Chapter 38 — First Volume, Epilogue 2 — What Are These Affection Points Really?
The carriage jolted along the bumpy road, its wooden wheels groaning over cracked cobblestones like an old man complaining about the rain. Each rattle sent a fresh ache through Sylan's bones, but he was too worn out to care. The inside smelled of polished leather and aged wood, undercut by the stubborn tang of dried blood and fresh sweat from the day's brutal fight. It was a scent that clung to him like a bad memory, one he knew all too well from his old life as Jin Soowhi—the endless grind of battles that left you hollowed out.
Sylan Kyle Von Noctis slumped against the padded bench, his body finally giving in to the pull of fatigue. In public, he'd never let his guard down like this—spine straight as a spear, eyes sharp as daggers. But here, in the dim sway of the carriage, with only the faithful maid at his side, he let the mask slip. His black tunic hung in tatters, crusted with arena dust, and his golden hair stuck up in wild spikes from the sweat. Those crimson eyes, usually burning with soldier's fire, drooped half-shut, heavy lids fighting a losing battle against sleep.
It wasn't just the duel that dragged at him. Surviving Elias Vaughn had taken everything—every swing of the sword, every dodge that scraped victory from the jaws of defeat. But the real weight? The roar of the coliseum crowd, still echoing in his skull like thunder that wouldn't fade. Amanda's words, sharp as a hidden knife, slicing into old wounds. And then Darius—gods, Darius—bellowing his pride like a war cry, turning the whole damn empire into witnesses of something Sylan couldn't quite believe. It was all too loud, too tangled, pressing on his mind until it felt like his head might split.
He shifted, just a little, seeking some scrap of comfort in the jostle. His head tipped sideways, landing soft against something warm and steady.
Virelle.
The young maid sat bolt upright beside him, her gray uniform as crisp and spotless as if the chaos of the tournament had never touched her. Not a single strand of her dark hair escaped its neat bun, and her hands folded primly in her lap, gloved fingers laced tight. But as Sylan's cheek brushed her shoulder, those steady brown eyes of hers softened—just a flicker, like sunlight breaking through clouds. Her breath caught, quick and quiet, and she went still as stone. Lips pressed into a thin, worried line, she didn't pull away. Didn't dare shatter the fragile peace of the moment. To her, this was service at its deepest—being the quiet anchor when the storm inside him raged too fierce.
The soldier in Sylan felt it, even as sleep clawed at the edges of his awareness. That unyielding loyalty, the kind that didn't need words or grand gestures. It wrapped around him like a worn blanket, easing the knots in his chest. His hand jerked once, fingers twitching toward a phantom hilt—the old habit from nights in foxholes, always ready for the ambush that never quite came. Then it stilled, falling limp across his thigh. His breathing deepened, slow and even, the rhythm of a man finally surrendering to the dark.
He closed his crimson eyes. For the first time in what felt like forever—days of schemes, secrets, and swinging steel—true exhaustion pulled him under, deep and dreamless.
And then—
The world flipped.
The carriage's creak vanished like smoke in the wind. The steady warmth of Virelle's shoulder melted away, leaving only cool air brushing his skin. No more stuffy confines; instead, a crisp, open breeze carried the sweet hum of summer—fresh-cut grass, wildflowers, and the distant buzz of life stirring under the sun. His boots, still caked in arena grit, sank into something yielding and alive: soft earth, dotted with green blades that tickled his ankles.
Sylan blinked his eyes open, and the knot in his gut twisted tight.
He knew this place. Knew it bone-deep, like a scar that ached before rain.
He stood on a gentle hill, its grassy slope rolling out like a rumpled blanket toward a vast sea of swaying fields below. The wind whispered through it all, lazy and warm, bending the tall stems in golden waves that stretched to the horizon. Cicadas trilled from hidden spots, their song a steady drone that filled the quiet like white noise from a radio left on low. The sun hung low, painting the sky in strokes of amber and rose, turning the whole world soft at the edges.
At the top of the hill loomed a tree—massive, ancient, like something out of a fairy tale gone wild. Its trunk was thick as three men side by side, bark cracked and weathered into deep furrows that told stories of storms survived. Gnarled roots snaked out from the base like the fingers of some buried giant, clutching the soil. Branches arched high and wide, leaves rustling a canopy that promised shade and secrets.
Sylan's breath caught, sharp in his throat.
'This place... the memories of the original Sylan. The spot he always ran to. His hideaway when Amanda's sharp tongue and Darius's cold shoulder left him starving for anything warm.'
The first Sylan—the boy born to this world, not dragged into it like some unwilling ghost—had come here a hundred times, maybe more. Curled up under those branches, knees to chest, letting the wind and the bugs drown out the silence of a home that felt more like a cage. A kid desperate for love from parents who saw right through him, finding scraps of peace in the one thing that never judged: the wild, indifferent earth.
