TBG Ch 6

The Supreme Commander was supposed to cherish jewels, treasures, or something capable of deceiving and overturning the world. Reta even felt betrayed. If the box contained nothing but personal documents of a man who seemed to be the Supreme Commander’s young lover, he would not have bothered stealing it and fleeing.

“What’s all this junk supposed to be!”

“Junk? It’s incredibly important.”

Owen Krote replied with a laugh. He seemed to have no intention of taking the jewel box back. Instead, he turned to Laila and said.

“That’s the only shackle this country has to keep Laila bound, isn’t it?”

“…Be quiet.”

Laila snapped curtly, aiming his gun at Reta. Standing at such a height was agonizing. He wanted to scream if it meant he could escape. He longed to lie on the ground, kiss the earth, and revel in the joy of gravity. If he could be greedier, he wanted to return to his room above a shabby tavern, curl up, and sleep soundly.

But the fugitive lacked tact. Faced with the imminent threat, he chose rage as his solution. A shrill, hysterical scream tore through the sky.

“You think I’ll get caught like this? No way. I’m not falling for your filthy tricks!”

Spitting on the ground, Reta flung the box he held into the air. The beautifully adorned jewel box glinted, reflecting the fading sunlight. Light scattered through the air. Following its long arc, the empire’s sole golden man leapt without hesitation into the dizzying void.

“Owen!”

In that moment, Laila forgot his fear.

It was irresistible. Laila couldn’t recall his acrophobia or the trauma that led him to desert after a series of events, even for a moment. He had no right to.

Just as a young Laila could only love Owen Krote, he couldn’t whimper like a child, weighing options in this situation.

Falling from the pipeline of the tallest publicly accessible building, his body felt crushed. Yet Laila didn’t close his eyes. Owen came into his shaking vision. Laila reached out with all his strength.

Since the successful development of Fractus, the abilities of those called awakened were remarkable. They could tear steel barehanded, ignite flames in empty air, or control insects with no hope of communication. They healed wounds and shook the earth. Countless superhuman humans were born.

But Laila was exceptionally unique among them. His ability was one only he possessed across all of Caron.

The eyepatch covering his left eye, loosened by the slicing wind, fell away limply. Unlike his cold, pale blue right eye, the unfamiliar blue of his left eye gleamed vividly, as if clearing away sand and dust.

There was no need to overexert. With a single gesture, Owen’s falling body slowed to a stop.

They didn’t shatter like eggs thrown to the ground. Their descent gradually slowed, and their bodies safely landed on a facility jutting out between buildings to supply electricity. Still far too high, Laila staggered toward Owen, his face pale.

Using his power after so long had inadvertently pulled the criminal along with Owen, but it didn’t matter.

“H-How…? I heard he was half-blind.”

Reta, slumped in the middle of the tower, muttered. Only then did he recognize Laila. Though rarely exposed in the media, the black-haired beauty with cold eyes was well-known for his ability in both the First and Second Districts. Once the Supreme Commander’s aide, now a deserter, famed for losing an eye, Reta had seen his wanted posters in the back alleys. Though his appearance now was quite different.

Confirming with his own eyes that the Supreme Commander hadn’t become a flattened mess, Laila replied listlessly, nauseated from the shock of the fall.

“Oh, this? It’s just that using my power changes one eye’s color, so I hid it.”

It made his life exhausting. Laila grumbled, closing his left eye. The vivid blue Reta had never seen vanished and reappeared beneath his eyelid.

Reta stared blankly at the color. Born in the Second District, he’d heard during mandatory education that water, seas, and skies were once that blue. Now only gray seas and orange skies remained, but long ago, they were dazzlingly vibrant—a lost natural hue.

“The Supreme Commander… he knew about this?”

Reta panted. A changing body was symbolic. Not artificial awakening or trivial tricks, but innate talent—a god-given child.

People called the theoretical ideal a leader. Had it been publicized early, Laila would’ve long claimed the Supreme Commander’s seat or the government’s presidency.

“Of course.”

The handsome-voiced man spoke with an elegant tone.

There was a reason the military and Assembly refused to let the Supreme Commander’s aide retire cleanly. Laila wasn’t quiet. He wasn’t humble. He’d carved his place at a young age.

Raised by Owen, Laila honed himself. His power was like a majestic whale breaching the waves. Even if no one on Caron knew what a whale was anymore, it didn’t matter. When Laila used his ability, gem-like sparkles scattered around him like splashing water. The crushing orange sun and fading purple sky blended into a spectacle.

“Laila, snipe.”

His brilliant blue eye flashed. A bullet pierced Reta’s shoulder, and he screamed, thrashing.

“What… what the hell!”

He struggled to escape, summoning his ability, but his body felt bound, immovable no matter how hard he tried. Laila, expressionless, unleashed his power. It was repulsive, but bearable. Reta was shaken, gripped by an invisible hand.

Not once, while walking the skies with Owen, had he allowed another to escape.

“Laila is strong.”

