'Mirac… Mirac… Mirac…' called a distant female voice insistently, its tone flat yet somehow also filled with concern.
'Hmph, is that it? How pathetic!' exclaimed another voice, male and disturbingly familiar, dripping with mockery.
'I'm sorry, Mirac…' sobbed another female voice, sweet and trembling, like the melodic song of a siren. 'It's all my fault! I'm so sorry… If only… I had helped you properly!'
Suddenly, Mirac woke up, struck by a wave of confusion.
He found himself lying in a soft bed, his head heavy and his gaze lost in the intricately decorated ceiling of the room. The elaborate patterns seemed to dance before his still sleep-blurred eyes.
"W-Where… am I?" he mumbled, his voice barely more than a faint whisper.
Turning his head slowly, he noticed a beam of sunlight streaming through the large arched window to his right. The walls, painted a delicate shade of red, surrounded him with a sense of comfort and familiarity.
"This… this is my room… isn't it?" he murmured, the thought flickering in his mind like a dim light.
He remained motionless for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling as memories came flooding back, overwhelming him like a relentless tide. Scenes from his battle with Klark assaulted him, brutal and vivid, sending a shiver coursing through his body.
"Was it all… just a dream?" he asked himself, his heart pounding.
As he sat up slightly, supported by a pillow behind his back, he froze at the sight of a horrifying detail: half of his left arm… was gone!
"Huh…" he exhaled, his hand grazing the stump, carefully wrapped in white bandages. "So it was all real, huh?"
Even his head and part of his chest were wrapped in bandages. The scratches and wounds from the battle with Klark were hidden beneath plasters and gauze, but the pain was palpable, like a living memory that refused to fade.
"If I'm here, safe and sound, I have to assume Carmen won… right?" he wondered, a faint sense of relief mingling with the unease that stirred in his chest.
Yet despite this conclusion, Mirac's face twisted into an expression of frustration.
"Tsz!" he burst out, clenching his fist around the brownish blanket that covered him. The soft fabric contrasted with the fierce tension of his muscles, unable to fully come to terms with what had happened.
With effort, his back still stiff, Mirac rose from the bed and moved to the window beside him. The sun shone brightly, flooding the room with a warm and welcoming light, as if trying to banish the shadows within him.
Outside, the sky stretched clear and vast, an endless sea of blue that radiated deceptive calm. Though he couldn't clearly hear them, he imagined the songs of birds—light melodies that clashed painfully with his stormy thoughts.
Then, all at once, another wave of violent memories overwhelmed him.
This time, he saw the lifeless body of the old gardener Edward, lying on the ground, brutally cut in half. His hands still clutched the white roses from the bouquet he had been preparing, the pure petals soaked with blood—a grotesque contrast seared into Mirac's mind with haunting clarity.
The image materialized before his eyes, vivid and ghostly, like a distorted reflection in the glass of the window.
Frightened by the vision, a shiver of terror ran down his spine, forcing him to step back. His heart raced, and he found himself paralyzed, unable to escape the harrowing memory that gripped him in its icy grasp.
"It's all my fault, Mr. Foss…" he hissed in a low voice, clenching his fist so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "If only I had been more careful… quicker to react… but above all, stronger, you definitely wouldn't have died!"
Frustration mingled with remorse, a growing burden that weighed heavily on his chest, suffocating him little by little.
"Please forgive me, Mr. Foss…"
The oppressive silence of the room was broken only by the relentless ticking of the clock's hands.
Mirac shook his head decisively, trying to break free from the spiral of his thoughts.
He turned towards the desk, where the clock rested beside a disordered pile of hardcover books in a variety of colors. His eyes fell on the clock face.
"It's about 1 PM…" he muttered, his tone heavy with exhaustion.
He forced himself to take a deep breath, filling his lungs with air as if to cleanse himself of the storm raging within. As he allowed the warmth of the sunlight to caress his face, he felt a faint comfort.
It wasn't much, but at that moment, it was all he had.
With slow and measured steps, Mirac approached the wardrobe in his room. Every movement carried a newfound determination, as if he were trying to confront not only his visible wounds but also the deeper, invisible ones that continued to torment him.
He opened the doors calmly and chose a white shirt. The fabric, soft and lightweight, seemed to promise a hint of comfort.
Wearing it, however, proved to be a challenge: the empty and silent left sleeve was a constant reminder of his loss.
With patience and a hint of frustration, he eventually managed to adjust the shirt, though the emotional weight lingered.
