"I have a bold guess, but I’m not sure if I should say it," she whispered, her voice low and close to my ear. Her breath brushed my sensitive earlobe, making my face warm slightly.

"Hmm?" I suppressed the deer-like flutter in my chest and gestured for her to continue.

Her intuition was terrifyingly accurate—I’d sooner believe she had prophecy magic than pure instinct. After all, intuition stems from subconsciously analyzing details; those with sharp instincts catch nuances, analyze well, and have high emotional intelligence.

Of course, without seeing it firsthand, few would believe the infamous Dark Lord looked like an elementary-school-aged loli. Honestly, after so many misunderstandings, I almost thought past Dark Lords were bull demon kings or muscle-bound brutes.

Perhaps many become Dark Lords precisely because they’re unattractive… Thinking carefully, my own appearance isn’t exactly harmonious either. Hair white enough to sting the eyes, pupils an eerie bright red, skin an unhealthy pale.

With softer tones, I might’ve been a beauty—but instead, I resemble someone with albinism. Like… a monster.

At least, that’s how people here must see me.

Yet this Princess sat so close. A sudden warmth rose in my heart.

Her face glowed with longing as she murmured, "The prophesied goddess has snow-white hair, but the prophecy mentions no other traits—just to let nature take its course, no need to search. This world has many hair colors, but true white hair is rare. Those who have it seem sickly, weak, often dying young. But you’re different—you’re lively and healthy with white hair, so…"

"Impossible…" I shook my head with a bitter smile. How could the Church’s prophesied Savior be the Dark Lord?

"Why deny it so much?" She looked at me, disappointment in her eyes.

"Because… I can’t explain it well." If I were the Savior, why prophesy my birthplace? Maybe I’m the Savior’s greatest obstacle—the final boss.

So my only purpose is to survive, find a path to heaven, leave this place, and go back to ask Mom for a civil servant job.

Mom wouldn’t cheat me on this! You can’t cheat your own son to death, right?

"There’s always a slim chance?"

There’s no chance for this.

"If it’s you, you can do it. You have those kinds of thoughts, don’t you?" Her gaze was sincere.

Unfortunately, that’s not my idea—it’s just the harmonious society ideals from my world.

"Promise me!" She suddenly gripped my hands and pressed them to her chest. "No matter if it’s possible or not, no matter if you’re the prophesied one—please try. Strive with your ideas."

Flustered by her grip, I couldn’t resist her earnest eyes. In them, I saw a cherry blossom-like gleam flash, brilliantly bright.

Melancholy washed over me. If only I could truly do it. My throat went dry; I didn’t know how to answer or face her. I could easily agree, but I couldn’t bear to deceive her.

A strange feeling gripped me: if I promised, I’d have to give my all, even if I failed.

I had no reason to hurt her—and I truly didn’t want to.

I just wanted to say… Your Highness, you’ve entrusted the wrong person. Before you stands only a Dark Lord hiding ugly horns—a Dark Lord who might die soon.

Perhaps when charisma peaks, it makes strangers feel compelled to die for you. I felt deeply ensnared…

I’m emotional; though I act rationally, feelings always seize my mind at critical moments. Don’t beg me—I’m too susceptible to this.

"I’ll try…" I whispered softly, but those words burned heavy in my heart. Silently, I added: perhaps many will die.

"Your Highness, may I ask your name?" I stood and retreated to the door.

"Oh, sorry… I forgot to introduce myself first. How rude, sob…"

"It’s fine, Your Highness. Isn’t now the same?" Such a personality—truly endearing.

The Princess rose and performed a flawless royal curtsey. "I am the First Imperial Princess, Caiwen."

A smile curled my lips. I pulled open the door behind me, stepped halfway out, removed my hat, and bowed deeply at ninety degrees—neither humble nor arrogant. "I am He Yu. He Yu Merlin XIV." Then I slipped away, closing the door softly.

———

At the grand plaza, preparations proceeded methodically. Mages crouched on the ground, carving symbols they didn’t understand. These fragmented patterns seemed to disrupt mana flow, and they’d never received a complete section of the blueprint.

Special tiles were embedded into the ground. Soldiers polished them; alchemists applied mana-conducting layers to the stone.

Everything appeared orderly, surrounded by a bustling crowd of onlookers. But the Church wasn’t worried—they doubted anyone could decipher it. Blood sacrifice arrays were strictly banned from study or preservation, nearly lost outside Church archives.

Under mild sunlight, a passerby stood by the plaza’s edge for a long time, tugging his hat brim low. His left hand, gloved, held a photo magazine; his right stayed tucked in his sleeve. His clothes hung loosely on his frame.

Beneath the oversized garments and thick hat brim lay a person of indeterminate gender. He watched the plaza from the flowing crowd, then gazed across at the palace, squinting slightly in the sun.

Some might have noticed his odd behavior but paid little mind—perhaps just a second glance.

In the Royal Capital, he was a famous eccentric known only as Clock. He repaired watches—any clockwork mechanism—and rarely charged.

He sold timepieces but was lazy, producing one every few days or months at most. His watches contained only movements; buyers assembled the rest themselves.

Yet nearly everyone coveted them—not just for precision, but because no two movements were alike. Each was a unique artwork; gear placements differed wildly, and no one could reassemble them after disassembly.

He operated only one hour a day from his tiny shop.

Clock glanced once more at the plaza, pondered briefly, dropped a gear, and left.