Walking... Walking...
"Why are you so worked up today? You don't really think it's going to happen, do you?" a lady asks a man in a concerned voice.
"Well, I was really shaken when I heard the news about her delivery. I just didn't expect the birth to happen this early," he replies, his tone uneasy. "It's unheard of. The heir of the power has never been born within just nine months of pregnancy."
He pauses before adding, "Whenever an heir was about to be born, parturition would take at least 12 to 14 months. Always."
The concern in his voice is unmistakable.
"But… how is that even possible? Does that mean the heir won't inherit the power of the Fruit?"
"Do you remember the day of the Spell Ritual?" he asks.
"Wasn't it a success?"
The man nods slowly. "It was… a success. But whenever such rituals are performed, the victim always faces repercussions. There are countless records of it in the Book of Reverence."
He exhales, his expression clouded with worry. "That's why I was cautious from the very beginning of her pregnancy. I monitored her closely for the first seven months. During that period, the fetus's body is still immature—still forming. It's a delicate time."
He continues, his voice now edged with unease. "But after those seven months, the child's body is developed enough to begin absorbing mana from the mother. That flow of mana typically continues until the eleventh month. That's how it has always been—especially for those of royal blood."
"Except," he adds, his voice dropping lower, "for the one destined to inherit the power of the Fruit."
"That means..." she stuttered, her voice barely audible.
He nodded grimly. "There—you've got your answer."
A heavy silence hung between them. Uncertainty and anxiety etched deep lines into their faces, their thoughts racing with what-ifs and unspoken fears.
Clenching his fist tightly, the man muttered, "I shouldn't have overlooked the possibility of an early delivery.""I let my pride blind me… and now, I must bear the weight of that mistake."
"What's the next step?" the woman asked, her voice sharp with desperation.
Without a word, the man reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a small vial. Inside, a glowing green solution pulsed faintly, as if it held a life of its own. He held it up for her to see.
"First," he said with measured calm, "we must make sure the room is completely empty—no attendants, no guards. No one. Only then can I proceed with the insertion of this fluid into the newborn's navel."
He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in."This serum will interact with the child's Core. If the Core is intact and active, the energy flow will branch out through his body—and we'll know he's stable and has power."
His explanation was so precise, so confident, that the woman grasped the concept instantly. Yet, her nerves didn't settle. Instead, something fragile and painful sparked within her: hope. But just as that flicker ignited, another question rose to the surface.
"But if it fails… what happens then?" she asked, her voice trembling. "What will you do?"
The man's eyes darkened. He hesitated, then answered, "There's another method."
He took a deep breath, his shoulders heavy with dread.
"But it's more dangerous than anything we've attempted—even the Spell Ritual. It's called the 'Reversal Rite'… and it's only mentioned once in the Book of Reverence. Buried in the chapter on forbidden acts."
"This spell will allow me to accumulate mana from the surrounding regions of the palace—areas where the concentration is far greater. By doing so, I'll drain the density of mana from those zones and redirect all of it into his Core. If it works, the surge will act as a replica… a copy of the Fruit's power."
He paused for a moment, eyes heavy with the weight of what he was about to attempt.
"But the process is unstable. Forcing that much energy into a newborn's Core… it could either awaken something new—or destroy him from within."
The woman's eyes narrowed with concern.
"But what are the consequences of draining the mana from the surrounding areas?"
The man's expression darkened.
"Mana isn't just power—it's life. It flows through every creature, every root, every breath taken in these lands. A sudden drop in concentration, especially near the palace where the density is highest… it won't go unnoticed."
He turned away, as if avoiding the weight of his own words.
"The peasants in those zones… they rely on that ambient mana to survive. The elderly, the sick, the children, the weak—they may not withstand the vacuum. Some will weaken. Others may die."
A heavy silence followed.
"You're willing to trade their lives for this?" she asked quietly.
The woman's eyes narrowed with concern.
The man's expression darkened.
A heavy silence followed.
"You're willing to trade their lives for his?" she asked quietly.
He closed his eyes. And lowered his head.
"I don't really have any other choice. If the Council finds out… they'll never allow this child to ascend the throne. And there's more, if the foreign land catches the wind of this...they won't let this opportunity to go to waste. This won't just disrupt stability—it will unravel the very ecosystem of power itself. Which will lead to something we never imagined before."
His voice lowered, strained with guilt and desperation." Therefore, I wont let my promise die in vain. I just cant...I..."
The surge of thoughts stormed through his mind like a tide. The weight of the moment, the risk, the memory of the oath he had sworn—it all pressed against his chest.
He let out a heavy sigh, and slowly ran his hand over his head, as if trying to quiet the noise in his mind or tame the chaos building inside him.
The footsteps never stopped. The silence stretched for what felt like minutes, heavy and unmoving.
Then—without a word—the woman stepped in front of him. Gently, she placed her hands on his cheeks, her touch soft but her gaze unwavering.
"I know what you've done for this kingdom," she said quietly, "and the sacrifices you made for the sake of loyalty—for your friend, for your oath."
Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of what she was about to say.
"But this... this is too much. The man I know—the one who stood through storms and war—would never let so many lives be wasted for one."
She paused, searching his eyes.
"He would find another way. He always did. He did it previously too."
"And that's why we're here now—desperate, anxious, with no real choices left in our hands."
He lowered his head, voice heavy with regret.
"I'm sorry, Rose. Truly. But I'm no saint... and we never were."
His eyes darkened as he continued, his words raw and honest.
"Those people… they don't serve us out of love or loyalty. They don't feel anything for this family. They follow us because it's all they've ever known. Because it's been centuries since they've tasted real peace—if they ever did."
He let out a bitter laugh.
"They've just learned to survive in this cycle of hardship and fear. It's not loyalty—it's habit."
He looked at her, his voice softening.
"And maybe we're no different, Rose. We've just gotten used to the burden of power. Of pretending we still believe this world can be saved."
"I hope you understand the consequences of what you're about to do."
"I do. More than anyone."He looked into her eyes, unwavering."But right now, what I need most… is your belief in me."
He took a breath."And I promise you—whatever damage comes of this, I'll make sure it's minimal."
As soon as he finished speaking—baring his heart to the love of his life—he gently leaned into her touch, his hand softly brushing over hers where it cupped his cheek.
For a moment, the world felt still.
But the stillness shattered.
A woman's scream pierced through the silence—raw, painful, and unrelenting. It echoed down the corridor, coming from somewhere deep within the palace.
The sound chilled the air between them. Both turned sharply, their breath caught.
Without needing to speak, they knew: it was about time.
The man straightened slowly, his eyes now cold with resolve.
"Now," he said, voice low and steady, "all that's left to us… is our luck."