The black trousers he already wore were comfortable and long, but to complete his outfit, he grabbed a pair of white socks and black shoes. He bent down to tie the laces but quickly realized how difficult it was to do so with just one hand.
After several unsuccessful attempts, he gave up, tucking the laces inside the shoes instead.
He left the room and began descending the white marble staircase, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the almost sacred silence of the castle. The light's reflections danced on the polished surfaces, creating shadowy patterns that seemed alive.
"They should all be in the dining hall, if I'm not mistaken…" he thought, his heart pounding harder with every step.
The castle seemed shrouded in an unnatural silence, and the rhythmic sound of his footsteps filled the auditory void, amplifying its weight.
When he reached the double doors of the dining hall on the ground floor, Mirac paused for a moment. He took a deep breath, letting the fresh air fill his lungs and his thoughts settle.
Then, with a slow but determined motion, he pushed the right door open.
'Just as I thought…' Mirac mused, a faint smile forming on his lips as his eyes swept across the room, finally resting on the long white table.
Before him, all the members of his family sat in their usual places, each with their own expression, staring at the Prince standing at the doorway.
At the far end of the table sat his father, rigid and glacial, his piercing eyes fixed on Mirac as though they sought to pierce his soul.
'Not even a smile after I almost died, huh?' Mirac thought, feeling momentarily small and vulnerable under his father's unyielding gaze.
The three stepmothers and their daughters, on the other hand, regarded him with indifferent expressions, like detached spectators. Their faces betrayed neither affection nor concern, radiating a sense of estrangement in response to his arrival.
The three twin sisters, however, reacted differently. Their eyes revealed a poorly concealed worry, hidden behind strained and forced smiles.
Michelle, in particular, seemed the most shaken. Her face was tense, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, unable to hide the relief the others masked more effectively.
But it was his mother who broke the silence.
As soon as Queen Ginevra saw Mirac enter, her expression changed immediately. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she shot to her feet, rushing towards him with a face radiating love and relief.
"Mirac!" she exclaimed, her voice cracking with emotion as she enveloped him in an embrace that held all her pain and joy.
Her soft hands trembled slightly as she caressed him, as though trying to assure herself that he was truly there before her.
"You're finally awake! How do you feel? Are you all right? Are you dizzy? Does anything hurt?"
"Calm down, Mom. I'm fine!" he replied, trying to maintain his composure, though emotions churned within him. "I'm just a little tired… That's all."
As soon as Mirac finished speaking, his father rose abruptly from his chair, the seat scraping slightly against the floor. His cold gaze betrayed no particular emotion as he stepped towards his son.
"Mirac Strongold!" he declared in a deep, authoritative voice, his heavy steps echoing through the hall.
"Wait, dear, please!" Ginevra exclaimed, clinging tighter to her son, desperate to extend this precious moment of affection.
"I'm sorry…" his father retorted without hesitation. "But I have something to say to him, and I will not wait a second longer to do so!"
Mirac felt his heart race, the pounding filling his ears.
Ginevra reluctantly let him go, and he found himself standing alone, face-to-face with his father, who continued to approach with firm, deliberate steps.
'Damn it!' Mirac thought, forcing himself to stay calm and adopt a posture that conveyed confidence. 'He's going to scold me for not being strong enough, isn't he?'
Suddenly, the memory of Edward's lifeless body resurfaced in Mirac's mind, a grim reminder of his failure. The awareness that he hadn't even witnessed Edward's final moments—because he had been turned away when Klark killed him—struck him hard, making him lower his gaze, overwhelmed by despair.
'Well, he's right after all…' Mirac thought, feeling tears sting his eyes. 'I couldn't blame him if he wanted to insult me.'
He struggled to keep his composure, as the knot of frustration and guilt tightened in his throat.
'It's true that I'm only 8 years old, and for many, that might be a perfectly valid reason for not having beaten Klark. But not for me! I am Mirac Strongold, son of King Arthur Strongold! People, especially my father, expect great things from me! But I, even with two swords, barely managed to protect myself before Carmen came to save me…'
Every fiber of his body stiffened as the memory of the fight still burned in his mind.
'Only now—after fighting a real opponent—can I finally understand why my father has always been so harsh with me: it's because I'm weak! Very weak! Disgustingly weak!'
The horrible realization that Klark had been stronger, faster, and more cunning than him weighed on him, smothering him with no reprieve.
Once again, Mirac clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, turning his knuckles white as the sense of helplessness transformed into a simmering anger.
