--Through the broken lens of time--

Today marks the ceremonial anniversary of our triumphant battle against the angelic forces, marking the end of the most corrupt era in history. As the victorious one, it is my responsibility to reflect on the eternal conflict that defined the conflict of the past era, while also providing hope for future generations who bear the weight of this dark history.

"A fine day shouldn't begin with a frown, your Majesty," Andromalius remarks, his tea pouring gracefully into the delicate cups. His attire, a silver coat, and a dusk-themed suit, brings back memories of bygone times. Days before our current title and responsibilities. It's a gentle reminder to snap out of my contemplative state.

"Though much time has passed, the remnants of that era still linger in the world, burdening the minds of fanatics," I reply, shaking my head. The human kingdom has long been in alliance with us, however forceful some of them telling. while the dwarves have maintained cautious neutrality. As for the elves, news of their actions has been scarce, save for Ragnorr's commitment to keeping an eye on them.

The surviving faction of angels was guided by Gabriel, who advocated for them to learn the true meaning of freedom. Some of them rose to prominence, contributing positively to the world we now inhabit. Yet, there have been moments when I struggled to understand the necessity of violence to achieve these goals. After all, peace had been attained through the crumbling of barriers.

"Mortals are enigmatic creatures, but I understand their fear. However, on a day like this, it is best spent with familiar warmth rather than those who remain resented," Andromalius remarks, scratching his head, as the curtains part to reveal the lively carnival taking place in the capital of Saudade.

A knock on the door interrupts our conversation, and two adolescent princes burst into the room. I should have taken it upon myself to teach them proper decorum, ensuring they learn how to conduct themselves as expected in their positions.

"Father!" Arthur's exuberant shout reverberates through the air, a testament to his spirited nature. While his voice can be overpowering, his skills in political maneuvering surpass my own and even rival those of Kryos.

"I told you not to burst onto their majesty like that, Arthur. Greetings, Father," Vortigern asserts, maintaining a measured distance. He is the more mature of the two and has chosen to appease the same curse of lamb horns. Having been taught by Blood Claw, he chose the way to protect the kingdom and his sibling in the shadow.

Personally, I might not fully approve of such extreme measures, but Vortigern has displayed a balanced sense of morality and unwavering dedication, making it difficult for me to disregard his choices.

I envelop them both in a warm embrace, recalling the day when Kryos and I stumbled upon an intact experimental chamber in the Garden of Promise. Little did we know that Sariel had prepared many homunculi in preparation for the recreation of the legacies. Amidst the chaos, these two homunculi remained egoless, and so we naturalize them to be our children.

"Arthur, Vortigern, what brings you to my office at this early hour?" I inquired, noticing that Andromalius and Shin had left the room midway through our conversation. Suspicion tugs at me as I observe Arthur's proud proclamation and mischievous smirk.

"Papa said he would be returning home today, and I wanted to finish my work from yesterday," Arthur explains, his words ringing with an air of mischief that leaves me questioning the true nature of his activities.

"I was in my own quarters when Arthur dragged me here, Father. Though I share his enthusiasm for Papa's return," Vortigern sighs, his words hinting at a more reasonable explanation. Perhaps I should teach Arthur about personal boundaries in the near future.

"I suppose you two may proceed without me. I cannot afford to greet Kryos with a tired expression on my face," I state, guiding them toward the exit before closing the door behind me.

Facing the mirror before me, I witness my reflection bifurcate, an apt reflection of the passage of time and its transformative effects. I dream of a day that may never come, one in which I must decide which version of myself to persist.

The sovereign, whose visage succumbs to the ravages of passing years, or the immortal being cursed by time to bear the burdens of the world for eternity. For now, I choose to conceal the scars and weariness that mark my history.

"For how long do you intend to keep such matters concealed, O wise Majesty?" Furcas interjects, his knock punctuating the silence. I have long forgotten how to secure those doors, as they often yield to careless assaults. Despite enduring numerous breaches, I have neglected to refurbish the entrance.

"As long as circumstances permit, General Furcas. I am not yet prepared for this secret to be revealed. I have grown weary of eternal youth, yet the signs of decay have yet to manifest," I sigh, acknowledging that the smile adorning my face masks an undesired longing. I should be content with the way events have unfolded. The world undergoes change, and so do my allies.

But why do I harbor only discontentment?

"Shouldn't you be content? I occasionally enjoy battles still, but the era of peace has rendered me somewhat malleable," Furcas responds, his gaze fixed upon his cloak. It is a patchwork of fabric fashioned by squires and generals who studied his swordsmanship, an unflattering display since their craftmanship leaned toward wielding blades rather than silk and needles.

"...What is the implication of your words, General Furcas? Do you yearn to return to the front lines?" I query, my voice tinged with bitterness. Perchance my disposition has soured after someone unearthed my long-guarded secret, irrespective of whether I elect to disclose it to all. Stepping down would be a conclusion unpalatable to any, but I refuse to become a mere frail imitation of Sariel.

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"Well, my sovereign, I trust you now comprehend the crux of my meaning. Regard it as one might change garments, altering as desired," Furcas concludes before departing the chamber, his words resonating with the simplicity of appearance as mere vestments. Tucking these ruminations away, I embark on a leisurely stroll, seeking solace and clarity to dispel these tainted emotions

The morning sun casts a radiant glow upon the flourishing garden, as vibrant hues paint the landscape. Servants scurry about, busy with preparations, while guards meticulously attend to ceremonial attire and equipment, ensuring that no disruptions mar this momentous day. My mind drifts back to a time when the garden was adorned solely with the verdant tapestry of wind whispers.

