078 The trope of the frail, sickly girl

“Tch, I always thought, according to the rules of logic, that all the handsome guys and cute girls in the world should belong to me!” Not far from the king and his entourage, a voice, weak but still laced with sarcasm, rang out: “Young man, it’s good to have dreams, but mistaking delusions for dreams is never wise!”

Everyone turned to look. A silver-haired boy, cradling a red-haired girl whose body was covered in wounds, slowly emerged from the ruins. The boy’s face was half obscured by his fringe, making his expression unreadable. The girl, however, stared fiercely in the direction of the mysterious figure, her face twisted in a wild grin, as if she were plotting to devour that person alive.

Trailing behind them was Sang Qing, carrying in his arms a soldier who had long since drawn his last breath.

――――I am a ferocious dividing line, la la la――――

When a certain someone awoke again, several days had passed.

The lavish and exquisite decor before her eyes was clearly not the familiar courtyard she’d always inhabited in the imperial city. She looked around her new room: a small bed with a comforting touch, opulent and expensive furnishings, costly high-grade tea sets, a sofa unmistakably made of genuine leather, and everywhere, the royal emblem of the White Tower Kingdom—all revealed that she was now within the palace of White Tower.

She rubbed her dizzy head and slowly sat up. That day, she had insisted on finishing the funeral for the soldier boy despite her injuries, refusing to rest until it was done. Who could have guessed she’d collapse before the funeral was over—and now she’d somehow fallen straight into the palace? This familiar, melodramatic plot twist—what on earth was going on?

She grimaced and bore the sudden pain of rising too quickly, but her movements alerted the maids waiting outside. The door swung open, and the maids in their soft pink uniforms entered one after another to bring her medicine and water, replace her bandages. She let them fuss over her, but her mind had already wandered far away.

If she had understood that mysterious element a few minutes earlier, would the soldier boy still be alive? If she had trained harder, spent more time cultivating, would he have survived? If those elders had intervened sooner, would none of this have happened? Who were those elders, anyway? Was Bradley planning to kill the red-haired mystery man, or to imprison him and negotiate with the beasts?

So many questions weighed heavily in her mind, circling endlessly without resolution. Still reeling from the soldier boy’s death, she felt as if her thoughts might tear her apart.

As the saying goes, you can’t blame society for your misfortunes, nor the government for your fate. So our poor protagonist could only curl up under the covers, flog herself mentally, listing countless faults: lazy, unmotivated, neglectful of cultivation, flat-chested and absent-minded, always meddling when she shouldn’t…

The more she thought, the more her eyes filled with tears.

When she first crossed into this world, she believed she could save it. After all that had happened, she realized the world wouldn’t save her…

When Lance arrived, refreshed and full after eating and resting, he found the patient who ought to be lying quietly in bed instead curled up in a trembling ball in the corner of her blanket, rolling about.

“What are you doing?” Lance asked, puzzled, gazing at the lump on the bed.

The “dumpling” froze when she heard Lance’s voice, kept upright for a moment, then finally uttered a pitiful, mosquito-like whisper: “Why… are you here?”

“I took a walk and wandered in,” Lance replied, having discovered a good show and unwilling to leave so soon.

“…Could you take another walk and wander out?”

“Obviously not,” Lance said, settling into a comfortable little sofa. “Come on, tell me what happened. The more you try to drive me away, the more curious I become.”

“Fine,” she said, biting her lip. She’d meant to shut him up with harsh words, but since someone was finally willing to answer her questions (even if he was clearly just here for the drama), she might as well ask. “Do you ever feel that I’m a burden?”

“I do.”

“Do you think I’m lazy, unmotivated, have no goals, always pushed along by others?”

“That’s right.”

“I have no judgment, I charge in blindly, dodge blindly, only regret after causing trouble, and never think to take responsibility?”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“…Do you have to answer so promptly? Can’t you think it over?”

“No need.”

She withdrew her head beneath the covers, returning to her grand project of self-pity.

“So, what are you getting at?” After watching her solitary, miserable performance for a while, Lance finally couldn’t help himself and spoke up.

She tentatively reached out a hand from the blanket and slapped it hard onto the bed. The thunderous noise didn’t elicit any reaction from Lance, so she threw off the covers entirely, revealing an uncharacteristically earnest expression. “Lance, great master, this rookie earnestly begs for guidance, for instruction, to climb out of this pit and never drag down her teammates again!”

“Alright,” Lance replied, holding her expensive tea set and wearing a punchable smirk that said, “I knew you’d come to me for help.” “I like kids with ambition. Serve your master some tea.”

“Of course!” At his swift agreement, she didn’t mind being taken advantage of verbally, scrambling to get out of bed to fetch tea and water. Unfortunately, her will outstripped her strength; as she straightened and prepared to swing her legs out of bed, a familiar sharp crack sounded in the air.

“Snap!”

Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, then swept over every inch of her skin. Every cell in her body screamed the same word: “Pain!”

She, sudden demise, age eighteen; cause of death: pain.

Watching her, forced to lie stiffly in bed from agony, Lance sighed helplessly and, moved by compassion, walked over to tuck her in. “I won’t teach you anything until you’re healed. Just focus on recovering.”

She mumbled stubbornly, refusing to give up speaking, but her trembling words were incomprehensible. Yet, in a miracle, Lance listened to her long, unknown utterance, maintained his usual smile, nodded calmly to show understanding, patted her head to reassure her, and finally walked out of her room without looking back, closing the door like a gentleman.

“Oh, right. Bradley wants to see you after you’re recovered. Don’t forget.”

Lance’s message and her tearful, gritted cries echoed in the air.