Chapter 36 - The Blue of the Sky Stings the Eyes
(Author’s Note: Below is a flashback of a dark past.)
After leaving the Green Tower, Volf returned to the royal castle early in the morning, though the appraisal and registration of the glasses took a bit of time.
The appraiser at the gate mentioned that the development of glasses with recognition-blocking effects had been ongoing for some time, with reasonable progress made. However, they didn’t ask where the glasses had been purchased.
Curiously, the "aura-changing effect" of the glasses only worked on Volf.
To confirm, the appraiser tried wearing them, but the result was merely a slight change in eye color due to the tinted lenses. The overall impression of the face remained the same.
Eventually, someone commented, "Perhaps the quality of the original eyes is just too different," and a nearby soldier joked, "Maybe it’s a pair exclusively for handsome men."
Later, Volf tried to rest in his quarters in the barracks but woke up after only a brief nap. After rinsing himself off in the bath, he tidied up and headed back into the town.
Leaving the castle, he made his way to the bustling central district. It was just the time when the market was at its busiest.
Stalls were piled high with mountains of vegetables and grains, tables loaded with meat and fish stacked on ice, flowers large enough to carry with both arms, and spices emitting overpowering aromas.
The street, lined with all these things, was teeming with so many people in the early morning that it felt suffocating.
Cries from vendors, haggling, greetings, casual conversations—it was a flood of sound.
Volf adjusted his glasses once before swiftly disappearing into the bustling crowd.
Amidst the bustling throng, he passed by countless people, none of whom paid him any attention.
Occasionally, someone’s gaze lingered for a moment, perhaps intrigued by his tall stature or the tinted lenses of his glasses, but their interest quickly shifted elsewhere. Gone were the intense, lingering stares or the weight of unwelcome attention.
It was just a town street, just a crowd.
Blending into it was a remarkably refreshing experience.
It was something so ordinary for everyone else, yet had never been so for him.
Feeling, at last, like a part of the royal capital, he simply walked.
Eventually, he found himself back at the central park he had visited the day before.
While preparations for street stalls were underway along the street, the park itself was still quiet.
Taking in the greenery and the floral scents, Volf headed toward the bench where he and Dahlia had sat yesterday.
Leaning against the bench, he gazed up at the sky.
The sky was a cloudless blue, stretching endlessly.
Through the faintly blue-tinted lenses of his glasses, the sky seemed even bluer.
The sheer vividness of the color stung his eyes, and a single tear escaped from one of them.
・・・・・・・
Since childhood, most things aside from magic had come to him effortlessly.
Be it academics, swordsmanship, or etiquette—whatever was expected of the fourth son of the Count Scalfarotto household required little effort.
As the child of a third wife without a title, he lived his life in a way that kept him out of the spotlight as compared to his older brothers, and he kept to that standard.
His mother, the count’s third wife, enjoyed a life of comfort but sometimes gazed out of the window with eyes like glass beads.
Originally, his mother had been a guard to a duchess, but at his father’s strong insistence, her family had consented to the marriage. Those around her said it was a tremendous rise in status, but she had apparently wished to remain a knight.
Gifted in water magic, his mother could conjure blades of ice to fight and was a strikingly beautiful woman with lustrous black hair and skin like snow.
His father likely hoped their child would possess even greater magic with an affinity for water or, failing that, be a beautiful daughter with considerable magic suitable for marrying into a high-ranking noble family.
Instead, Volf had been born—a son with no talent for the prestigious five great magics of the nobility, and not a daughter with striking beauty.
His father had shown little interest in him. Volf could not recall a single meaningful conversation with him.
"Volfred, you should become a knight since you can at least use physical enhancement," his mother said.
Thus, he learned the sword.
Though her guidance had been strict on his young self, swinging a blade allowed him to immerse himself in something without thought, even if he could never surpass his brothers aspiring to be mages.
Perhaps to encourage him, his mother often read books about heroic knights to him.
From those stories, he developed a deep yearning for magic swords.
Even without the ability to wield magic, perhaps he could handle a magic sword.
If he could obtain one, maybe he could surpass his mother, a magic swordsman, and become a knight unmatched by anyone. That was the dream he nurtured.
But his dream shattered quite quickly.
When he was in primary academy, he, his mother, and the first wife along with her eldest son departed for their estate. The journey was supposed to be safe, with ample carriages and guards.
Yet near the royal capital, they were attacked by a band of thieves.
