“What did you do?”
Kynemia looked around with a sullen expression.
“……No, I didn’t do anything. You just seem out of it.”
Was she not letting her guard down? No—it didn’t matter if she didn’t fully open her heart. Even the smallest crack was enough for magic to seep through. I’d already cast spells this way on those who disliked me at the Magic Tower. The conditions were perfect.
The conclusion was obvious.
Magic doesn’t work on Kynemia Leon.
To be precise, she unconsciously filters out harmful magic.
Why?
How?
New questions swarmed my mind.
Is this possible through extreme magical sensitivity? Can someone truly do that?
She doesn’t even realize magic was cast on her. If anything, she seems magically dull, not sensitive.
Then how…?
“Really?”
Kynemia narrowed her eyes at Ayan.
“Be honest.”
Facing her renewed defenses, the storm of questions in my mind abruptly quieted.
‘……?’
Then Ayan’s own heart plummeted with unsettling weight.
His previously chaotic thoughts vanished, leaving blank whiteness.
‘……Why?’
Ayan blinked slowly.
He’d always solved every mystery before—no matter the target, no matter their resistance.
‘This has never happened…….’
“Ayan.”
Kynemia growled his name. Tsk. Ayan clicked his tongue internally and soothed, “Really, I did nothing.”
“Then what?”
“I’m just sleepy. Can’t even keep my eyes open.”
Kynemia remained skeptical but—
“You’re close with your uncle, Mia. Using a nickname.”
When Ayan changed topics, she stared intensely before sighing. “He’s my only family left. Writes regularly from the capital.”
Ayan masked his unease, adopting a friendly tone. “Don’t noble families feud over status?”
“Others might. My uncle cares nothing for that. His dream is becoming Yaven Böteller of the Aldium Empire.”
Yaven Böteller—the famed poet from Luke Duchy.
Her uncle emulated him obsessively: rosewater baths at dawn, strong liquor, and rants about beauty in extinct Bax tongue. Once, a professor declared his grammar “utterly wrong,” reducing him to tears.
Kynemia giggled faintly at the memory.
Ayan watched silently.
Where icy numbness had gripped his heart, warmth now bloomed.
“He must write well.”
“No.” Her face hardened. “Liking and excelling differ—remember that.”
“Hmm.”
As she prattled, Ayan smoothed her bedhead spikes.
‘Always wakes up like this.’
He smiled, recalling her sleep-mussed hair last time.
Kynemia suddenly glared at his side.
“……The Magic Tower’s barbaric.”
“Hm?”
“Savages,” she spat.
“Because they stabbed my side to make me a Lich?”
“No!”
“Then?”
“Forget it.”
Her grumbling inexplicably lifted his mood.
Her earlier wariness had vanished, replaced by mischievous temptation.
“I’ve no family. Abandoned at seven.”
Kynemia’s pupils trembled—pity, worry, sympathy.
This was what Ayan wanted. Not suspicion.
Curiosity could wait.
“My father left me blindfolded in the woods.”
Teasing, yet truthful.
“Ah…!”
Kynemia gaped, speechless.
Silence fell.
She struggled to form comforting words while Ayan fought a smile.
‘Enough.’
He feigned gloom. “Pitiful, right?”
Kynemia’s face crumpled. “N-no! I’m worse! My parents were murdered!”
“Oh?”
She defiantly bit back a gasp, instantly regretful.
“……Uh…”
Suddenly rabbit-eared and dejected.
“True. Our Mia needs pampering.”
Ayan chuckled, patting her head.
“Stop.”
“Why? It’s affectionate.”
“Leaving.”
As she stood, Ayan grabbed her hand—flick.
Whoosh!
Kynemia materialized mid-air, tumbling onto the carpet.
“……Warn me next time!”
“Next time.”
“You said that before.”
“Caught me.”
“…….”
“Mad?”
She turned away. “Exhausting.”
“Oh—why no magic earlier?”
“When?”
“Frog sign hunt.”
“Ah…”
“Found it—should’ve teleported.”
Kynemia flicked her fingers. Ayan beamed. “Doesn’t work in new places.”
She squinted, assessing his truthfulness.
He added sweetly, “Pre-second awakening.”
Kynemia scowled.
Mages undergo second awakenings when overflowing magic overwhelms their bodies. Being pre-awakening meant incomplete power.
Yet he’s a Lich? Monstrous…
“Bathing.”
She stormed off. What did it matter now?
In the bathroom, Kynemia undressed and stepped into the tub.
“Abandoned at seven.”
The words clung like tar.
She’d read his past in the original story—mentioned as casually as today.
As if meaningless.
Impossible…
She sank chin-deep.
‘Seven…’
Her own seven-year-old self had sobbed endlessly after her mother’s death. Ayan’s experience? Unfathomable.
Emotion surged. Kynemia dunked her head completely.