At that moment, just as he was about to raise his gaze towards his father, who now stood directly in front of him, Mirac's thoughts were abruptly interrupted.
He suddenly felt warmth envelop him, different from his mother's embrace: it was more intense, more solid, yet strangely familiar.
'W-What…?'
Mirac's eyes widened, unable to process what was happening.
'I-I can't believe it…!'
While Mirac had kept his gaze lowered, King Arthur—the stern and unyielding father he knew—had knelt down to embrace him.
The king held him tightly, a gesture so full of affection and so unexpected that it felt almost unreal.
"D-Dad?!" Mirac stammered, momentarily forgetting the rigid royal etiquette.
Only afterward, in his mind, did he correct himself to "Father" as Leonard had always taught him.
But in that moment, there was no room for formalities. There was only an embrace that spoke more than a thousand words.
Slowly, Mirac's hands relaxed, letting go of the tension that had turned his fingers into claws.
After a long moment of silence and shared warmth, Arthur released the embrace. His hands rested on Mirac's shoulders, firm yet gentle, as though he wanted to hold onto him just a little longer, to preserve that precious, fleeting moment.
The king's eyes met Mirac's.
The usual coldness that had always defined him was gone. In its place was a newfound intensity, something deep and unexpected that seemed to bridge the chasm that had always divided them.
"I can't believe it, Mirac!" Arthur said, and for a moment, his voice trembled.
The man who had never shown a hint of vulnerability, who embodied the rigor and strength of a sovereign, now revealed a side of himself that Mirac barely recognized.
"I'm so proud of you!" the king exclaimed at last, with a sincerity that seemed to fill the entire room.
Mirac's heart nearly stopped for a moment.
"P-Proud… of me?!"
Those words…
The same words Mirac had dreamed of hearing in countless nights, imagined a thousand times in his mind.
Now they were real, spoken by his own father!
The weight Mirac had carried within himself for so long—the constant need to prove his worth, the harrowing memories of his training, and the crushing sense of weakness for having lost to Klark—seemed to dissolve in an instant, like mist under the sun.
'My father… King Arthur… is proud of me?!'
Even after hearing those words, Mirac struggled to believe them.
But the expression on King Arthur's face left no room for doubt. There was pride in his eyes, a pride Mirac had never seen or felt directed toward him before.
A lump formed in his throat, an emotion so strong it hurt, as though the tension of an entire year had built up only to explode in that single moment.
In such circumstances, Mirac had no idea how to react.
Or rather, without even realizing it, he smiled. Not a polite or forced smile, but something genuine and pure, something that came from the heart.
"R-Really?" Mirac finally managed to say something, though his voice trembled more than he would have liked.
Even though he was actually over eighty years old, Vector felt like a child again.
But even this fact didn't matter.
For Mirac now, nothing mattered more than the words he had just heard.
Arthur nodded, his face slowly softening into a smile that seemed to sweep away all the tension between them.
"Of course, my son!" he replied, his tone brimming with sincere admiration. "After all, you managed to defeat a skilled assassin all on your own in a true battle! That proves how strong you've become! Well done, my son!"
Arthur's voice oozed pride, as if that moment were the definitive confirmation of his son's worth.
But those words struck Mirac in a completely unexpected way.
'Huh?!'
His smile faltered, replaced by an expression of confusion as his thoughts began to spiral.
'Defeated… a skilled assassin?'
He couldn't piece it together. Those words echoed inside him like a discordant note, something deeply wrong.
"Defeated… an assassin?" Mirac repeated aloud this time, his hesitation betraying his bewilderment.
Arthur noticed his unease and tilted his head slightly, his expression a mix of concern and tenderness.
"Wait… Did you forget about it?" he asked in a softer, still affectionate tone. "You're the one who killed the assassin! I mean Klark, the imposter posing as Professor Shirkenn. Don't you remember?"
Arthur's words reverberated through the room, striking Mirac like a bolt of lightning.
His mind suddenly descended into chaos as he desperately tried to recall the events of that night.
But even so, Mirac's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. His heart, once filled with joy, now seemed ready to leap from his chest, trapped in the grip of a false truth.
"W-What?" he stammered, incredulous. "M-ME?!"
His hands began to tremble, his body overwhelmed by a wave of disorientation that left him utterly unmoored.
"I-I killed Klark?!"
Too bad, though, that it wasn't true…
It had been Carmen, after all, who had dealt with Klark while Mirac had been unconscious. Right?
'What the hell is happening right now?!'