Commenting thus, Owen kissed a childhood photo of Laila in the jewel box.

“So I don’t plan to give him to anyone.”

No reply came to Owen’s words. Laila’s expression, holding Reta’s crushed corpse, showed no emotion. Though closer to the ground he craved, Laila still gazed at the sky. Once, it had all been his.

A talented major who rose rapidly at a young age, with no publicly clarified relationship to Owen Krote.

Laila Krote, the military’s only aerial combatant.

But now, a loser who abandoned all duties and fled. Feeling no sentiment for his ability, Laila looked at Owen with a frozen face. Too exhausted to speak, his body felt heavy, and the precarious height of the spire below was unbearable to look at.

“You okay?”

The source of all problems. Instead of raging at the man who let terrorism and theft slide because Laila didn’t answer his calls, Laila pleaded with a deathly expression.

“I want to rest. I’m tired, cold, aching…”

“Already? Time to retire.”

Owen laughed, not hiding his desire to lock Laila away at home. He’d endured well for three years. Laila snapped back irritably.

“You… can’t retire.”

The wind atop the high spire whipped his cheeks, making his body sway like a branch.

Using his ability after so long brought severe aftereffects. Laila wiped the nosebleed trickling down with the back of his hand, barely managing to speak.

“I won’t let you off. Work forever. What kind of person…”

Panting, Laila’s body slumped. He truly felt like dying. The ill-fitting uniform was uncomfortable, and the unexpected fall was catastrophic. His hair, disheveled by the wind, scattered, and his cold eyes flickered faintly in the dark veil. As his frail body teetered on the verge of falling, Owen gently caught him.

“Retirement’s my dream, and you’re being harsh.”

The Supreme Commander’s true dream was to quit his job, live simply with his beloved in a quaint countryside home, and tend a garden together. But achieving that required much.

Recalling the old saying about the fleeting lives of beauties, Owen looked skyward with his strikingly golden eyes. Dusk was settling. The sinking sun painted the sky a deep, melancholic purple. It was only natural that humanity, having abandoned the blue planet, was no longer granted that beautiful light or the ability to reach the skies.

Owen considered it divine punishment.

“Your Excellency!”

Riff Troy’s voice called from afar. Descending from a transport helicopter to the spire’s midpoint, Riff Troy looked ready to submit his resignation after the day’s ordeal. Owen laughed heartily, mentally praising his aide, who, while not as exceptional as Laila, performed his duties flawlessly.

“Lieutenant, all matters handled?”

“Yes, sir.”

Seeing Laila in Owen’s arms, Riff Troy saluted without a flicker of change in expression.

“All sensory disruptors within a 20km radius have been dismantled, but some security reinforcement units remain on standby. Shall I recall them?”

“Recall them. They’ve worked hard since morning, so grant two days’ special leave each. The stolen item’s recovered, the culprit’s dead—time to write a new script.”

Without Riff Troy’s aid, Owen leapt lightly onto the helicopter, which didn’t even sway. Riff Troy knew the Supreme Commander could single-handedly spark a rebellion with his prowess.

So he found it peculiar that such a reckless man, with no ambition beyond enjoying a cozy life with his young lover, held such power. One might think he had no reason to crave more, but Sirun Alles was a counterexample.

Sirun Alles, itching to insult or crush the Supreme Commander, would likely die from a mere snap of Owen’s fingers. Owen spared him not for love of peace but because he saw Sirun Alles as a convenient obstacle in his romance.

‘Eccentric.’

That was Riff Troy’s assessment of his superior.

“Your expression’s a bit insolent, isn’t it?”

“I’ll correct it, sir.”

“When you first took my aide role, you were trembling and shy. To think you’ve grown so cold in just three years—it’s disappointing.”

“The Major would tell me to report you for harassment.”

“You’ve learned only bad things from Laila.”

Owen Krote sighed briefly, then smiled at his aide. The helicopter’s noise was loud but not enough to hinder conversation.

“Call Donia Gamal as soon as we reach the residence. I have a favor to ask.”

“Understood.”

Riff Troy replied obediently. He’d long given up reading the Supreme Commander’s mind. This was a man unhinged enough to let a terrorist run loose just because his former aide ignored his calls for ten days. Whether he summoned Donia Gamal or her father, Riff Troy didn’t care.

He only hoped Major Laila, his former superior, wouldn’t wake up complaining of gastritis and reaching for painkillers.

⭐

The changing color of his left iris whenever he used his ability was a hassle. At the academy, Laila trained primarily in physical combat. Even then, his skills far surpassed his peers, and a dutiful response about not relying on abilities sufficed to deflect suspicious glances.

But that didn’t work once he joined the military. Deployed relentlessly in countless battles from the moment he enlisted, Laila felt his limits. At twenty-three, he was caught in an incident to hide his left eye. The plan was meticulously concealed and orchestrated by the Supreme Commander himself. Laila, of course, hadn’t consented. Though eccentric, aggressive, and somewhat perversely excessive, the Supreme Commander was a meticulous man, proving his competence.