"Behold the majestic sovereign, gracing us with their presence. Pray, spare a moment for this humble messenger," Caim whines annoyingly, an air of regality expressed by a gold-encrusted collar. Taken off the worn-off harpy disguise, Caim has outdone himself in the feature of an ash-like raven. Instead of a harpy's lifeless skeleton, an ashen beak gleams in its place.

"They are occupied with the important proceedings of the day. Let us bide our time in this manner," Stolas chimes in, settling beneath the hood of its mysterious guise. The enigmatic aura surrounding Stolas has garnered immense popularity among students and professors alike.

After the war, they willingly revealed their true names, as the contracts that bound them had finally dissolved. They swore an unexpected oath to serve me with unwavering dedication and authority.

Within the realm of my rightful jurisdiction, I perused the foreign affairs section of the library's extensive collection, ultimately appointing Caim as the Minister of Foreign Affairs. The journey was arduous, considering the tumultuous nature of the neighboring kingdoms at that time, but over the course of half a millennium, most of them integrated into our lands and districts.

As for Stolas, my efforts were hampered by the ongoing renovations in the capital, following Ragnorr's temporary takeover. Amidst the construction, the idea of establishing an academy began to take shape. What started as a mere hobby gradually evolved into a grand experiment, culminating in the founding of Saudade's Academy.

The construction process, driven by Stolas's unwavering pursuit of perfection, consumed a considerable amount of time. However, after fifty years, the academy stood proud. Presently, the majority of professors are former pupils of Stolas, a testament to the academy's remarkable reputation for tact and finesse.

"Caim, Stolas, I implore you to refrain from such pestering banter. This is not an inn for the exchange of unsightly tales," I interject during our customary meeting, held every seventh night when titles and responsibilities can be cast aside, and we can simply enjoy leisurely discussions.

The unsettling laughter echoes between us, surpassing even the unnerving cackles of the old bishop. Perhaps the alcohol has made me more tolerable in their presence. But how can anyone take me seriously when I am drowning in the scent of mead? The irony is not lost on me.

"Just to be the center of attention, you are truly the most desirable one today," Caim chuckles teasingly, his servants joining in. Their laughter fills the air, turning this gathering into a jestering night rather than a solemn occasion befitting Saudade's foreign affairs ministry.

"I had planned to test my pupils' magic, but I was forced to be here by royal decree. So why shouldn't I annoy the very reason I was brought here?" Stolas sighs, clearly disappointed that a grand tournament coincides with the anniversary. It seems that neither of us three has the right to claim this momentous day for ourselves.

"I suppose it shouldn't come as a surprise that none of us truly wants to partake in the ceremony. We'd rather stand on the sidelines, wouldn't we?" I add, feeling a sense of camaraderie with my companions.

Instead of the usual nighttime indulgences, light snacks are served in place of alcohol. I find myself sipping tea to cleanse my overly sweet palate, noticing the struggle of my companions as they attempt to savor the same sweetness. Fortunately, the dandelion tea washes down easily, albeit with a hint of the bitterness found in their usual choice of beers.

"Ah, you remain wise despite your withering state," Caim remarks, maintaining his characteristic candor. Both he and Stolas have always been brutally honest, possessing sharp eyes that seem capable of peering into one's very soul. It is both troubling and intriguing.

"As Caim mentioned, why do I see such a fragmented image in you, Mikhail? Is it one of your unique traits as a rebirthed homunculus in this reborn world?" Stolas inquires, his curiosity as relentless as ever.

A wave of silence washes over us, leaving me uncertain how to respond to such a question. It is not unexpected when vulnerability reveals itself, as curiosity often overrides the constraints of courtesy.

"Hey, aren't you being rather harsh today? Even after becoming the headmaster, you refuse to change that tone," Caim chides, his frustration evident as he smacks the back of its hood, causing cosmic dust to scatter.

"I will ask whatever I feel compelled to ask. It is not the first time that you have deemed my questions bizarre and out of place," Stolas retorts, scratching at the hood, the fluidity of its form defying any singular definition.

"Pay no mind to its questioning. Well, I suppose I was simply longing for decay, which has become another facet of my identity. Even the two of you, unwavering forces, have changed. My desolation stems from my unchanging state," I respond, as if reciting a prewritten script. Apathy has dulled even the most delightful sights.

Caim looks at me with confusion, while Stolas removes the hood to better observe my being. It appears that something I have said has piqued their interest.

"It is deeply disconcerting to witness your yearning for self-destruction, Mikhail. Your mindset has taken a twisted turn, and I am genuinely concerned. Furthermore, Your Majesty, I must assert that I have not undergone the drastic changes you claim," Caim objects, his wings causing ashen feathers to scatter across the table.

"It is crucial for you to realize that what I have shed was merely a facade, while the appearance you now bear is a manifestation of your own inner vision," Caim sighs, acknowledging the difficulty of altering something that has been deeply ingrained for so long through such a conversation.

"How peculiar," Stolas comments.

"Your appearance continues to crumble with every passing moment, as you cling to this decaying state you seem to desire. It is evident that you should embrace a transformation befitting your true image. Even I cannot endure such prolonged deterioration," they continue, expressing their concerns.

Their words weigh heavily on my heart, resonating with the fractures within me. The sound of my breaking heart reverberates loudly, piercing through my being, without any support to hold me together. What will they think of me if this appearance is nothing more than a mimicry of the curse?

Forever youthful yet rotten inside, I was naive to believe that my tragedy had garnered any empathy from the very God that took away lord Micheal’s presence just to drive Sariel’s ambition and madness.

"Your Majesty, the Honorable Consort, and the Military Minister have arrived. They request an audience with you." A guard bursts into the room without prior announcement, signaling the arrival of their carriages at the castle.

"Please enjoy yourselves here. This is a momentous day for our triumph. Let us not make it solely about me," I reply with a feigned smile, joining the guard as we make our way through the castle.

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