Chapter 106: Settled Memories.

Memories one doesn’t want to remember sink in far more vividly, far more deeply, than happy ones ever could.

Mistakes, regrets, the past you desperately wish to erase—these cling with stubborn clarity. No matter how frantically you scrub or pound at them, they only smear further, never returning to nothing. Sometimes they even seep into other places.

If one could turn the past into nourishment for growth, that would be wonderful.

But one must never forget: even if you make it your sustenance, the memory itself does not vanish.

The memory that became Yuran’s sustenance—and yet one he could never forget—was both future and past at once.

A memory that existed nowhere in this world, in no one’s recollection except his own: a gu poison of hatred, rage, and murderous intent. What remained after they devoured one another was a resolve to kill even a god.

On the day the world turned time backward, he swore it.

This time, he would absolutely not make a mistake.

“Violet Rem Varhan has been arrested.”

It wasn’t so unexpected as to be shocking—yet at the same time, it was the realization of a possibility he had stubbornly tried to exclude from some corner of his heart.

“Even if they’re only half-siblings, to try to kill her own little sister……”

“It’s jealousy over her engagement to Claudia-sama, apparently.”

“Vulgar.” “Filthy.” “Repulsive.”

“How could an intelligent prince ever choose a woman like that?”

The contempt and mockery poured in even when he covered his ears.

Everyone joined in trampling the sinner, while praising the beautiful half-sister who—though the victim—still defended her older sibling.

With the prince’s engagement thrown into the mix, society overflowed with vitriol toward Violet and hymns of praise for the fairy-tale romance between the prince and his princess.

Disgusting. Vulgar, filthy, repulsive.

People who knew nothing smiled at each other with righteous faces.

Evil had been defeated, the world made peaceful, everyone happy—or so they deluded themselves.

If only it could all be blasted to smithereens.

Violet had been imprisoned for the attempted murder of her half-sister.

Yuran learned of the fact the day after it happened.

He thought he must be dreaming.

This was a nightmare; everything was an illusion conjured by anxiety.

If he could just wake up, his beloved would once again call his name in that lovely voice.

The world would revolve around her, no one threatening her existence, no one even thinking to hurt her.

How many times would he have to wish before such convenient delusion became reality?

“Thank you for today.”

“…………”

Without so much as glancing at the officer who bowed until his face could no longer be seen, Yuran retraced his steps with slow, dragging feet.

Through the unkempt fringe that no longer received care, it was hard to tell where his vacant eyes were looking.

His back remained straight, yet his neck hung loosely forward.

Whatever change might have occurred in his unchanging expression, no one would ever be allowed to witness it.

The image of Yuran Kugurus that the public had constructed shattered into nothing—not even fragments remaining—on the day Violet was taken.

The gentle atmosphere, the adorable smile, the way he listened attentively and nodded—every trace had vanished without shadow or form.

The heavy air, the lifeless expression, the silence that answered no voice and spoke to no one—Yuran now resembled the child he had once been, crushed beneath the violence of the majority.

The self he would have become had he never met Violet.

How many days had passed? He no longer knew.

He could no longer distinguish sleep from unconsciousness; morning or night made no difference.

Whether the light in the sky was the sun or the moon, Yuran’s hell would not end.

Yet even in that haze, the one thing he still recognized accurately was time—because time placed strict limits on what he could do to save her.

Petitions, visits—nothing would be accepted outside the building’s open hours.

She was still alive.

There were still ways to save Violet.

For the current Yuran, that alone gave meaning to living.

“Yuran.”

Someone called his name; he lifted his gaze—just barely—from the ground at his feet.

He didn’t need to see the face to recognize who it was from that resplendent presence.

And, incidentally, the small shadow standing beside him.

For the first time in what had until now been eyes as hollow as a skull’s sockets, something that could be called “emotion” took root.

Through the narrow slit of his gaze, the prince and his future queen regarded him with solemn, almost concerned expressions—as though worried for him.

“I heard you were called again today…… and that you said nothing.”

Called—Claudia’s phrasing reminded Yuran that he had indeed been summoned.

Though it registered only as an “Ah, yes, that’s right” sort of thought.

In any case, Yuran had come here, and he had no intention of turning his attention to anything beyond his own purpose.

“Why won’t you say anything? Even they have to listen formally, but no one seriously believes you were conspiring with her…… with Violet.”

Violet’s arrest had been practically in the act.

A servant had heard Mary June’s scream and the commotion and caught her on the spot.