To stage a scene where Laila “risked his life to save Owen Krote” without arousing Sirun Alles’s suspicion, the Supreme Commander spent nearly a week in a coma and a month recovering.

Even with the empire’s top medical staff, cutting-edge systems, and longevity elixirs, it was that severe. The medical consensus was that Laila’s heroic effort, costing him his left eye, had narrowly prevented instant death.

Trusting Owen Krote too much, Laila, unwittingly swept into the scheme, was nearly driven mad with rage but earned a three-rank promotion. Becoming a major felt like an insulting badge. It took quite some time after Owen’s recovery for Laila to even speak to him.

Years later, at twenty-seven, Laila made a mistake during a mission with Owen Krote. It was his fault, though not entirely fair.

As the Supreme Commander’s aide, he was swamped with paperwork and minor tasks, leaving him overworked daily. His rare awakening ability meant he was summoned for every aerial battle to handle grunt work.

Controlling air currents and flying—how impressive. Often, Laila’s solo deployments outperformed dozens of fighter jets. With him, jets could fly without costly fuel.

The Council didn’t know Laila’s secret but knew his ability. In a world desperately short on oil, a soldier who could deliver bombs from the sky was indispensable.

One man’s overwork was nothing compared to the empire’s gains. So, for nearly four years from age twenty-three, Laila was worked to the bone with little sleep. At twenty-seven, during an aerial mission with Owen Krote, he made a grave error: he dropped the Supreme Commander mid-air.

It was Laila’s fault. He was exhausted, dozing off, his mind flickering. It was an unreasonable deployment. Owen Krote had intended to let Laila rest at the base, but in the western battle, Laila refused to leave his side.

Overconfident in his ability, he caused the accident.

When Laila regained consciousness after dropping Owen Krote, the Supreme Commander, with a broken arm, held him, dangling mid-canyon, his prized sword lodged in the cliff. Laila’s acrophobia began then.

He remembered that dizzying moment. Never afraid of falling before, he was afterward. Especially with others, he repeatedly fainted during flights.

The Assembly knew of Laila’s acrophobia. Multiple test results confirmed he could no longer be used in aerial combat. Yet, the greedy elders refused to abandon a living transport mechanism—or rather, used it as an excuse to monitor Owen Krote’s weakness.

“It’s common for soldiers to request discharge citing PTSD. The military has no reason to deny the Major’s discharge.”

Owen Krote said at the meeting. Laila stood behind him. His discharge request had been rejected twenty-two times, and it took far too long to reach the Assembly’s main agenda.

Exhausted, Laila stood silently, listening to Owen Krote and Sirun Alles speak.

“Yet he knows too much, Supreme Commander. Didn’t you acknowledge his value? Your direct aide, involved in over eighty percent of battles against variants—discharge him? The empire always needs exceptional awakened.”

Sirun Alles’s greed was immense. He was fond of Laila, wanting to claim him. Barely past twenty, Laila was exceptional in ability and appearance. It was natural for Sirun Alles, nursing years of jealousy and inferiority toward the Supreme Commander, to desire him.

“But he can’t use his ability now, can he? Pushing him nearly caused a major accident in recent aerial training. Discharge is the right call.”

“Then, Supreme Commander, why not send him to the Assembly instead?”

Sirun Alles said with a smile, eyeing Laila. In the sacred meeting hall, the old man openly coveted Laila—perhaps not Laila himself, but what belonged to Owen Krote.

“He can’t use his ability due to trauma and fear of falling? No problem. A light brain tweak will fix it. I’ll personally assign the best neurologist.”

…That day, Owen let Laila desert.

That crazy old man. Casually talking about tampering with someone’s mind to make a puppet, Laila, dreamily recalling old memories, snapped awake from the last Assembly hall scene he’d witnessed.

He expected to wake in the Supreme Commander’s residence or the bedroom of the private home he’d lived in since childhood, but it was an utterly unfamiliar place. The room’s owner seemed obsessive. The arrangement of decorations, furniture harmony, condition, and cleanliness around the bed suggested as much, but more peculiar was the absence of blind spots.

Opening the door would reveal the entire room’s layout, ensuring safety from assassination or terrorism. Conversely, dodging bullets from outside would be tricky, but if the windows were bulletproof, that wouldn’t be an issue either.

Surveying the room, Laila quickly concluded. Only one soldier kept such a pristine, perfect home.

“I want to pass out again…”

Hearing Sirun Alles offer to tamper with his mind in exchange for his service was bad enough, but waking up in General Donia Gamal’s residence was a worse nightmare. Laila clutched his forehead, muttering weakly. Soft black hair swayed over his clean white hand.

The pitifully expressive beauty on the bed was a fine sight, but unfortunately, the onlooker was less than ideal.

“That’s the first thing you say upon waking?”

Bursting through the door without knocking, the intruder coldly scoffed at Laila’s muttered soliloquy. Startled by the menacing voice, Laila hurriedly looked up.

