In this world, some things happen suddenly and without warning. No matter how many predictions are made, the final outcome often defies all expectations.
At the moment the gold coin in Punk's hand shot toward the stalker girl's forehead, a fleeting black glint flickered from her lips—a hidden steel needle, coated with a toxin so violent that, even through his solid mage armor, Punk could feel a chilling sensation in his heart.
"But… a poison strike that never lands is meaningless."
Punk knew this was the enemy's last desperate attempt. A hidden weapon was a standard trick among stalkers, and as a cautious mage, he was already prepared.
When she collapsed, seemingly unable to fight back, Punk had remained vigilant. So the instant he saw that poison-coated needle slice through the air, wrapped in black mist like a sniper's bullet, he calmly activated the "Lesser Deflection Field" inscribed on his robe. The unseen force veered the deadly projectile off course.
Punk sighed inwardly, appreciating once more how useful magic items were.
However, just as he was about to turn away, a strange sense of déjà vu crept over him.
Death is like the wind—always by my side.
For ordinary people, death is like the night—silent, inevitable, and ever-present.
But for those already dead, death is like a fall—sudden and unceremonious.
When Punk turned around, realization dawning too late, Princess Nasya had already collapsed.
Some say death is nothing more than a silent parting. No matter how responsible or blessed a person was in life, in death they are the same as everyone else—breathing their last, thinking their final thoughts, and sinking into darkness. Sometimes, death is even a form of release, an escape from the weight of obligations. Corpses do not concern themselves with decay, nor do they care who cries at their funeral and who laughs in relief. The dead cannot feel sadness, nor do they revel in joy.
The world moves on, indifferent.
Beneath the golden glow of scattered dust, the proud Princess Nasya lay motionless. A black steel needle jutted from her chest, its venom blooming across her delicate collarbone like a wilting rose.
She died with her mother's expectations.
She died with Menezi's blessing.
She died with the sacrifices of her soldiers.
She died with the vengeance and dreams she had vowed to fulfill.
The beauty of the world and the weight of responsibility may give a person the courage to survive, but they cannot grant the power to defy death.
Punk gazed down at her lifeless form, watching as the [Eye of Judgment] contract dissipated—the agreement nullified by the death of its signatory.
He stood still for a moment.
There was, of course, relief in being freed from that troublesome contract. But alongside it came a lingering sense of absurdity.
This was the princess who bore the hopes of so many. The princess burdened with duty, ambition, and sacrifice.
And now?
She was dead.
Not by the hand of some grand enemy.
Not in a final battle.
Not even by an attack meant for her.
She died from a stray poisoned needle—an accident.
Lifting her body with the invisible grasp of mage hands, Punk considered her fate. She had not been a devout follower of any deity, and thus she was unqualified to enter any divine kingdom. Her soul had already been swallowed by the endless flow of destiny.
Even the ruthless [Eye of Judgment] found no fault in this senseless demise.
Letting her body drop unceremoniously to the ground, Punk was left with a single thought:
Life is fragile and pathetic.
No matter how many dreams she carried, no matter how strong her will, it all meant nothing in the face of a single poisoned needle.
This is reality—ridiculous. Cruel, but rational.
"Those soldiers who died for her… Menezi, who sacrificed his future and life… Was it all meaningless?"
Punk stared at her corpse with unreadable eyes, pondering this question without emotion.
The answer…
For a fleeting moment, confusion flashed in his mind, but then clarity followed.
He whispered to himself:
"It was not meaningless. Their sacrifices had meaning—not because of the princess, but because of themselves. Their deaths are their own. Their 'meaning' is in their own choices, not in the results they hoped for."
The forest remained silent as another flower withered.
But the world did not stop moving.
Those who mourned continued to grieve.
Those who danced continued to dance.
And Punk?
He was elated.
The moment he resolved this internal dilemma, something inside him shattered—his soul breaking free from its bottleneck.
A new level of awareness dawned upon him. The entire world seemed laid bare before his senses. He could feel the fabric of space itself, hear the subtle hum of reality's movements.
He had advanced.
He had stepped into the realm of an official mage.
The dead continued their silent descent into the abyss, but the rising star shone ever brighter.
Opening his eyes, his deep-blue pupils now glowed with flickering hints of violet—a mesmerizing, endless abyss of power.
He relished the newfound magic coursing through him. Though he had yet to master official-level spells, his strengthened soul alone drastically amplified even the simplest apprentice-level magic. A mere [Catapult] spell, which once held the power of an anti-materiel rifle, now surpassed the might of an electromagnetic railgun from the far-fetched fantasies of a sci-fi world.
More than that—his newfound soul control allowed him to cast lesser spells instantly. With proper technique, he could even weave multiple spells simultaneously, as if he had grasped some rudimentary version of metamagic.
Punk took a final glance at the princess's corpse.
Some secret must have made Prince William desperate to reclaim her. But Punk was not some deluded protagonist in a fantasy novel—he had no intention of digging into it.
As for the people awaiting the princess's return—the hopeful citizens of Kamos, the grieving queen, the soldiers who had given their lives, and Menezi's dying wish—
What did any of that have to do with him?
Punk smiled.
The princess's death meant nothing to him—except that it freed him from an annoying obligation. With his advancement complete, he now had the opportunity to claim a small fiefdom in Dylan's Kingdom. There, he could begin laying the foundations of a proper mage tower, dedicating the next few decades to research.
An official mage's youth was eternal. His lifespan extended well past a thousand years, and with his half-elf blood, that number only grew.
Yes, there was much to do, and plenty of time to do it.
As for Kamos?
Let Prince William have his little kingdom. Would he dare provoke an official mage just for revenge?
With a quiet chuckle, Punk turned and stepped into the woods, heading toward Dylan's Kingdom.
The princess's body lay forgotten in the dirt.
Who would care?