An impulsive, unplanned crime of passion—clearly the act of a lone perpetrator.

The police, while conducting “interviews with related parties,” clearly thought that once the formalities were complete, the substance hardly mattered.

Otherwise, the desperate account Marlin had given of the inner workings of the Varhan household would surely have leaked somewhere.

And yet, amid all this, Yuran—who had been closer to Violet than anyone, who had shown her nothing but goodwill, and who now refused to speak a word to anyone—had deliberately constructed the narrative that he was suspected of conspiring with her.

To delay her punishment even slightly.

To buy even a little more time to save her.

Of course he knew such a shallow ploy couldn’t last forever.

As Claudia said, no one seriously suspected Yuran.

In the end, this was nothing but harassment.

He had no intention of opening his mouth for the sake of idiots who proclaimed Violet evil.

“I’ve heard about the petitions and defense discussions. Mary June largely agrees with your thinking…… but—”

“Yuran-kun, I want to help Big Sister too. I understand your feelings so, so much. When it’s someone precious, you want to do anything for them…… but that’s exactly why I think we shouldn’t turn away from the crime.”

“I say this fully aware of how much you admired Violet. She…… is a criminal.”

“She needs to face it properly and atone for her sins. Isn’t that what would truly be for Big Sister’s sake……?”

Loathsome. Filthy. The single most hateful thing in the entire world stood right before him.

The fact that its mouth, its words, its eyes, its thoughts were “worried” about him made him want to vomit.

The delusion that standing on high let one see everything clearly.

The pitying kindness that seemed to say “how sad.”

It crawled over Yuran’s body like an insect.

（Ah—disgusting.）

Crack, crack, crack—his heart, trampled underfoot, shattered with audible fractures.

Rage, hatred, resentment—even the grievances—had burst and scattered, leaving his mind shockingly calm.

Utterly silent, without a ripple, pure loathing welled up endlessly from within the still pool of his spirit.

A broken faucet with no handle left to turn off.

People who walked beautiful paths in beautiful stories.

They never even knew the existence of those cast aside—never imagined that their happiness was built on blood squeezed from someone they had stepped on.

The firstborn, the legitimate child—the man who could remain a prince simply because of that.

The woman raised on love alone, simply because she was born of true romance.

On whose backs had that status and love been built?

Who had been left behind so they could obtain it?

If looking only forward was beautiful and healthy, then the lives beaten down behind them had every right to rise up and strike from the rear.

Where, exactly, was the fault in this anger, this disgust, this hatred?

—No matter the reason, sin must not be forgiven; punishment must be meted out.

They had never once considered what “no matter the reason” might entail.

Drunk on their own ability to speak pretty words, never thinking deeply or thoroughly.

In the end, they simply reveled in being the sort of person who could forgive a sinner—and still demand punishment.

Shallow idealism.

The condescending gaze that pretended to care while lecturing.

To Yuran, every last bit of it looked like garbage.

They sat comfortably in a place of leisure, gleefully beating down someone who could barely move—and never noticed it for a moment.

How wonderful it would be if he could simply snap their necks right here.

“Never open your mouth again.”

“……!”

With the slow sway of wind-tossed branches, his head tilted; through the parted fringe, glaring golden eyes pinned Claudia and the others in place.

His voice carried no emotion, no inflection—flat and level, never rising in anger.

It sounded like prerecorded speech in a machine: cold, inorganic, devoid of warmth.

Yet those eyes—piercing Claudia and Mary June—held both bone-chilling cold and scorching heat at once.

Murderous intent—yes, killing intent—radiated as though he might lunge at their throats and tear them out this very instant.

The sacred golden hue now carried the viscous thickness of molten metal boiling in a furnace.

The unspoken message was clear: I will kill you.

From the very moment he drew breath to utter a single word, a single syllable.

Before any hand could reach them, he would wrench the life from both.

Shock, terror—or perhaps both.

Like frogs frozen under a snake’s gaze, the two stood paralyzed as Yuran passed them by—every trace of emotion stripped away, leaving only emptiness.

Their shadows no longer existed in his mind.

The words thrown at him had already turned to trash and vanished.

Every last one was unnecessary for Yuran’s survival.

What he pictured was his beloved—struggling so hard, telling herself she could be happy, dancing on.

Exaggerating her expressions to draw his gaze, speaking in deliberately high-pitched, affected tones.

And yet—every once in a great while, very rarely—smiling sweetly, gently.

（I want to see her.）

Just one look.

Even a few seconds would be enough.

He simply wanted to see her like that.