Little Pink Starfish

Until now, Veloan had only ever sent formal reports to Ishar.

They had occasionally spoken through communication magic, but those conversations were brief and infrequent—Veloan always seemed tired and ended the calls quickly.

Ishar had been quietly disappointed. While he constantly worried for and longed to see Veloan every day, it felt as if his disciple didn’t feel the same.

But that had been a misunderstanding—entirely Ishar’s mistake. In truth, Veloan had been suppressing his feelings for Ishar’s sake. The unopened letters in this drawer were proof of that.

“Ah…”

His throat tightened. The composure he had held so long was beginning to crumble. He took a deep breath. To compose himself, he closed the drawer holding the letters.

“Not yet. Not yet…”

He knew it clearly—he wouldn’t be able to bear reading them right now.

Much later, when his breathing had finally settled, Ishar opened a dimensional space and carefully, one by one, placed the letters inside by hand.

Then, he resumed going through what had now become Veloan’s belongings—traces and memories to be etched into his mind.

As he neared the end of that process, Ishar suddenly stopped.

“…What’s this?”

When he stepped on a certain spot of the smoothed earthen floor, it felt… different. Only there.

Curious, he cast a spell to excavate it.

Before long, something shallowly buried was revealed.

“This is…”

A beautifully engraved box—metal, but ornate. Ishar recognized it.

Veloan had used it for practice when he first learned preservation magic.

As if drawn in, Ishar knelt and lifted the lid.

“…Hah.”

He chuckled at the sight inside.

He had thought Veloan had grown into an adult far too quickly. But it had been another of Ishar’s mistakes.

Inside were familiar things—the gifts Ishar had given Veloan for his birthdays, carefully preserved.

Ishar bit his lip to choke back the swell of emotions. Memories clawed at his chest.

‘Veloan, do you happen to remember when your birthday is?’

‘…I’m sorry. I don’t know when I was born.’

‘There’s no need to be sorry! Then let’s choose one together. You can pick the day you want.’

‘Does it have to be my birthday? It’s enough for me to remember yours, Master.’

‘That’s sweet of you to say, but I’d really like to celebrate my precious disciple’s birthday. If there’s no specific date, I’ll choose a good one.’

‘Mmm… no, you don’t need to do that.’

‘Wait. Do you already have a day in mind?’

‘Yes. Do you remember the day we first met? I want that to be my birthday. You promised me a future then, but really, my life began the moment I met you.’

‘How is my disciple always this adorable?!’

‘I’m your disciple, Master Ishar.’

The image of the small, smiling Veloan hugging him was still a vivid and precious memory.

The shy, glowing smile Veloan gave when receiving birthday gifts—like he was embracing all the joy in the world—was still as clear as day.

Ishar reached out and gently traced the first gift he ever gave—a brooch.

It was made from a large red diamond, identical to Veloan’s crimson eyes. Ishar had it carved into a brooch for him.

Veloan had loved it. After receiving it, he wore it to every official event and ceremony.

Ishar spent a long time holding that brooch before finally setting it down and picking up an ink bottle.

He had made it when Veloan first showed interest in rune-based magic.

This ink, enchanted to generate magical structures just by writing, hadn’t been used at all.

“I gave it to be used, and he never touched it…”

Setting the bottle aside, he reached for the last item at the bottom of the box—wrapped in imperial-grade cloth, expensive fabric reserved only for the palace.

What’s this?

It didn’t seem to be there to cushion the other items—there was no enchantment on the cloth.

He unwrapped it layer by layer—four layers—until finally, the object inside came into view.

At the sight of it, Ishar clenched his fist tightly.

His wounded palm tore open again, and the blood soaked through his glove—but he couldn’t let go.

It was a portrait.

A small portrait of Ishar, drawn by the royal painter on Veloan’s insistence for this year’s birthday.

In it, Ishar sat in a chair, smiling gently—completely unaware he’d ever lose his beloved disciple.

“Veloan… Veloan…”

Veloan, who’d always clung to him asking to be hugged, to be patted on the head, who acted like a child starved for affection…

And yet, once he’d gone to the Abyss, he’d only spoken formally—never once straying into personal conversation.

Ishar had assumed Veloan was simply maturing—developing independence, growing emotionally.

But now, seeing the unmailed letters, the treasured birthday gifts, and the portrait wrapped so tenderly—he realized it had all been a lie.

“I want to become someone you can rely on.”

Veloan had endured, holding back, missing Ishar all on his own in that desolate place—just to keep his word.

“…Ugh…”

Ishar quickly set the portrait down. All color drained from his face.

His head throbbed like it was burning from within. His heart felt like it was being crushed.

The pain spread through his blood like wildfire—powerful and overwhelming.

His aura, long held in check within his heart, began to thrash like a storm-tossed ship.

“I’ll come back safely… and keep my promise to you.”

The words echoed in his mind, making his vision dim. Ishar punched himself in the head.

Pain on top of pain—but worse was the creeping madness gnawing at his mind.

No—not a hallucination.

This was the onset of magical madness.

A symptom of magical overload. The curse of power.

And then, the buried instinct Ishar had always fought against… whispered to him.

If you unleash this power, you’ll be free.

You’ve lost Veloan. Do you really want to live the rest of your life locked away in the palace?

Serving ungrateful humans, birthing heirs like prized stallions—
Why suffer any longer?

You’re alone now. There’s nothing left to lose. Use this chance. Kill every chain that binds you.

Normally, he would’ve ignored these voices. But this time, he began to waver.

The certainty of Veloan’s death shook the very foundation of the beliefs Ishar had built over a lifetime.

And with that, the agony transformed into a sweet, seductive temptation.

“Your Majesty.”

“…Rekayan…”

Suddenly, Rekayan was kneeling before him.

But this wasn’t the usual playful, boyish knight. His sky-blue eyes were piercing, cold as frost.

“Remember the blood spilled on the lands trampled by Bezerne I. The innocent who still die in agony, soaked in that cursed ground.”

Memories returned.

Accounts, records, magic-sealed images—of the atrocities committed by those who shared his blood.

“Recall that every triumphal arch in the capital stands upon the corpses of millions killed by Bezerne I. Remember their families’ grief. The suicides born of despair.”

“Ah…”

“Remember how many died under Bezerne II’s indulgence and decadence. The starving children, the parents who embraced them and died with them. The people who chewed bark for food. The dead who climbed mountains looking for something to eat. The children who fought over scraps of bread nobles threw into the street—you saw it all.”

Unforgettable. Images of countless deaths lodged themselves into Ishar’s mind.

“Remember the dead—those who shriveled away on the roadside, in their own homes without graves. Remember how you dug their graves, the feel of the soil, the stench. Remember it now.”

Rekayan grasped Ishar’s bleeding hand and cast a healing spell.

A spell he had learned from Ishar, though he had never used it before. For the first time, he did.

“Remember that Bezerne II tormented and murdered innocent people in pursuit of immortality. You said it yourself—how many died while you turned away. You said you were complicit. That you had to repay your debt.”

At last, Rekayan fell silent, watching as Ishar’s eyes cleared, the madness slowly retreating.

Then he let out a quiet, relieved sigh.