IDKML 06

Chapter 6

Imperial Year 588, April 19th.
Ophelia Bolsheik — 14th loop of the third infinite regression.

“Your Highness, don’t stick your head out.”

It wasn’t in Richard’s nature to obey sharp commands, especially ones laced with thorns like Ophelia’s—but it was a different story when she was sitting on his lap, pressing him down with all her weight.

Under the dim desk, Ophelia sat on top of Richard, using all her strength to push down on his annoyingly broad shoulders and his absurdly solid chest.

Of course, if Richard wanted to, he could easily toss her aside. But seeing how desperate she was—literally throwing herself to stop him—he simply let her do as she wished.

Besides…

“If my secret fund gets blown away, I’ll make sure Your Highness personally experiences something worse than death in this regression.”

Not “scarier,” but “more bothersome”?
What an adorably petty threat.

A few seconds later, Ophelia swallowed hard and started counting down from ten.
“…Four, three, two, one.”

As she nervously whispered the final number, Richard, who looked completely unbothered, spoke calmly.
“Seems it worked. You can breathe now.”
“Ah—hah! Haah, haah—!”

Ophelia gasped for breath for a while, then squeezed her eyes shut and opened them wide.
“Su—”
“Su?”
“Success! We did it! Damn it, we finally did it!”

As Ophelia cheered and smacked Richard’s shoulders with joy, his expression subtly crumbled again.

He had died far too many times—so many, and for so long, that it had long lost meaning.
He’d returned again and again to before his death, as if none of it had ever happened.
To him, survival or the end of a regression was no longer something to celebrate.

After all, it only meant another endless loop would begin.

Ophelia—who was celebrating wildly before him, patting him as if he were a harmless cat—must have known that too.
That this wasn’t the end.

“Your Highness, today’s over!”
“Yes. It’s over.”

Even so, seeing her so happy wasn’t bad.
Yes. Not bad at all.

At that fleeting moment, Richard’s parched chest stirred slightly.
It was like a dying man in a vast desert catching sight of a mirage—
A pointless, fleeting spark of will to keep walking.

A whim.
Just like when Ophelia complained about hating beheadings, so he went out of his way to behead the assassin who’d tried to kill her.

This too was nothing more than a bothersome whim that caught his attention.

As Ophelia straightened her back to get off him, Richard pressed down on her head.
“You’ll hit it.”
“Ah—right.”

She immediately ducked her head like a turtle; this wasn’t her first time bonking it under that desk.

Richard reached up, and Ophelia’s gaze followed his hand.
He lifted the heavy desk—while still sitting awkwardly beneath it—with one arm, without dropping a single paper stacked atop it.

Ophelia squinted.
“With that kind of strength, couldn’t you just catch a crossbow bolt flying through one of those ridiculously thick triple glass windows?”
“Wouldn’t know. Never tried. Maybe next time.”
“Yes, yes, how gracious of Your Highness to experiment with my suggestions. And also, thank you for hiding under the desk as per my humble request.”

Pouting like a duck, she grumbled as she stepped away from him.

Now that the tension that had kept her on edge began to fade, her whole body sagged with exhaustion.

Ignoring the fact that this was the Crown Prince’s office, Ophelia half-collapsed on the sofa and stared up at the luxurious ceiling.
“Your Highness’s face is really hard to see these days.”

The sudden, contextless remark made Richard fall silent, so she continued.
“I feel like there’ll be another time I die at home for no reason—like in this regression. But how am I supposed to file a visitation request beforehand?”
“Ah.”

Ophelia lazily lifted herself and sat on his desk, staring at him—the man who looked as if he were bathed in divine light.
“I want to be able to run straight to Your Highness anytime, anywhere.”

Taken alone, it sounded almost like a heartfelt love confession.

“In that case, wouldn’t it be better to always stay by my side?”
That too, taken alone, could’ve passed as the line of a romantic lead.

But neither of them had even a speck of romance in their heads.

If they were to be around each other all day, every waking hour, it would have to be by mutual agreement—a temporary contract of convenience.

“Would you be my Crown Princess?”
“Please hire me as your aide!”

The two spoke at the exact same time—and silence followed.

How could two people have the same thought yet come to such drastically different conclusions?

Ophelia was the first to react, kicking away the Crown Princess position like it was a venomous snake.
“What kind of nonsense is that!”

She didn’t hold back. She hadn’t bothered to filter her words around him for—who knows how many regressions now.

“Isn’t the Crown Princess a perfectly reasonable position to always stay by my side?”
Anyone else, hearing his calm voice and seeing that emotionless face, would’ve just said, “W-well, that’s true…”

But Ophelia wasn’t anyone else.

“If the Crown Princess stayed glued to Your Highness all day, people would scream to depose her on the spot!”
“And what’s wrong if I say I love her too much to let her go?”
He said it so lightly—like pulling candy out of his pocket.