While the empire swooned over the Supreme Commander’s beauty, only one person could sneer, “Hah, that fox is up to his tricks again”—Donia Gamal.

“…General Gamal.”

Laila saw a soldier, even nearing retirement, with impeccable posture. Despairing that his guess was correct, he instinctively leapt from the bed and saluted.

“I greet General Donia Gamal. It’s been—”

“Don’t tell me you’re about to ask if I’ve been well? Just thinking of the messes you’ve caused these past three years, I’m not well—I’m ready to retire tomorrow from stress!”

Donia Gamal didn’t give Laila a chance to finish his greeting. Even at home, clad in her uniform, she touched her forehead, sighing elegantly yet irritably.

“I left it to Owen Krote to handle for three years, and this is handling it? I can’t tell if he’s sane.”

Laila wanted to protest but couldn’t bring himself to defy Donia Gamal. Standing silently with a sulky expression, he prompted a disbelieving chuckle from her.

“You’re making that rebellious face because I’m criticizing Owen Krote? Unbelievable. If idiots like you are the empire’s future, it’s better off collapsing.”

“…Saying that outside could get you arrested for treason.”

“Don’t give me that textbook nonsense with that sulky look. How are you even surviving out there? With your face, you should be groveling in gratitude to your unknown parents. If you gave off even a bit more distance, fine, but if you went around grinning like Owen Krote, suitors begging to bear your child would’ve circled the First District by now!”

It was unclear if Donia Gamal’s words were praise or insult. Laila, still gloomy, retorted.

“Why am I the one bearing? As you can see, I’m a man.”

“News to me. Do you top when you’re with Owen Krote?”

No one could outtalk a woman who’d borne three children, whose children had given her five grandchildren. Laila, unable to say whether he topped or bottomed, lowered his head further.

Not a virgin, not twelve, yet blushing and flustered, Laila drew a tongue-click from Donia Gamal.

“You’re tangled with the Supreme Commander of all people—why so shy? Is that his type? Is that why he’s still unmarried?”

Suddenly suspicious, Donia Gamal stroked her chin. Laila, unable to meet her gaze, stared at the floor as if searching for dust, muttering.

“I don’t know his type… maybe he couldn’t marry because he was raising me…”

“Haa.”

Her deep purple eyes filled with disdain and irritation. Donia Gamal glared at Laila, who acted far too naïve for his age. By average lifespan, he was young, but imperial law deemed twenty adulthood. Ten years past the age to blush at sexual talk, he should’ve been cackling over lewd gossip by now.

Surely the academy’s raunchy banter didn’t vanish just during Laila’s time there. Donia Gamal, displeased, scolded him.

“Didn’t the Supreme Commander teach you how to handle these topics? Why not announce to the world you two are sleeping together?”

“…Oh, you weren’t asking because you knew?”

“Why would I care how two guys get it on at home!”

Donia Gamal shouted, then pressed her temples irritably as if her head ached. Laila’s face still hadn’t regained color.

“Enough. Don’t say another word—just come downstairs and eat. Doesn’t Owen Krote give you pocket money? Why’s a grown man so scrawny, collapsing like you’ve been eating tree bark? And you’re a top academy graduate, a soldier? Is that why I taught you to shoot? Don’t give me that look—don’t even think of arguing, just change and get down here. Philip made heaps of beef stew for you, and you’re not leaving my house until you finish it.”

Donia Gamal no longer gave Laila a chance to speak. Laila, like when he was a newly commissioned second lieutenant, nodded limply as Donia Gamal barked orders at him without restraint.

Rather than defying Donia Gamal now, it was better to accept being seen as frail, foolish, and prone to fainting as easily as eating a meal. Laila shed Riff Troy’s military uniform, changed into the prepared shirt and pants, and descended to the first floor.

“You’re so slow.”

Despite hurrying down as fast as he could, Donia Gamal frowned, clearly displeased about something.

“It’s been a while, young master.”

Philips, placing a large basket of bread at the center of the dining table, smiled at Laila, who hesitated at the entrance.

“Young master? He’s a deserter, a disgrace to the military. Just call him Disgrace.”

“It seems the mistress is in high spirits today. It’s only natural with such a splendid guest. Come, sit down quickly.”

Donia Gamal, having sent her husband to the divine embrace early due to illness and seen her children off to their own lives, lived with a long-serving household worker in her residence. In an era where everyone used domestic robots, she was an eccentric who paid a regular salary to employ an ordinary person without awakening abilities.

Laila, as a child, had visited this house a few times, holding Owen Krote’s hand for events like Donia Gamal’s birthday parties or service anniversary celebrations. Donia Gamal treated Laila the same then as she did now.

She personally placed a massive bowl of beef stew, as large as a washbasin, in front of Laila and commanded.

“Your face is the only tolerable thing about you, so eat.”

