Marsilia quietly clenched his empty hand in the air.

Why did he feel a sense of loss?

Marsilia lowered his hand and spoke to Jaha.

“You probably won’t understand my question, but I still want to ask. Have you thought about what you want?”

Jaha shook his head firmly.

Marsilia wasn’t sure if that meant he didn’t understand or if it was a refusal.

So, he simply smiled.

Even if it was rejection, he wouldn’t understand anyway, so it didn’t matter.

Jaha frowned, looking at the smiling man with discomfort.

He didn’t like it when Marsilia touched him like that.

But that wasn’t all.

Every time Marsilia looked at him with longing eyes, it became difficult to breathe.

Because it was obvious—he was yearning for something that could never be granted.

That man sometimes seemed to ask Jaha something with his eyes. It was becoming increasingly difficult for Jaha to ignore that gaze.

Stop it, please.

Unconsciously, Jaha mouthed the words and took a few more steps back.

Marsilia nodded as if he understood and held out his hand.

“I’ll keep the sword for now.”

Jaha looked down at the sword in his hand. He thought about not handing it over but ended up letting out a small chuckle.

Hadn’t he lost all meaning in life? Hadn’t he wanted to die, so it shouldn’t have mattered whether his sword was taken or not?

And yet, here he was, wanting it back now.

Jaha swallowed a sigh and held out the sword to him. He no longer had the right to wield it.

A sword given to him to hone his skills and protect his family—yet he had failed to protect anything.

Moreover, with a sword meant to protect people, hadn’t he taken countless lives under the guise of revenge?

How could he possibly hold it again?

Jaha dropped the sword onto Marsilia’s hand as if discarding it, then turned away. Climbing onto the bed, he pulled the blanket over himself, while the man remained still, holding Jaha’s sword.

Jaha shut his eyes, determined to ignore him.

But his chest grew increasingly uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he regretted what he had done for revenge. But could he truly justify the things he had done when blinded by rage?

Jaha turned onto his side, facing away from Marsilia, and opened his eyes.

It would have been better if he had stayed mad and died.

He sighed as he slowly replayed his actions over and over in his mind.

This was all that man’s fault. If he hadn’t used that strange power, Jaha wouldn’t have returned to his senses. If he was feeling unnecessary guilt, it was all that man’s fault.

Blaming the unsettling heaviness in his chest on Marsilia, Jaha bit his lips hard.

The fact that he had returned to his senses, the fact that he was still alive when he should have died quietly—it was all that man’s fault.

As Jaha was caught up in his resentment, he felt the man approaching and squeezed his eyes shut. A warm presence brushed past his ear and then withdrew.

A gentle touch smoothed over his tousled hair.

“I thought you were crying again.”

The man’s voice was low and slightly rough.

“Sleep well, Jaha. See you tomorrow.”

The warm hand that had burrowed close to his scalp lightly lifted his hair before withdrawing.

The moment Jaha curled up, the man let out a small chuckle and stepped away.

After Marsilia left, closing the door behind him, Jaha’s eyes snapped open. He brought his thumb to his lips and bit down hard.

He hated when that man did things like this. He hated how he kept touching him so casually.

Every time he felt the man’s warmth, something inside him seemed to crumble.

So please, just stop.

Unable to sleep, Jaha tossed and turned—until he felt something hard against his side and sat up.

Beneath the tangled sheets lay his sword.

He said he was taking it. He said he wouldn’t give it back.

Jaha couldn’t bring himself to pick up the sword he had personally handed over. Instead, he shifted backward, moving across the soft fabric as if slipping away, and curled up in the corner of the bed, staring at his sword.

What was that man thinking, leaving it behind? What if Jaha used it to cut his chains and escape?

Against the white sheets, the black scabbard and hilt stood out starkly, drawing his eyes to them again and again.

Even so, Jaha couldn’t reach out and grab the sword.

After staring at it for a long time, he shut his eyes tightly and lowered his head.

That man was truly strange.

The things Jaha had given up on—his life, his sword—he kept forcing them back onto him.