Ophelia shot him a sideways glare.
“Whether Your Highness likes her or not, the Crown Princess has duties! Even if it’s a contract, she can’t just ignore all that and stick to Your Highness 24/7!”
“If someone else handles those duties…”
“That’s also a problem!”

She cut him off mid-sentence and sighed heavily.
“Most of all, we both know it’s just a contract. Once this whole mess is over, we’ll just tear it up and go our separate ways—but the backlash after that? I don’t have the guts to face it.”

A lady who got dumped by Prince Richard, huh.

People would gawk at her—whether out of pity or amusement.

And just thinking about her mother was enough to imagine the situation turning into a total nightmare.

“Future problems can be dealt with once we handle the one in front of us.”
“No, seriously, just make me your aide!”
“There would be restrictions on your actions—”
“Oh, and being Crown Princess wouldn’t? Everyone knows that position has more restrictions than a simple aide!”

Breathing hard, Ophelia suddenly realized something.
When he first mentioned “Crown Princess,” she’d been too flustered to think it through, but now…

“You’re trying to use me to get out of your Crown Princess problem, aren’t you? During the Founding Festival, His Majesty the Emperor himself said it was about time for you to find a match.”

Richard stayed silent—neither denying nor confirming it.
Ophelia leaned in so close their noses nearly touched.

Once, it would’ve been nerve-wracking to face such a flawless, sculpted face, but—
humans are creatures of adaptation.

After countless regressions trapped in this cursed loop, she’d stopped seeing him as a man altogether.
Her heart didn’t even twitch being this close; even her breath hitting his face didn’t faze her anymore.

“I’m just a minor noble’s daughter—neither beautiful nor especially talented. And I’m sure there’s someone out there who’s perfect for the role of Crown Princess.”

Of course there is. He’s the main character of this fantasy, after all.
The author must’ve already written a perfect partner for him—
maybe one, maybe several. But surely, they wouldn’t leave him single forever.

“So please, just hire me as your aide. I’ll work like an ox!”

She thumped her chest confidently.
Richard didn’t agree.

“If it’s not as Crown Princess, then forget it. You’re the one who wants to stay by my side, aren’t you?”

So the thirsty one has to dig the well, huh.
Fine. Time for a different negotiation strategy.

Ophelia’s shoulders drooped as she dramatically slumped at his feet.
“Your Highness has a bright future ahead. You’re the Empire’s—no, the continent’s top bachelor. Even if you break off an engagement with me, your marriage prospects will still be a bed of roses.”

She shuddered exaggeratedly as she went on,
“But! I’m not like that. I’m just a poor—”
“Didn’t you say you’ve been investing your secret funds? Quite successfully, too.”
“A—A lady with a small secret fund will still have her marriage prospects ruined if the Crown Prince dumps her!”

Turning her head dramatically, she even made fake sobbing sounds.

Then—something strange reached her ears.
A faint pfft, like air escaping.

She squinted and glanced sideways at Richard.
…Did that stone statue of a man just laugh?

“Fine.”
“Huh?”
“Starting tomorrow, you’ll be my aide. I can’t even remember the last time I laughed like this—so I’ll grant you that wish.”

At the same time their negotiation ended on a surprisingly cheerful note,
in the Marquisate of Nair, the third-closest noble house to the Imperial Palace, a very businesslike conversation was taking place between the Marquis and his daughter.

“The Crown Princess? Are you serious?”
“Alternatives are always necessary. Preparation is never too early—you taught me that yourself.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly. But an alternative being the Crown Princess?”

A sly smile—identical to her father’s—curved on Laisa’s lips.
“Do you really think that Crown Prince would ever let the Crown Princess—or her family—have even a speck of influence?”
“I don’t expect you to, either.”
“Then what is this about? Don’t tell me you plan to use a baby or something. I refuse to believe the Marquis of Nair would stoop to something so pathetic and short-sighted.”

Her tone was dripping with mockery.

“Besides,” she continued, “if I became Crown Princess, I’d have to give up the Marquisate, wouldn’t I? That’s not happening unless I drop dead first.”
“Enough. Leave us.”

Her father dismissed her coldly instead of responding.

Laisa glared daggers at him but eventually left the room.
No matter how much she fought, she was still just the Marquis’s daughter—and all the power remained in her mother’s hands.

Creak.
Her diamond-tipped nails scraped against a gem-studded armrest, producing an ear-splitting sound. The servants stiffened, bowing even lower in fear.

Crown Princess, was it?
So they meant to deny her the Marquisate.

Crack—scrrrape.
Her well-manicured nails scraped the diamonds again, cracking slightly, but she didn’t care.

“I won’t let that happen.”

Whoever her father chose—
If it wasn’t her sitting in that seat, then no one else would either.

The Marquisate of Nair had to be hers.
Because losing something that was rightfully hers—seeing it taken by someone else—
was something she could never bear again.