Behind Donia Gamal’s cold words, Laila recalled their first meeting when he was seven. She had placed a cream stew with star-shaped carrots floating in it before him, scolding him to eat. Laila, who consistently disliked carrots, burst into tears upon seeing the star-shaped carrots and round mini cabbages, marking a humiliating moment in his life.

“…Thank you for the meal.”

“The bread is hand-baked by me, so eat it with gratitude. You’re not still picky, are you? Eat everything evenly.”

Terrified that admitting his dislike for carrots would prompt her to clear the table and start a carrot farm, Laila gripped his cheeks tightly and nodded.

“I’ll eat heartily.”

“Young master, eat moderately and leave some if you need to. Overeating is worse. The mistress is the only one who can eat this much after being ill all day and still be fine.”

“Everyone else is just too weak.”

Donia Gamal snapped at Philips, picking up her spoon. Laila followed suit, lifting his spoon.

“Your favorite bread is at the top. I don’t know if you still like raisin bread, but there it is.”

“I do. Thank you.”

“Tch, you’re that old and your tastes haven’t changed since you were seven? Those raisins are from grapes harvested in our garden, dried and soaked in rum by me. Do you think kneading dough is easy at my age!”

Then why not skip the kneading? Laila felt wronged but, unwilling to be scolded further by Donia Gamal, silently reached for the rye bread. Packed with raisins, it was sweet and delicious. Watching Laila chew the bread, Donia Gamal let out a soft “hmph” and pursed her lips.

“Tasty?”

“…Yes, it’s delicious.”

“Then eat a lot.”

Donia Gamal nodded, looking somewhat satisfied. Laila, told to eat his vegetables too, accepted a salad plate from Philips, set it aside, and diligently chewed his bread. Though Donia Gamal occasionally chided him, Philips’ beef stew, while not perfect, had a warm, comforting flavor, and the raisin-studded bread was simply delicious.

Between bites of dinner, Laila answered Donia Gamal’s questions. More accurately, she asked to confirm facts she already knew, and Laila nodded or added detailed explanations.

“You’re leading a ragtag bunch in the Third District, playing boss? Was wearing a rank and living off others’ scraps that unbearable?”

“I’m still living off scraps, and I never planned to play boss.”

“Quiet. You stepped on every elite path in the empire, and this is what you do? You might as well start a rebellion.”

Donia Gamal spoke casually of things that could get her arrested. Laila, with a gloomy expression, scooped up some beef stew.

“Don’t say the same things as His Excellency. What would I even rebel for…”

“You think I’m saying you’re some big shot who should rebel? I’m saying if you’re going to waste your life, at least do something grand like a rebellion to etch your name in imperial history. Why are all your choices so pathetic? When you were seven, you got all teary and wailed, so I told you to pick a Christmas gift to cheer up. You clung to Owen’s pants and took my Christmas tree! Didn’t you see the gift boxes under it? They were right at your eye level—hard to miss.”

Laila couldn’t admit that he’d thought picking the Christmas tree meant getting the gift boxes too. Later, Owen had to console the despairing Laila, promising to buy as many gifts as there were boxes under Donia Gamal’s tree before he stopped crying. Naturally, this was another humiliating moment in his life.

“Does life always have to be about doing something grand…”

“I say this because it’s a waste to let your ability rot—a waste! Why aren’t you eating? Stop picking and eat.”

After scolding Laila for a while, Donia Gamal urged him to eat again. I’ll choke if I keep eating. Laila, with a sullen face, pretended to scoop up stew. Philips, refilling his butter and honey, leaned down and whispered in his ear.

“She’s doing this because she cares. Eat comfortably.”

If she cares, does she have to nag like that? Laila thought Philips was so fond of his mistress that he was blind to her faults. His feelings showed plainly on his face. Donia Gamal’s purple eyes filled with irritation.

“A soldier, and you still can’t control your expressions?”

Thus began another long round of nagging. Feeling as if his ears were bleeding, Laila barely finished the stew and received ice cream for dessert. It was a whopping three scoops—vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate—sweet even when he was stuffed to bursting.

As Laila savored the ice cream, Donia Gamal chided him again.

“You’re not a kid, and you still like ice cream…”

“You told me to prepare it specially for the young master’s visit. There’s more, so let me know if you want a snack later.”

Philips tattled on his mistress in Laila’s ear again. Donia Gamal looked like she wanted to say something to Philips but only pursed her lips and held back.

The elegant, stubborn, and meticulous general sipped the hot coffee her butler brought and sighed.

“So, when are you returning? Molto Rikhim was waiting for you to come back.”

“No plans.”

“No plans, my foot. Overcome your acrophobia. If it’s too hard, I’ll personally push you off the residence’s roof. A nice fall from there will change your mind.”

“General…”

Laila pleaded softly. Donia Gamal looked at his weak response with disapproval.

His awakening ability had been evident since his academy days. After graduation, he worked under Donia Gamal’s command, or rather, a few levels below her. She led the Special Forces Command then. Even with the war over, the Typhon swarms hadn’t gone extinct, and their meteoric reproduction required periodic extermination missions, where Laila was always deployed. He was essential for securing escape routes for allies when needed.