And now? Sylan stood in his place, the hard-edged soldier crammed into the skin of a dead noble's son, boots planted where that lonely boy once wept.
"Well, hello there, Soowhi."
The voice slinked out from the tree's shadow, smooth as oil on water, laced with a mocking twist that echoed funny, like it was bouncing off tunnel walls.
Sylan whipped around, muscles coiling tight, hand half-reaching for a sword that wasn't there.
The figure stepped into the light—or what passed for it. Tall and lean, draped in a long coat pieced together from mismatched patches, like a quilt sewn by a mad tailor. His face? Hidden behind that cursed beak mask, curved and hooked like a raven's bill, glinting dull in the sun. One gloved hand swung a lantern by its chain, the flame inside flickering blue-white, unnatural, bending the air around it in wavery heat shimmers.
The Plague Doctor.
The hill itself seemed to shy away from him, edges of the grass blurring like a bad painting, the whole scene trembling as if reality had taken one look and decided to flinch.
"Nice spot you've got here," the Doctor drawled, his voice muffled through the mask, tinny and distant. "All that green, that breeze—nostalgic, almost sweet. Peaceful as a nap on a porch swing. Total opposite of you, soldier. You're all edges and grit."
Sylan let out a slow breath, forcing his shoulders to ease, those crimson eyes narrowing to slits. "Yeah. I know it well enough. This was his hill. The original Sylan's bolt-hole. Where he'd hole up when Amanda's barbs cut too deep or Darius's quiet hit like a wall. Just a scared kid's way to breathe without breaking."
The Doctor cocked his head, the beak tilting with a soft creak from the lantern chain. "Ahh, listen to you—already tagging him 'the original.' Like he's some faded photo in an album, a dead weight of mistakes you got handed. That little distance you keep? Smart. Keeps the ghosts from clawing too close."
Sylan's jaw tightened, teeth grinding just enough to ache. He planted his feet wider, refusing to budge an inch. His words came out clipped, cold as a winter snap. "Enough with the mind games. You didn't yank me into this memory lane for the fresh air. Spill it—what do you want this time?"
The masked man let out a chuckle, low and jagged, like shards of glass tumbling in a tin can. "Ever the straight shooter. Fine, fine. I'll play nice. Truth is, I came to pat you on the back, Soowhi. You made it through Elias Vaughn in one piece. Faced down that shiny sword meant to carve up the world, and you held your ground. Didn't even lean hard on the Crest's tricks—just your own grit, that old soldier's fire. Makes me... pleased. In my own way."
Sylan snorted, a bitter twist pulling at his mouth. "Pleased? Coming from you, that sounds like a threat wrapped in a compliment."
"Oh, it's real enough. And since I like tossing bones to the good dogs, I figured you'd earned more than empty words. How about a treat? A nice, juicy truth—one the story never planned to hand you. About those lovely parents of yours."
The cicadas cut off mid-chirp. The wind dropped dead, leaves hanging limp. The hill, the tree, the whole golden sprawl—it all leaned in, holding its breath like an eavesdropper at a locked door.
Sylan's gaze went knife-sharp. "My parents."
The Doctor's lantern pulsed brighter, throwing shadows that stretched long and wrong across the tree bark, like fingers groping in the dark. "That's right. Amanda's poison tongue, Darius's mile-wide silence—you figure that's just how they were built? Cold from the factory? Nah. Once upon a time, they looked at you and saw their whole world. Held you like you were gold. You were their boy, plain and simple. But all that? It cracked the day your sister slipped away."
Sylan's eyes blew wide, a raw jolt of shock cracking through his iron control. "My... sister?"
The lantern flared like a struck match, shadows writhing wild now, clawing at the edges of the hill. "You were just a little thing, too young to grasp the mess of family trees or grudges that never die. Bouncing along in the family carriage on a sticky summer afternoon, all sunshine and no worries. Then the leftovers from the old noble rebels—the ones too stubborn to go down with their botched war—made their move. Blades in the dark, fire chewing through wood, screams that'd curdle milk. They wanted payback. Wanted to wipe the Duke's bloodline clean off the map."
As the words spilled, the world buckled.
The sunny hill went gray, grass curling to brittle ash underfoot. Smoke choked the air, thick and bitter, stinging the eyes. The tree faded to a smear, and suddenly Sylan wasn't standing anymore—he was inside, crammed into the tight, swaying box of a carriage, wood panels rattling like bones in a grave.
A boy's giggle rang out—high and carefree, cutting through the hum of wheels on dirt. A girl's voice joined it, soft and lilting, weaving a silly tune to chase away the boredom: something about birds and rivers, words tumbling light as feathers. Then—screech of metal on metal, glass exploding inward like brittle ice. A blade punched through the door, splintering wood in a spray of shards.
