Little Pink Starfish

Of course, Rekayan had blasted every mage who tried to get close to Ishar with aggressive spells. In doing so, he cleared out his competition.

At first, he simply enjoyed having a junior who listened well, took his advice seriously, and helped him during loot raids.

Ishar’s status as a discarded prince didn’t matter anymore. The more Rekayan got to know him, the more intrigued he became. He wanted to stay by this boy’s side—he wanted to see how far Ishar would grow.

He freely shared his own magical materials, and whenever Ishar wanted to “raid” someone, Rekayan was eager to help plan it. Sometimes, they even managed to raid the Tower Lord’s private storage.

Time passed.

One day, Ishar visited Rekayan’s lab.

“Senior, do you know where I could get a Fernchina fang and some Tren herbs?”

“Oh, I have some Fernchina fangs—you can have a few. As for Tren herbs, we’ll have to go collect those. You’ve been handling teleportation well lately, right?”

“Yes.”

“Could you transport us both?”

“No problem.”

“You really are the best.”

It was rare for Ishar to ask a favor directly, so Rekayan cheerfully began calculating the coordinates of the herb’s habitat.

“By the way, Senior… why is this here?”

“Huh? Oh, that—”

Ishar held up a doodle he’d scribbled and tossed in the cafeteria a week ago. Rekayan replied without shame:

“I kept it. It’s a masterpiece, really. Every time I see it, it inspires me creatively.”

“And this? I think I carved this and tossed it the other day.”

“Also inspiring. It brought out my artistic urges and—WHY ARE YOU BURNING IT?!”

“If you pick up anything I’ve thrown away again, I’ll burn you next time.”

“…Yes, ma’am.”

“Just now, you were thinking, ‘It’s fine if I don’t get caught,’ weren’t you? If you’re so confident you won’t, go ahead. Try it.”

There was no mistaking the threat in the measured tone of Ishar’s voice. Rekayan nodded frantically, like a debtor cornered by a loan shark.

“I know your capabilities well, junior. Here’s the location. It’s a forest—once we teleport, I’ll guide you from there.”

“Okay.”

Despite the earlier threat, the mood during their herb gathering was pleasant. So pleasant, in fact, that Rekayan offered:

“There’s a village nearby. Let’s grab a meal before we head back. My treat.”

“Sure.”

Ishar’s face remained neutral, but Rekayan saw it—his amethyst eyes sparkled with curiosity and liveliness.

Come to think of it, he’s probably never seen a normal village. The former emperor kept trying to have him killed, sending him to dangerous places. This might be the first time he’s seeing how people really live. Hm… maybe we can stroll through the town after lunch, if he’s up for it.

It was meant to be a simple, lighthearted idea.

The village they visited, however, was steeped in death.

Gone was any trace of its former prosperity. The people were starving, diseased, or already dead.

“Let’s go back. Now,” Rekayan said, grabbing Ishar’s wrist.

But Ishar stood frozen.

“What… what happened here? Why…”

He stared at the skeletal, malnourished people—at the rotting corpses—with a face drained of all color. As if he were seeing this kind of suffering for the first time.

“…Senior. What happened here? You know, don’t you?”

Even without asking, Ishar had already read it in Rekayan’s expression. The way he didn’t flinch, didn’t blink—it told Ishar everything.

Rekayan didn’t want to answer. Ishar already knew, and it hurt more to confirm it aloud.

“I said, Rekayan von Riccione. Answer me.”

This was no longer between senior and junior. Ishar spoke with the authority of a royal to a noble subject. Rekayan had no choice but to obey.

“It’s only a guess, but… this village was likely one of the many stripped of young men and food during Emperor Bezerne I’s continental conquest. You’ll notice the dead and the sick are only the elderly, women, and children. We already talked earlier about the recent drought—so starvation makes perfect sense.”

“…”

“It’s… not that surprising, really.”

“Not surprising?”

“No. You probably didn’t know, but ever since Bezerne I began his campaigns, starvation like this has been widespread in the Empire and its territories. Massive conscription and requisition of supplies have left many towns like this. And now Bezerne II—well, you know. He only cares about the capital.”

Rekayan, despite being locked away in the Tower, read every newspaper he could—from the imperial dailies to obscure regional prints. He did it to keep up with magical material markets.

The papers from the capital were filled with fluff and decadence, catering to nobles. But the small-town ones? They screamed of death. Of collapse.

Ishar stood in silence, staring at the dead and the dying. It was as if he were burning the image into his soul.

Then, he moved.

He healed the sick. Created water for them to drink. Even knowing it was only temporary—perhaps even prolonging their suffering—he couldn’t help himself.

When that was done, he picked up a shovel and dug graves behind the village. He didn’t ask Rekayan for help. Didn’t even seem to remember he was there.

And Rekayan, watching the prince kneeling in the dirt, thought:

If only he had become emperor…

The prince the world had discarded was, in truth, a radiant figure—like a moon hidden by storm clouds, now revealed.

That day changed everything.

After that, Ishar began leaving the Tower more and more. Traveling across the Empire, always returning after days with a face more worn, more weary.

Rekayan knew exactly where he’d been.

He couldn’t trace Ishar’s mana perfectly, but he didn’t need to. The cause was plain.

So when Ishar returned again, two days later, laden with food and medicine and about to teleport, Rekayan stepped in.

“Where are you going, junior?”

“None of your business, senior.”

“I know where.”

“Then move.”

“I want to come.”

“And what would you do there? What can you do?”

The words were harsh—but Ishar didn’t sound angry at Rekayan. If anything, he seemed to be scolding himself.

“I can watch. I can learn.”

“…Tch.”

“And if you ever try to forget, I’ll be there to remind you.”

“I won’t forget. I can’t.”

“You can. People change. No matter how many times you swear you won’t, eventually, it fades.”

“I’m not like that.”

“You’ve also been unstable lately. Your mana’s erratic. Anyone who’s been here even a year knows what that means.”

“….”

“You’re swallowing the Empire’s sins, Ishar. Sooner or later, that’ll break you. When it does, you’ll lose yourself—and even if you return, you’ll never be the same.”

He tapped Ishar’s forehead lightly.

“I care about you. That’s why I’ll be there. I’ll help you remember. That way, even if you want to go mad, you won’t be able to.”

I’ve been there, too, he added quietly.
Just before the brink—what saved me was a reason to stay sane.

He looked into Ishar’s eyes.

Ishar held his gaze for a long time.

Rekayan prepared for the worst. Maybe he’d be blasted with a fire spell, or mocked. Maybe this was a mistake.

But then, Ishar finally asked—quietly:

“…Senior, what is it that stops you from going mad?”

It was a question Rekayan hadn’t expected.