IDKML 04

Chapter 4

• Imperial Year 588, April 16th, afternoon.
  Ophelia Bolsheik, the first regression of her second infinite loop.

Ophelia’s eyes flew open.
Whenever she returned after dying, her vision would always spin for a moment—but she was used to it by now. She immediately assessed her surroundings.

This was the start of her second round of infinite regressions, and the first regression within it.
Richard had been poisoned through his tea, and she had been beheaded by someone whose face she never saw.
If only she had seen the bastard who cut off my head…

Ophelia grit her teeth.
The nightmare from the Founding Festival—the first time she experienced infinite regression—began to replay vividly in her mind.
Her stomach churned, nausea rising violently. She should’ve covered her mouth, but her hands were instinctively clutching her own throat when a dry voice came from above her.

“Are you all right?”

Unlike Ophelia, whose face was pale as a sheet, Richard looked calm—as if he had already transcended all emotions.
Or rather… maybe “calm” wasn’t the right word. It was more like everything inside him had eroded away, leaving nothing.

When Ophelia shook her head vigorously, Richard spoke again.

“You said the first time you regressed was during the Founding Festival, correct?”

“…Yes.”

“You now understand that was only the beginning.”

He didn’t need to say the rest: Do you understand why I gave up?
She already knew.

The reason he had reached out his hand to her.
The reason Richard had resigned himself.
Regression itself didn’t matter. Even death could be overcome. The problem was…
There was no end.

Yes, she knew that.
But still—

She didn’t want to live a miserable life, trapped in a novel she’d suddenly possessed, dying over and over again.
If she had just died once, it would’ve been like a fleeting blur, the way her possession had begun.
But the process of dying had been torturous—her organs twisting, her body bleeding, her despair engraved deep into her soul.
Even after returning, the pain remained lodged inside her.

Ophelia clenched her fists tightly and shouted,
“Even so, I’m not giving up!”

A flicker of surprise crossed Richard’s golden eyes—but it was gone so quickly she didn’t notice, and even he might not have realized it himself.

“If I were going to give up, I’d have done it during the Founding Festival already! After dying over and over without even knowing why—there’s no way I could give up after suffering that much!”

“I thought your only goal was survival.”

Ophelia crossed her arms and gave him a look that said isn’t that obvious?
“That’s true—but being frustrated is also true.”

For a brief second, Richard’s expression softened—as though he almost smiled.
Of course, Ophelia didn’t notice. She wasn’t perceptive enough to catch such tiny changes, so she just gritted her teeth instead.

“Getting my head chopped off again—it’s the most disgusting way to die. What about you, Your Highness?”

“The poison that slowly paralyzed me from the fingertips until my heart stopped—that one stayed with me. The client who ordered my assassination wanted to display my body. They told the assassin to kill me without leaving a single scratch.”

A trophy corpse…
Ophelia grimaced, shuddering at the thought. Then she shook her head.

“I meant, which one felt the most disgusting, not which one you remember most.”

“None.”

“What? None?”

“Yes. Death comes equally for everyone. There’s no reason to hate one kind more than another.”

“Still, isn’t there at least one kind you’d rather avoid—?”

As she spoke, Ophelia suddenly froze.
“Wait, that’s not important right now. The Marquis of Neir should be arriving soon—”

Knock, knock.

Before she could even finish speaking, a knock echoed through the door.
Ophelia swallowed hard and looked up at Richard.
He hadn’t answered her yet.

“Your Highness,” she whispered.

He said nothing, so Ophelia pressed on,
“Could you… cooperate with me a little?”

“We’ll see.”

His ambiguous reply made her bite back the words that had almost escaped her tongue—
I’m scared of ending up like you, worn down by endless cycles, losing even the will to escape.

She couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud.
Richard stared at her for a long moment, sensing she had something left unsaid, then finally spoke.

“My lady.”

“Yes.”

“Even if I survive this time, you know this regression will continue endlessly, don’t you?”

“Yes… I know.”

“And yet you still want to live. Forever?”

His voice sank low, heavy—like someone being slowly pulled into a swamp.
Ophelia’s blue eyes met Richard’s golden ones directly.
Her gaze trembled like a stormy sea, but her answer didn’t waver.

“Yes.”

