SYMDF 24

Chapter 24

 

[Current probability of death: 34%]

Every day was a balance of dread and fragile peace. As Ion watched his constantly recalculated odds of survival, he wondered whether seeing death quantified so casually would eventually dull its edge.

No matter the number, as long as he still breathed, the dice of fate kept landing on life, for now.

Ion rose quietly, glancing at Yomnyong still curled fast asleep beneath the blankets. Smiling faintly at the little dragon’s rising scales, he stood and slipped carefully to the window, parting the curtains to taste the morning light.

He had hardly done so before his butler’s voice came from just beyond the door.

“Young master, are you awake?”

He must have been waiting nearby. Ion coughed to clear the tickle in his throat.

“You may come in.”

The old butler entered, a handful of sealed envelopes in hand. At Ion’s curious glance, he explained:

“Invitations. Shall I summon a reader for you?”

“…Yes.”

Ion nodded, eyes straying across the envelopes laid upon the desk.

Though not yet even of age, he received a steady stream of summons to banquets or private visits, all on the strength of Craiger prestige—even while bedridden. Occasionally long letters came too, though they baffled him, penned by people his erased memories refused to return.

As he scanned the names, however, one caught his eye—and darkened his mood.

Vernian F. Clodel.

“The Crown Prince…?”

He cursed silently and lifted the letter pressed with the golden Imperial seal. A child reader entered and began to recite:

“…Three days hence, I would be honored if the young heir would grace my luncheon with his presence. Signed, Vernian Ferrendo Clodel, Crown Prince of the O’Brien Empire.”

Ion grimaced and looked back to his butler.

“…Can I refuse?”

“You could claim illness, but…” The butler trailed off, clearly uneasy about precisely that course.

“…Send word I will attend.”

“Yes, young master.”

Resigned, Ion accepted the servant’s suggestion of a light breakfast and left his chambers. Emily’s cheerful chatter in the dining hall tugged a smile from him, but inwardly he mulled over the Prince’s letter.

He knows I despise his advances, so why push harder?

It was a dangerous sign. This world bound his very survival odds to his “encounters.” Ignoring Vernian could be marked as inaction, the system punishing him with death chance. Illness was no excuse.

A stew and bread sufficed to steady him. He placated Emily’s pleading to follow and walked alone down the corridors, past galleries and railings where servants and vassals scurried.

I need allies.

Though children of vassals close to his age were about, their loyalty would take years to grow. What he needed now was capable hands ready immediately. After all, he could not entrust his life entirely to Camillus’s overwhelming but fickle devotion. The Archmage was only sixteen, still a boy.

Ion deliberately passed through the main hall, out toward the manor gardens. While many retainers were away with the Duke, several trusted knights remained. Naturally, they shadowed him outside, doubtless on order. Ion watched them closely—and spotted one familiar face.

Milk?

The knight who had supported him when Vernian intruded—Sir Ernst, whom the system had once called doglike.

At the thought, the system flickered anew.

[For users navigating open world, note the following:]
[Status Effect: Hostility – Player risks death from unspecified parties.]
[Status Effect: Favor – Player may receive aid from unspecified parties.]

It mocked him. So which are they? Friend or foe?

Regardless, risks had to be taken. He drew out a handkerchief, pressing it to his lips theatrically, leaning to the shaded trunk of a tree, breathing ragged.

“…Haa…”

A convincing act—he had lived it daily.

Sir Ernst flinched a few steps back but hesitated. Ion smiled faintly and doubled over into hacking coughs.

At last, a strong hand clapped onto his shoulder. Ion’s eyes rose—straining upward into the concerned black gaze of the young knight.

“Young master—this air is too sharp for you. Please, come back inside.”

Ion almost laughed with relief. He had taken the bait.

“Sir Ernst?”

The knight blinked, eyes softening in subtle pride.

“You honor me by remembering my name, young master.”

The system only told me recently, Ion thought, but aloud he said warmly:

“Of course I would remember. Father trusts you greatly, and you aided me before. I have not forgotten—I’m grateful.”

“…I did only what was my duty.”

Ernst’s pale cheeks pinked faintly, embarrassed by praise.

[Player has begun attempts to sway Alexei Ernst.]
[Progression may affect Player’s survival.]

Ion stifled a laugh, masking it as another cough, and rasped hoarsely:

“I’m fine… but…”

The more he coughed, the more real it became. His throat was raw from the strain—hardly feigned anymore. He lost track of what was act and what was weakness.

Ernst shifted forward, taking Ion’s weight subtly, then swept off his knight’s coat and draped it over his trembling shoulders. Heat seeped through, steady and protective.

“You need not have gone this far,” Ion murmured.

Ernst stepped slightly ahead, angling his body protectively. In a low voice, he asked:

“What is it you wish to know, young master?”

Footnotes:

• System “Status Effects” (적의 / 호의): Signals that any encounter in this “open world” could swing toward death probabilities or potential aid. A reminder that trust itself is a gamble. 

System Flavor: Its mix of objective and oddly subjective descriptors blurs Ion’s inner awareness with game mechanics.