When I Finished Playing the Terminally-Ill Villainous Omega C27

Chapter 27

Upon arriving at the study, Locke gave a light knock. At the command to enter, he opened the door. Seated at her desk, Ciel lifted her head slightly. As always, she was reading a volume of classical literature.

Cedric’s elder sister, Ciel, had possessed an exceptional love for history since childhood. So much so that, at the mere age of six, she had meticulously planned her future departure to become an archaeologist. That passion had only deepened with time, and her study was perpetually filled with thick tomes.

“The merchant from Rochesi has come and gone, I presume?”

Whenever goods arrived at the estate, all books—save for the tasteless novels Cedric occasionally pilfered—belonged to Ciel. She had an unusual fascination with unfamiliar myths and legends, delighting in delving deeply into their narratives. As a result, even in conversation, she always valued substance above all else.

“Yes. Where would you like the crate placed?”

“Anywhere.”

The bookshelves lining the walls were already packed to capacity. Beneath them, too, unorganized stacks of books lay piled high. With no better option, Locke set the crate down in an empty space. As he turned to leave, Ciel suddenly spoke.

“I heard one of the books delivered today contains a legend titled The Tale of Erebos. Have you ever heard of it?”

“I have not.”

“They say it’s a well-known story in the streets of Parlos—a deeply tragic romance, apparently. You’re from Parlos, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s about a knight who made a pact with a great calamity called Ragnarok in order to rescue a woman captured by the enemy. Recently, evidence surfaced suggesting it may not be mere legend, but truth. That piqued my interest. Even the smallest detail—if you’ve heard anything at all—tell me.”

“I don’t know it.”

His answer came without even a moment’s hesitation.

Yet Ciel, convinced he must have at least heard fragments in passing, did not give up so easily.

“Over a thousand years ago, on some northwestern continent, there lived a renowned mercenary named Baum. Clad always in black armor, he cut down his enemies without mercy and came to be called the Black Phantom. He had a beloved fiancée, but the war dragged on, and he could not see her for a long time. Then, as fate would have it, the tides turned against them, and she was taken by the enemy. Being no noble, how could he possibly gather an army to rescue her? In the end, he crossed mountains and rivers, seeking out the land where Ruin itself was said to dwell—and struck a bargain.”

“Ah…”

Locke responded listlessly.

“You’ve never heard anything like that?”

“No.”

“Then what about other myths or legends you might have heard while wandering the streets?”

“At the time, I was too occupied with surviving each day to concern myself with such stories.”

“How did Cedric manage to spend a whole year with you? You’re so dull and taciturn.”

“I had no time for conversation with the young master. Aside from meals and medicine, he granted me freedom. I spent the rest of my time assisting wherever labor was needed.”

One had been confined to his room by illness; the other had been too consumed with survival to pay attention to anything else. What conversation could possibly have passed between them?

At that, a suspicion Ciel had quietly harbored began to fade.

“That’s quite different from Cassian’s story—that you were inseparable and grew close. I suppose I know who was lying now. Then what interests you these days? Life has improved for you, has it not?”

Until then, Locke had answered her questions with indifference. But as if something suddenly occurred to him, he spoke with a faint hint of interest.

“Recently, I’ve been observing a small bird that happened to fly my way.”

The corners of his lips, usually devoid of expression, curved ever so slightly. Ciel blinked, intrigued.

“Go on.”

She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, inviting him to continue.

But Locke simply ended the conversation there. The brief trace of a smile vanished without a trace.

At last, even the remnants of Ciel’s suspicion dissipated completely. With someone so dull—who extinguished even the faintest spark of interest—no one could possibly feel inclined toward romance.

Enough. I’m done.

Cassian’s claim that Locke and Cedric were entangled in affection was clearly unfounded. A man who could neither sustain nor respond to conversation like that could never engage in love.

Concluding that he was ill-suited as her personal servant, Ciel decided she would soon reassign him elsewhere.

“That will be all for today. I think I understand now why Cedric gave you free time. If I need you, I will call for you—until then, do as you please. Assist with chores, chop wood—whatever you like. You may go.”

With a brief bow, Locke left the room without a trace of hesitation.

…And thus, having completely slipped from her interest, his daily life remained largely unchanged.