Laila’s marksmanship was decent to begin with, but it became remarkably sharp under Donia Gamal’s training. His ability to shoot accurately even with one eye covered was thanks to her rigorous instruction. Of course, that training was far from easy.

Donia Gamal even believed humans had no limits and that anything could be done with effort—a destructive philosophy.

“I’m this old, and I have to watch you two lovebirds? Return immediately.”

“I can’t.”

But Laila was no pushover. Raised by Owen Krote, he was a master at defying anyone—superior or not—when he didn’t want to comply. Donia Gamal downed her hot coffee in one gulp.

“What? Getting cocky now?”

“Cocky or not, I can’t do what I can’t. Today was just luck. There’s no way I could suddenly use an ability I haven’t managed in three years.”

“Hm.”

Donia Gamal seemed to acknowledge Laila’s words. She calmly set down her coffee cup, pulled a pistol from her chest, and fired without hesitation. In the blink of an eye, the bullet grazed Laila’s cheek and lodged in the wall.

“Oh? You dodged?”

Shooting at someone sitting across from her and that’s what she says? Laila trembled, unable to even get angry at Donia Gamal.

“If I hadn’t dodged, it would’ve hit me square in the forehead!”

“A mere major daring to raise his voice at a general? You snap at the Supreme Commander, so you think you can take me on too?”

“…That’s not it.”

“Not it, my foot. Insubordination is a death sentence.”

Donia Gamal said this and fired again. The automatic pistol didn’t need reloading. Before Laila could dodge the incoming bullets, a warm, soft hand pulled his head close, deflecting the lightning-fast projectiles with the back of a blade.

“I told you to comfort him, not bully him. What’s this?”

“The guardian’s here.”

Donia Gamal scoffed and lowered her pistol. After attempting murder by firing two shots at a well-fed guest, she remained shameless.

“Your Excellency. When did you…”

“Just now. Want some ice cream?”

Owen Krote, possibly just off duty, was in full dress uniform. He looked cheerful. With gloved hands, he held Laila’s cheeks and, brazenly in front of Donia Gamal, kissed him. It was a light, affectionate peck on the cheek, but hardly appropriate before an aged general.

As expected, Donia Gamal’s eyebrows twitched, revealing her discomfort. Owen Krote, heedless, sat at the uninvited table and stole Laila’s ice cream.

“Tasty. Is this from that place? Milk.”

Donia Gamal, looking like she despised him, answered at the mention of the large ice cream parlor in the empire’s central district.

“Yeah.”

“They sell out fast. Quite the effort.”

“It wasn’t bought for you.”

“Hear that? Finish it.”

Owen Krote scooped some ice cream and held it to Laila’s lips. Utterly confused by the situation, Laila reluctantly ate the ice cream. Even in this chaos, the premium ice cream’s rich, exquisite sweetness overpowered his cheapened palate.

Owen, looking like he wanted to shove the ice cream aside and claim that space, licked his lips.

“Disgusting. Get His Excellency some coffee.”

“Understood.”

Philips smiled kindly, quickly preparing and setting down coffee for Owen Krote. Owen took it without thanks, slowly sipping it down.

“You must be busy—already off work?”

“They wouldn’t keep me if I’m fine. No point cracking open a dead guy’s skull—nothing to find.”

“You should suffer more, you damn lucky bastard.”

The lucky bastard was Owen Krote. Donia Gamal glared at the Supreme Commander, who looked fine despite three sleepless days.

“I’m sick of child protection. Take him.”

“I’d like you to keep him a few more days.”

Sipping his coffee, Owen made the shameless request. Both Donia and Laila stared at Owen Krote’s beautiful face, dumbfounded by his confident assumption she’d agree.

“What?”

“Sirun Alles has started looking for Laila’s genetic records. It’s inconvenient for him to return to the Third District now.”

“Didn’t I tell you to kill that bastard quick?”

“Oh, right.”

Owen Krote smiled charmingly, nodding in agreement.

“Should’ve killed him without leaving a single cell.”

Nice talk in front of a kid. Donia Gamal sneered.

Hearing the adults’ terrifying malice, Laila gave up on his ice cream and set down his dessert spoon. Want coffee? Owen casually offered his half-drunk cup. Needing something to rinse his sugar-soaked mouth, Laila took it without hesitation.

Nice going. Donia Gamal thought again. It was a miracle their secrets held despite such blatant carelessness. Laila’s competence as a soldier before deserting helped, but Owen Krote poured his all into protecting the boy he raised.

If he’d hunted Typhon with that passion, they’d have reclaimed the Shattered Lands by now. Or maybe not. Donia Gamal pushed aside her lukewarm coffee.

“More tea, ma’am?”

Philips asked warmly.

“Just bring a glass of cold water. For them too. Then you should rest.”

“Understood.”