Silence thickened—almost suffocating.
Then, just as before, Richard reached out his hand toward her.

“Let’s go.”

And, just as before, Ophelia grasped it without hesitation.

Once again facing the Marquis of Neir and his daughter, Richard wore the same disinterested expression—but Ophelia’s eyes gleamed sharply this time.

The hero’s nemesis.
The final villain.
That was the Marquis of Neir.

When Richard collapsed back then, the Marquis’s shock had seemed genuine—but if anyone could fake such emotion, it would be him.
If one had to name the person with both the strongest motive and the perfect means to poison Richard, it would undoubtedly be the Marquis.

“…Your insight would be appreciated…”

As the Marquis droned on, Ophelia narrowed her eyes.
She hadn’t noticed it before, but the Marquis was smiling.
A smile that reeked—not of deceit, but of something fishy and foul.

Still, would such a cunning villain really poison Richard without taking precautions himself?
That would be sloppy—too unlike him.
There must be another hand behind this—someone entirely different.

A flawless protagonist like Richard was bound to face trials and tribulations.
Even without having read the novel, Ophelia knew: to make the hero shine, enemies had to appear—and fall.

If you counted every petty rival Richard ever had, it could fill a whole city.
So for now, nothing was certain. Even if she survived this round, there was no guarantee she’d find the real poisoner.

It was almost time.
Soon Richard would drink his tea. Soon after that, she’d be beheaded again.

Well, she could figure out the culprit later. For now, she just had to stop him from drinking that tea—

“Your Highness!”

The words burst out of her before she could stop them—Richard had already picked up the fateful teacup.
Every eye turned toward her.

As she stared at him, a strange feeling washed over her.
Why was he holding the cup like that?
No one held a hot teacup by wrapping their whole hand around it—it was too hot.
It was as if… he were about to hit someone with it.

Before she could finish the thought, she froze—her cheek suddenly burned.
The Marquis’s daughter’s gaze was practically stabbing into her.

If she didn’t defuse the situation fast, she’d be burned alive by that glare before her head even got cut off.
And though she knew the loop would reset if she died, Ophelia had no desire to go through it again.

Come to think of it, she had shouted without even thinking—just seeing him lift the cup.
Still, keeping a perfectly calm face, she came up with a quick excuse.

“Your Highness, that cup seems damaged. I’ll bring you a new one.”

Of course, the cup was perfectly fine.
No one would dare serve Richard a teacup without inspecting it thoroughly.

After countless regressions during the Founding Festival, Ophelia had at least become quick at improvising under pressure.
But the next moment, she froze completely.

Because now she understood why Richard was holding the cup so strangely.

Crash!

The servant standing to his left—his head shattered along with the teacup.
Ophelia gaped.

“Your Highness! What—!”

She wasn’t the only one stunned. The Marquis of Neir looked equally shocked, and his daughter’s eyes widened.

Shing—

Before the Marquis could even speak, Richard drew his sword.
The Marquis’s face twisted, but Richard didn’t even glance her way.

He looked down at the unconscious servant, blood gushing from the man’s skull—and without hesitation, drove his sword down.

Crunch.

The blade sank into flesh and bone.
The servant didn’t even have time to open his eyes before crossing the river of no return.
Richard gave a small tug, pulling his sword free.

Crack, crack.
The grotesque sound echoed through the silent room.

At last, his and Ophelia’s eyes met.
He looked at her intact neck, then at the corpse.

So… he’s the one who cut off my head.

Even without words, Ophelia understood.
Her lips parted, but before she could speak, Richard tilted his head slightly—and swung his sword again.

Slash.

The servant’s severed head rolled across the floor and stopped at the Marquis’s feet.
Blood pooled around his shoes, but the Marquis didn’t flinch—only his lips twitched in disgust.

And just like that, everything was over.

Contrary to Ophelia’s careful planning, Richard had ended the regression in the simplest, swiftest way possible.
Even if others still plotted against him, no one would dare touch a hair on his head now.

Blood soaked into the white carpet. A headless corpse.
Thanks to the endless loops of the Founding Festival, Ophelia didn’t vomit this time—though she still covered her nose against the overpowering stench of blood.

Richard, the man who caused the carnage, carelessly dropped his bloodstained sword and said coolly,

“Marquis—go on. You were saying?”