His mother hid him under a seat in the carriage before leaping out.
The shouts of men, the sounds of fire magic exploding, and the clash of swords filled the air. When a lull came, he peeked through the window to see his mother standing in front of the first wife’s carriage, a blade piercing her shoulder.
Inside the carriage was a longsword meant for self-defense. Clenching his trembling hands around the hilt, he leapt out, only to find his mother’s body already in two on the ground.
During that fateful day, his voice erupted—a scream, a cry, or a yell of rage. Whatever sound left his throat, it was unfamiliar, even to his own ears.
What followed was a fragmented memory.
He remembered weaving through the men, cutting them down one by one, his vision turning crimson and then plunging into darkness.
When he regained consciousness, he was lying on a treatment bed in the church. He remembered noticing how unnaturally pristine his arms and right leg looked.
His father stood by his side, informing him of his mother’s death and the survival of the first wife and her son. Then, his father held him tightly, painfully so, and uttered words of praise: "You fought well."
It was the only embrace from his father that he remembered.
If only he had left the carriage sooner, would she not have died?
If only he had been stronger, would she still be alive?
If he had wielded a magic sword, even without the ability to cast spells, could he have saved her?
Days passed in the church, where he cried in the company of an attending maid. By the time he returned to the manor, everything had already been settled.
The second wife’s father had died of illness. His second eldest brother had perished in a supposed riding accident.
He heard that the second wife herself had entered a convent, claiming it was to mourn her father and son.
Even as a child, he understood what had truly transpired.
He learned that people were far more terrifying than swords. His father was terrifying too. That understanding was all that remained.
As he grew, his unsettled demeanor drew attention, particularly from women and even some men. Their lingering stares, sweet words, and overtures became suffocating.
The men’s attitudes shifted next.
Jealousy and slander grew rampant. Friends were scarce, and those he managed to make were soon driven away by misunderstandings or women’s interference.
Eventually, the effort of finding new friends or clearing up misunderstandings seemed pointless. He immersed himself entirely in swordsmanship.
When he joined the Chivalric Order, he requested a position in the Monster Subjugation Force, drawn by the promise of limited human interaction.
He volunteered for the Scarlet Armor unit because its duties suited him perfectly. He believed that no one would miss him if he were gone.
Life became simple—sharing drinks and meals with his comrades, training with his sword, and awaiting the inevitable: to die fighting monsters or retire from knighthood.
And yet, a wish clung to him like a curse or a prayer.
He wanted a magic sword.
If he possessed one, he might surpass even his mother, a magic swordsman.
Perhaps he could rewrite the past that appears in his dreams, rescuing her from that day’s tragedy一something he had never been able to do.
A dream he knew would never become reality.
・・・・・・・
He removed his glasses, briefly holding them before putting them back on.
Each time he saw them, he thought of the magical toolmaker who had made them.
The day he fell alongside a wyvern and escaped the forest, he had been saved by a young man named Dahli.
Their conversation that day had been so enjoyable that he fervently wished to meet him again.
His wish came true. Upon reuniting, they discussed magic swords and tools, shared meals, and drank together. Every moment was a delight.
That "Dahli," whose full name was Dahlia Rossetti, was in fact a magical toolmaker.
He recalled her as she enchanted the lenses of his glasses, sweat pouring down her face like a waterfall. She wiped it away carelessly with her sleeve, smearing her makeup but never letting her focus waver.
He was captivated—utterly and completely.
He had never seen such earnest dedication paired with such radiant beauty.
After that, she handed him these glasses.
She used fairy crystals to craft these glasses, showing him what the world looked like through ordinary eyes.
It helped him blend seamlessly into the royal capital.
She had transformed his world after only three meetings.
He wished only for her friendship—to laugh and talk at her side, to support her work as a magical toolmaker, and to give her anything she desired.
If danger ever came her way, he would be her shield.
But it wasn’t love. He had no desire for a romantic relationship with her.
Such a bond would inevitably end, perhaps with him hurting her.
Dalia, too, sought nothing romantic from him.
The magical toolmaker's gaze had never held a trace of heat. She simply wanted to protect him as a friend.
And so he resolved to stay by her side as her friend, cherishing her with nothing but respect and admiration, keeping his thoughts free from darker desires.
Volf looked up at the sky again.
Through the enchanted lenses, the blue was vivid, the sun’s radiance imminent.
What the young man failed to notice was the light in his own golden eyes, glowing faintly with the unmistakable shimmer of love.
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