IDKML 05

Chapter 5

• Imperial Year 588. April 19th. 8:19 A.M.
  Ophelia Bolsheik, during her third infinite regression, the fourth loop.

Three days had passed since Richard, who had infiltrated as a servant, slit the assassin’s throat.
Now, Ophelia was racing toward the Imperial Palace in a frenzy. Of course, there was a coachman, but if she could have, she would’ve driven the carriage herself.

She had died last night.
Of heart failure.

No—more accurately, she died tonight and then regressed.

At first, she went through another bout of denial, just like she had after the Founding Festival.
It was hard not to, after remembering how easily her second regression had ended while she was with Richard.

But then—she slipped and cracked the back of her head in her second death, and choked to death on bread during her third. That’s when Ophelia finally snapped.

This damn infinite regression had started again.

Inside the carriage, she smacked her fan irritably against her palm.

“No wonder everything was going so well today!”

After spending a day drenched in blood with Richard—who’d turned everything into a bloodbath again before her wounds even scabbed over—Ophelia had dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t regress anymore.

It was a flimsy hope, but dreaming is free, isn’t it?

From the morning, things had gone unnaturally well: her secret investment (hidden from her mother) was thriving, the tea was brewed perfectly to her taste, and she’d miraculously avoided running into her mother despite living in the same house.

Her luck was good.
Too good.
Right up until she regressed.

During her third regression, Ophelia realized something new:
Even if she didn’t do anything, something always changed—just a little.

Small things, like the tea suddenly tasting off, or unexpectedly bumping into her mother.

Come to think of it, even during the first regression—the Founding Festival—minor details had changed.
The appetizers, for instance, or the flowers decorating the hall.

Realizing that regression brought random changes, Ophelia became terrified her secret investment might fail, and that anxiety was what finally drove her to abandon all her petty escapism.

“If I regress again tonight and lose my savings, I swear—!”

Grinding her teeth, Ophelia’s shoulders slumped.
This regression had made one thing certain: the last one had ended purely because of Richard’s whim.

If he had wanted to, he could’ve easily ended this third regression, too.

Because this whole cursed cycle depended entirely on Richard’s life or death.
If he died, the regression started.
If he lived, it ended.

In the second loop, he survived after smashing the assassin’s head—so the regression ended right there.

So much for calling it an “infinite” regression.

“It only ends when he lives.”

Richard had once said those words with a look of total resignation.
Ophelia still didn’t know what made him change his mind that time.

But now, during this third regression—she knew one thing: as long as she didn’t die herself, Richard must be somewhere, giving up again and dying over and over, without the will to live.

“No. Don’t assume until you see it yourself.”

Sighing deeply, Ophelia faced a new problem.

“Entry to the palace is forbidden.”

When she arrived breathless at the Crown Prince’s palace, she was immediately turned away at the gates.

Of course, it made sense.
She was a mere count’s daughter without a title—there was no way she could meet the Crown Prince without an appointment.

If she could meet him that easily, the Empire—hailed as the most powerful nation in history—would’ve been in real trouble.

“Please return, my lady.”

The guards’ firm tone, and the clang of their spears against the marble floor, made Ophelia retreat quietly.

She wasn’t the first person to throw a tantrum begging to see the handsome Crown Prince after catching a glimpse of him.
Everyone knew the guards had the authority to detain anyone, regardless of status.

“Didn’t I say I just wanted to see His Highness’s face once?”
“Do you even know who I am!?”

Recalling those infamous incidents, Ophelia pretended to leave—then slipped into the shadows nearby.

Her first regression during the Founding Festival was finally proving useful.

After possessing the body of an ordinary noblewoman, she’d somehow gained the ability to mask her presence—good enough to hide even from assassins who’d infiltrated the Imperial Palace.

No one would notice her now.

“Alright, now to find a way inside.”

She blew out a sharp breath. Did they really think she’d give up after one rejection?

“Sneak in?”

No. That would be suicide. Her stealth worked only in planned routes—like before with the assassins.

The only other option was to request a formal audience, but that took too long—and she didn’t have that kind of time if she was going to die and regress again tonight.

Borrow someone’s authority, then? Someone who could enter the Crown Prince’s palace freely?

Just as that thought struck her—she froze, ducking low into the shadows.

Someone was walking past—someone who could enter freely.

James Greuga.

Richard’s left hand. The second son of Duke Greuga—who’d publicly declared he had no interest in inheriting, leaving the family estate to his elder brother.

Without hesitation, Ophelia quickly changed her hairstyle, removed her outer coat, and disguised herself completely.

Just before James reached the main gate, she erased her presence and slipped in close behind him.

With James, entry was effortless—by Richard’s own order, no guard could question whoever accompanied him.

To top it off, James was a desk-bound aide who barely paid attention to people. If she hid her presence well enough, he’d never notice.

She still didn’t understand what made Richard trust people this recklessly—but, well, he was Richard.
The only flawless male lead straight out of a fantasy novel.

If he said you could ferment beans into soy paste with red beans, the story would make it happen.

And her luck today—finally, it was paying off.

Even if her “ending” had been getting skewered to death again, things were still going well enough.

“You’ve worked hard,” said one guard.
“Not at all,” James replied.

The guards’ eyes flickered briefly toward Ophelia, but, as she expected, they didn’t stop her.

When James reached the heavy double doors, he knocked.

Knock, knock.
“Your Highness, it’s James.”
“Enter.”

The moment she heard Richard’s voice, Ophelia’s eyes gleamed like a predator’s.

She raised her arm, ready to knock James out from behind—but just as the door opened, her gaze met Richard’s through the crack.

He didn’t even look surprised to see her fiery red hair peeking from behind his aide, ready to strike.
He simply stared.

As James entered, closing the door behind him, Richard said,

“Leave it open.”

James looked puzzled, but since it was Richard, he obeyed.

Ophelia sheepishly lowered her arm and slipped into the corner of the office.

As James began his dull report about guests for the upcoming hunting competition, Ophelia waited impatiently for him to finish.

Then—

A gust of wind swept through the room, whipping her red hair into a fiery halo. The documents on Richard’s desk fluttered wildly—each stamped Confidential or Restricted—but neither man cared.

Ophelia’s nerves reached their limit. Just as she resolved to finally knock James unconscious and confront Richard—

The report ended.

“Shall I proceed as planned?”
“Yes. And you should leave—before the back of your head breaks open.”
“…What?”

James blinked, confused. Ophelia slowly lowered her hand again.

Click.
The door closed behind him.

Ophelia rose from her crouch, rubbing her numb legs as she approached Richard.

“You’re late,” he said.

The unspoken “later than I expected” made her want to scream.

She barely contained her frustration and forced herself to sound calm.

“What happened?”
“An arrow came through the window.”

Before he even finished speaking, Ophelia dashed to the window behind him.

But when she tried to close it—

“Ugh… it won’t move!”

No matter how hard she pushed, it didn’t budge.

Richard stood up, watching her strain.

“Why’s it so heavy—?”
Thud.

The window was massive; even the sound it made when shutting was heavy.
Standing behind her, Richard closed it effortlessly with one hand.

Ophelia tilted her head back, staring up at his sharp jawline in disbelief, then slipped out from under his arm.

“If you’d closed it earlier, you wouldn’t have—ack!”

Thunk!

Before she could finish, a crossbow bolt shot through the thick window—straight into Richard’s chest.

Ophelia gasped—

Whizz—Thud!

A second bolt pierced her chest.

As she collapsed to the floor, coughing blood, her lips moved faintly:

“You said… arrow, not crossbow!…”