Even if his master granted him free time, a low-ranking servant like him could not simply rest. Running errands or lending a hand where needed soon consumed the day. The only time free from interference was at midday—but even that was no longer his alone. Since becoming Ciel’s servant, even that brief solitude had been taken from him.

It had been about two days since he last encountered Cedric.

And yet—what was the young master thinking? Whenever they crossed paths, Cedric would act startled, as though their meeting were mere coincidence, feigning ignorance with shameless ease. Then, like an idle noble with nothing better to do, he would sit beside him and chatter endlessly, recounting the trivialities of his day.

…This is maddening.

There was something Locke needed to find within this estate. Cedric’s constant presence was nothing but an inconvenience. Yet he could not simply ignore him—doing so would only make Cedric cling even more persistently, demanding to know what he had done wrong.

Thus, once again, Locke hurried through his midday meal, barely tasting it, in an attempt to avoid him.

Feigning leisure, he tucked a book under his arm and began exploring the vast gardens of the estate.

But it did not last long.

Before long, Cedric found him.

Does he do nothing but watch from his window all day…?

Resigned, Locke sat upon a hill as though absorbed in reading, pretending he had come there for solitude.

“Locke! We meet again? Wow, what a coincidence!”

As if it were remotely plausible for a frail young master—who spent nearly all his time confined indoors—to wander into the depths of a forested garden. Yet Cedric, brazen as ever, plopped himself down beside him, marveling at their “chance encounter.”

As Cedric chattered on without pause, Locke responded absentmindedly—until, at some point, he found the situation faintly amusing.

The way Cedric continued speaking despite receiving little response resembled a male bird singing endlessly in search of a mate. Especially those small, restless lips—they brought to mind a tiny beak.

“So I told her the soup was way too bland, and Anna tried to add pepper—but the lid fell right into the dish! It was so funny! But since the Marchioness was present, everyone had to hold it in—you should’ve seen their faces! Though… you don’t laugh much, do you? Oh! And the other day—”

Somewhere along the way, Locke forgot both his original purpose and the irritation he had felt.

Instead, he simply watched the small bird that had flown into his life.

❖ ❖ ❖

When Anna informed me that goods from Father’s trading company had arrived, I rushed over at once—claiming the Cartelgia specialty biscuits before anyone else could. Then, clutching them like treasure, I hurried back to my room and flung open the window, scanning the garden.

My eyes ached from how long I had been staring.

Hmm… he should appear around now…

Just then—

A tall man with broad shoulders, unmistakable even from a distance, walked across the hydrangea-filled garden with a book tucked beneath his arm.

Even from behind, I recognized him instantly.

Found him!

Clutching the biscuit box, I dashed toward the door—only to halt and step back. Turning, I looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror.

My poet shirt, now too large from weight loss, slipped down over my shoulders. I straightened it carefully, then draped a shawl to conceal my thin frame. Though it was summer, enduring the heat was preferable to hearing him remark that I had grown even thinner.

I had taken to dressing well, applying fragrant oils to both body and hair each day, all in an effort to conceal what I lacked. And yet, my hollow face still looked skeletal.

I puffed my cheeks and forced a smile.

“…Grotesque.”

The smile vanished.

“Locke!”

In the garden, beneath a white iron pergola entwined with trees, he sat with his broad back turned.

At my call, he slowly turned his head. Sunlight filtered through the crape myrtle branches, gently brushing against his face. His dark hair fell like ink flowing across paper.

His wide shoulders rose and fell once, as though he had sighed.

“Um…”

Meeting his tranquil gaze, I suddenly found it difficult to approach. All I could do was fidget helplessly with the biscuit box.

Perhaps I still did not feel like a friend to him. Every time we met, there was no warmth—only faint annoyance, a quiet coldness.

Today was no different.

As I hesitated, unable to step closer, Locke spoke in a calm voice.

“What brings you here today?”

Only then did I find the courage to approach. I held up the box in my hands.

“You remember, right? We promised to eat biscuits together!”

I smiled brightly.

Silently, he shifted, leaving space beside him.

Quickly, I slipped into the gap. Curious, I glanced at the book in his hand—but the thick black cover bore nothing but a faint gold pattern.

It was a book I had never seen before.