Chapter 105: God.

He would be this person’s ally alone—no matter the time, no matter the circumstances, no matter who turned against them.

No matter what she clung to.

By the time Yuran parted from Violet and returned home, the sky had deepened into darkness.

This was his usual hour, so his family paid it no particular mind; only the bare minimum of servants came out to greet him.

He would see his parents at dinner later.

The couple who had taken Yuran in were both kind and easygoing in their own ways.

They had broad hearts and large vessels for acceptance—precisely because they valued their own principles so deeply, they interfered with others as little as possible.

That didn’t make them cold or indifferent.

They simply understood the proper distance and boundaries between people.

Even to Yuran—who instinctively regarded others first with malice or apathy—they seemed like fair and upright individuals.

If he had been born their child from the very beginning, he would surely have respected them from the bottom of his heart and aimed to follow in their footsteps.

But that was an irreversible “what if.”

Even now he could never become like them, nor did he wish to.

The days when he could yearn for fairness had passed long, long ago.

The first thing he did upon entering his room was take the pocket watch from his bag and place it inside the glass case.

The violet flower engraved on the watch’s lid gleamed through the glass—more beautiful than anything.

He had searched everywhere for a case worthy of the watch’s strict protection and exquisite beauty, but found none.

In the end he had intervened from the very beginning, insisting until they crafted his ideal one from scratch.

Changing into comfortable clothes, he draped his uniform over the sofa; someone would collect it while he was out of the room.

He had long since instructed that no one touch anything else in his space—only to tidy clothes and dispose of trash.

Thanks to the people around him adapting to the solitary boy who had always preferred to be alone.

The child of a king’s concubine was hardly someone servants wanted to get too close to, even if duty required it.

The only ones who would visit while Yuran was in his room were his parents.

He sat in the chair by the window and drew one leg up.

Resting his chin on his knee, his gaze settled on the row of picture frames lined along the windowsill.

But there were no people in those memories—only faded pressed flowers, palm-sized notes, or frayed braided cords that had snapped.

A slowly lifted fingertip traced the pressed flower through the cold film.

Even without a photograph to capture the moment, the flower—its vibrancy lost to time—still opened the door to memory.

Back when they first saw this flower together, neither of them knew its name; they had simply called it cute.

It was only later—while playing together in the library—that they learned these weeds that bloomed tirelessly in clusters, undaunted, were called forget-me-nots.

They would huddle around a single book, jotting down titles they wanted to read, circling the ones they finished.

Among picture books and children’s history texts—far more than stories—they had come across the superstition that if a braided cord broke naturally, a wish would come true.

Every word Violet spoke, every expression, the sky, the wind, the scents—everything, everything—he remembered.

（Finally…… we’ve come this far.）

His forehead knocked against his knee with a dull thud.

The childish self who could do nothing but lock tiny fragments of happiness away—without even managing to keep a single photograph.

The self who hadn’t even realized that the moment Violet turned her back, the smiling girl before him would be crushed beneath the weight of harsh reality.

He had believed—so purely, so baselessly—that simply wanting to be near her was enough.

That as long as the feeling existed, eternity was guaranteed.

He had swum through muddy waters, yet the peculiar sweetness of childhood made him optimistic.

Nothing lasts forever.

Continuation demands effort in everything.

By the time he understood that, the countdown to the end had already begun—and he was forced to confront how worthless he truly was.

Thinking “I would do anything for her happiness” meant nothing if it remained mere thought.

（This far—no, from here on. We’ve only just finished the preparations.）

To calm his racing heart, he knocked his forehead again and again.

It was too soon to get carried away.

If he grew careless and let his footing slip, everything up to now would dissolve into bubbles.

He exhaled the full lungs of air, closed his eyes.

Behind his eyelids, a bashful Violet reached out toward him.

It was always Violet who extended her hand.

That was why Yuran could keep standing.

That was why he could walk toward her.

Yuran—who acted on self-interpretation and raw greed—was nothing if not an egoist.

And yet, when it came to possessiveness, he had not even a shadow of it.

From the crown of his head to the tips of his toes.

His five viscera and six entrails, the blood flowing through them, his life, his soul—every last part belonged wholly to Violet.

That was precisely why she had to remain a bird in a cage.

Within a world woven from peace, for her entire life, never knowing the shadow of an outsider.

If she wanted to go somewhere, he would carry her.

If she wanted to fly, he would build a vast, wide cage.

He wished only that—should anything happen—she would stay in a place where this body could become her shield.

If she lost her owner.

If the one and only god she had ever known stopped breathing.

He could not endure that.

He had not endured it.

（It’s all right. I can do this. I will. I won’t make a mistake this time…… absolutely not.）

The lips he clenched carried the faint taste of blood.

The palm where nails dug in ached; he felt the skin slowly tearing.

A dull heat seemed to rise, but he felt no pain.

It didn’t matter.

This much was nothing.

Compared to the despair of that day—when the world he loved beyond measure had been trampled and shattered.