At Donia Gamal’s command, Philips prepared three glasses of ice water with lemon slices, set them before each, and politely retired to his room to heed his mistress’s dismissal.

Donia Gamal, chugging her water, let out a suppressed sigh like an explosion. Laila’s anxious eyes trembled, wary of her.

“Your eye color—when’s it going back?”

“Huh.”

Laila, who hadn’t looked in a mirror since waking, hurriedly covered his left eye with his palm. Donia Gamal clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

“What’s the point of covering it now? And why hide it here?”

She wasn’t wrong. Laila gave an awkward smile and slowly lowered his foolishly raised hand.

“Maybe because I used my power after so long. It usually reverts in about thirty minutes.”

“Molto Rikhim’s going to whine again.”

Lieutenant General Rikhim particularly loved Laila’s blue eyes. Thinking of the devoutly religious officer, Donia Gamal shook her head.

“Thinking of him claiming I’m suppressing him with rank for seeing it makes my head hurt. Can’t that troublesome eye be fixed?”

“If it could, I wouldn’t have caused that mess seven years ago, General.”

“Then blame the Supreme Commander sitting next to you. With his glossy face and oily words, he’s so incompetent that you’re still suffering at your age.”

How many could call the Supreme Commander incompetent? Yet Owen Krote only laughed at Donia Gamal’s tirade, and Laila, agreeing with her, kept the table’s mood oddly cheerful.

“By the way, if Sirun Alles is sniffing around, it’ll come out soon. Or maybe slower than expected? Foolish bastard.”

Donia Gamal muttered, fishing out an annoying lemon slice and tossing it aside. Laila’s eyes instinctively narrowed. The voice of the white-haired old man boldly declaring before Owen Krote that he’d manipulate Laila’s brain for his use lingered in his mind.

And yet, he’s called a sage by citizens—worst image management ever.

“What tipped him off?”

“It’s been thirty years. We forged the records, but no secret’s perfect. Sirun Alles has been desperate to get my info, so he was bound to figure it out eventually.”

“Tch… Didn’t I tell you not to pick up just anything?”

Donia Gamal snapped. Laila, the result of the Supreme Commander’s reckless scavenging, rolled his eyes. Owen Krote, taking the insult, giggled and poked Laila’s cheek. The soft cheek squished under his fingers.

“Raised him well, right?”

“Don’t say that shamelessly when you barely raised him. Don’t you remember dumping him at my house or Molto’s every time you went on a trip or whatever? God, at my age, I was changing diapers for someone else’s kid, not my grandkids.”

Conversations with older people always veered off track. The military’s only Supreme Commander and only general set aside the situation’s gravity to trade petty banter. Caught in their leisurely exchange, Laila felt his head spinning.

“But he was well-behaved and cute, wasn’t he? Honestly, other kids that age are all monkeys, but Laila was soft and angelic even as a kid.”

“Your Excellency, please shut up.”

Laila jabbed Owen’s side as hard as he could, adding another humiliating moment to his life. But a finger poke, not a knife, did nothing to Owen. Laila’s finger, digging into his firm, muscular skin, hurt more.

Of course, Owen didn’t listen to Laila’s plea. He grinned cheekily, smirking in front of Donia Gamal.

“His foul mouth is your fault, isn’t it, General? I never said ‘shut up’ in front of the kid.”

“What a lunatic.”

Donia Gamal clutched her forehead. Glaring at Owen Krote like an enemy, she chugged the remaining cold water.

“Just get him back to duty already. You heard her—return. Staying in that Colony or whatever will make it hard for your precious Supreme Commander to protect you.”

“I’m not that weak, General.”

Laila replied defiantly to Gamal. It was rude and arrogant but not entirely wrong. Laila was the only human who could survive Caron’s ruined environment without Fractus. If Sirun Alles learned his secret, he’d go mad.

If Owen was humanity’s last weapon, Laila was its saving elixir. A drop of his blood, a sliver of his cells, his genes, and his living conditions would be dissected in unethical experiments. Sirun Alles might even force an artificial womb on him to bear children. That man was capable of it.

Donia Gamal was as old as Sirun Alles. She knew the secrets left in the Shattered Lands.

“That bastard shouldn’t have been spared.”

Donia Gamal muttered, propping her chin.

“Owen told me you visited the Central Research Institute. You escaped just to play thug boss and do odd jobs—why go there? You’re always making trouble for yourself.”

“You know about that place too, General?”

“Why ask? Discuss it with the Supreme Commander alone now.”

Donia Gamal, done meddling, stood up. Laila tried to follow, but she waved him off.

“I’m tired.”

Muttering audibly, Gamal headed to her room. Left sitting beside Owen, Laila habitually touched his left eye. His awakening without genetic manipulation was contentious.

The powerful are greedy. Owen called it an immutable truth. If someone could live without the wretched hormone drug masquerading as an elixir, the regime might obsess over creating something greater—like restoring an old man’s youth or crafting a second Supreme Commander.