Sylan reeled back a step, heart hammering, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. There, on the threadbare seat, sat the child version of himself—tiny, wide-eyed, golden hair tousled, frozen in that split-second terror kids wear when the world turns monster. And beside him, the girl—small as a sprite, with the same sunny locks tumbling wild, her face a mirror of his but softer, rounder—lunged forward without a sound.
The steel bit deep, burying into her chest with a wet, ugly thunk. Her body bucked, a puppet with strings cut wrong. Blood arced out, hot and red, painting the boy's stunned face in freckles of horror.
Her mouth worked, lips shaping silent pleas or promises—no air left for words. Just a flash of a smile, quick as a spark, fierce with that bone-deep need to shield. Then she crumpled, folding into the corner like a broken doll, eyes glazing over as the light bled out.
The vision snapped. Smoke unraveled into wisps, chased away by sudden sunlight. The hill bloomed back, green and whole, the tree's branches sighing in the returning breeze. But Sylan staggered, boots scraping dirt, his chest heaving like he'd run a marathon. Those crimson eyes stared huge, unblinking, at the spot where the carriage had been.
The Doctor watched him, beak tilted, lantern swaying gentle now. "She took it for you. Jumped right into the knife's path, the one aimed square at your heart. By the time your old man stormed in—flanked by the Grand Duke and even the Emperor back when he was still green—her blood had soaked the floorboards cold. She was gone, just like that. And ever since? Amanda and Darius... they try to look at you, and all they see is the hole she left. The kid they couldn't save."
Sylan's knees buckled a hair, soldier's steel gone bendy for a beat. His voice rasped out, low and cracked, tasting of ash. "No wonder... Amanda bites like a snake, no wonder Darius acts like I'm a ghost he can't touch. It's me. All because of me. She died, and they broke."
The Doctor's tone dipped, almost gentle—like a nurse smoothing a bandage over a fresh burn. Almost. "Not on you, Soowhi. She picked her play. Threw herself in the way 'cause in her head, your life tipped the scales. That was her gift, pure and simple. Point the finger at the cowards with the blades, the grudge-holders hiding in the weeds—not the kid who got handed the scar."
But Sylan's hands balled into fists, nails carving half-moons into his palms. His crimson eyes shimmered, not with tears but with a storm brewing. Jaw set like concrete, he growled through gritted teeth. "So what if she chose? The original Sylan still grew up choking on their hate. Still got crushed under noble sneers, Amanda's acid, Darius's nothing. Lived every day like he was begging for scraps that never came. Unloved. Unseen."
The words fired out like rounds from a clip, each one laced with a fury that burned the despair to cinders.
He paused, breath hitching, then nailed the Doctor with a glare. "Hold up. You said it before—those Affection Points? Straight poison. Leashes to yank you around. So why haul her story out now? Why poke at old ghosts? Don't tell me you're peddling hope. That Amanda and Darius could thaw, that the warmth they had before the blood could... crawl back."
The Doctor threw his head back, laughter bubbling out sharp and wild, the lantern blazing as shadows twisted like eels in a bucket. "Spot on, as ever. Quick as a whip, Soowhi. Yeah, Affection's a toxin—hooks to keep you chasing, panting after approval like it's air. But here's the twist: even poison's got its uses. Dose it right, and it mends what it breaks. Grind those numbers up, twist the lock just so, and the wall of grief might splinter. What they buried deep? It could claw its way free."
Sylan went quiet, the fight draining out like sand through fingers. His eyes drifted to the horizon, where the grass danced endless under that dying sun, golden light pooling like spilled honey. His mouth curved—not in a smile, not in anything soft. Something harder, shadowed, like a blade catching the light wrong.
'So even their cold's just a tally on a sheet. A game stat to grind. If I push it, force the bars to budge... maybe I'll glimpse who they used to be. Before the break.'
The Doctor's whisper drifted over, thin as fog rolling in. "Word of warning, though, Soowhi. Affection wraps tighter than any iron cuff. And once it's coiled? Good luck shaking it loose."
The hill crumbled like dry dirt. The tree split with a groan, bark flaking to nothing. The cicadas' hum warped, stretching into the familiar squeak of carriage wheels on stone.
Sylan jerked awake, head still pillowed on Virelle's shoulder. She blinked down at him, brown eyes going round as saucers, a pink flush creeping up her neck to her ears.
She said nothing. Didn't prod at the way his fists stayed locked tight, white-knuckled, or catch the faint shake still ghosting through those crimson eyes, like aftershocks from a blast.
He pulled back slow, spine straightening as he gulped down air, steadying the whirl in his chest. One thought hung there, solid as a anchor stone, dragging at everything else.
'Affection Points... poison or fix, is it? Figures this world's just one big set of shackles, rattling for the next fool to trip over.'