Owen Krote didn’t want Laila to be a lab rat for the greedy. He planned to keep him close and conceal the truth forever, but his beloved boy didn’t want protection.

“No plans to hide?”

“None.”

“Even if it gets messy?”

“When hasn’t it been messy?”

Owen sighed, gazing at the wondrously glowing blue of Laila’s eye.

“Should I just sleep with Sirun Alles once? If I do, he might lose interest in you.”

“…Are you seriously talking about that with a straight face?”

Seeing Laila’s repulsed expression, Owen raised the corner of his mouth.

“Why? I’m serious. Just imagining that bastard touching your ass makes my stomach turn, so maybe it’s better if I sacrifice myself.”

“I don’t like it, so please stop.”

Laila glared at Owen Krote as if he were a filthy insect. Even Sirun Alles wouldn’t get such a look. Instead of feeling hurt, Owen shrugged.

“Hm. Shall we stop the small talk? What was it we needed to discuss…”

Owen tapped the table with his fingers. The irregular rhythm stopped.

“That man you saw… the research institute people called him a prophet. The black-haired man.”

Pointing to his softly gleaming golden hair, Owen said. Laila rolled the word around in his mouth. Prophet.

“It’s from data obtained after the Second Great Migration. Q was a malfunctioning AI, but during a massive blackout, it awoke while using emergency power. That AI passed its data to humanity’s descendants, and of all people, Sirun Alles received it.”

Laila blinked. Seeing his eyes slowly returning to their original color, Owen lowered his gaze.

“Sirun Alles claimed he received divine revelation… It was an absurd claim, but humanity was too unstable then. They fled extinction only to face it again, right? In the terror of Caron’s environment, they blindly believed Sirun Alles. It’s similar to the birth of a cult, isn’t it?”

“Is that related to erasing a hundred years of history?”

“Yes.”

Owen Krote answered casually. His golden-green eyes blurred, as if recalling the past.

“Developing Fractus wasn’t easy. It was too difficult, and Q, an outdated AI model, couldn’t fully preserve the data. It only gave hints.”

The Supreme Commander grabbed Laila. A chill lingered in Donia Gamal’s small mansion.

“The hundred years Sirun Alles hid are a record of failures.”

“…Owen.”

“Think humans can endure summers over 70°C? With such a small population, do you think we can avoid extinction and preserve genetic uniqueness? How much destruction do you think happened in the first hundred years after migration?”

Laila blinked.

“Donia Gamal may be extreme, but I agree with her claim that the entire curriculum of imperial schools and the academy needs an overhaul.”

Owen let out a near-mocking laugh.

The empire’s education is all determined through the Assembly’s selection. The military participates in discussions, but only for general school physical education or practical training at the academy. The elders attacked, saying the blood-stained, killing-obsessed military shouldn’t corrupt civilians’ thinking.

Citizens, harboring faint fear of the military’s might, agreed with the elders. With the war over and everything stabilized, the military—constantly flying fighters for mock battles, driving tanks, and crossing borders to fight Typhon—couldn’t look favorable.

Owen Krote knew this was the elders’ policy of dumbing down the populace under the guise of “peace.”

Humanity knew history, politics, management, economics, social issues, and environmental problems, but it was all tightly controlled learning. How many now know genetics or want to study it?

They don’t know humanity was once divided by race, with clear discrimination, or that a royal family fell to genetic diseases. They don’t know how to survive illness and pain. After generations of modification, humanity became strong enough to worry less about such things.

“Sirun Alles killed so many, and no one resisted?”

Laila asked calmly, without raging or uneven breathing. Visiting the Shattered Lands was almost a relief.

“That’s what a god is. No matter what you do, saying it’s divine will is enough. If someone dies, it’s divine punishment; if they survive, it’s divine grace.”

Owen looked tired. With a stiff, almost bureaucratic expression, he reported the facts.

“That drug more than doubled humanity’s lifespan. Think humanity could easily give that up? No way. The war with Typhon was just a convenient way to reveal Fractus naturally. Plus, it was good for killing those who knew the truth and covering it up. Doesn’t everyone think that? I want to monopolize this great thing. I want to be that prophet.”

What a vile old man. Owen muttered audibly. Then he suddenly grabbed Laila’s hand tightly. Laila’s shoulders jolted in surprise. Instead of apologizing, Owen kneaded Laila’s cold hand firmly.

“But Typhon was unexpectedly strong. Their reproduction was faster than insects. Sirun Alles didn’t give up, though. Even after losing his stronghold, the Central Research Institute, he frantically tried to slaughter everyone connected to it. He only came to his senses after losing 80% of the territory, but the sacrifices were already too great…”

“And you?”

“Hm.”

Owen looked up at the ceiling, as if longing to see the sky. But the sky was no longer as recorded, so looking up offered nothing he desired.

“I told you, I’m from the institute. I was one of the test-tube lifeforms created through genetic manipulation, the only one to survive the clinical trial phase of Fractus.”

So long ago. Owen frowned, his expression wistful as he sifted through memories.

“It wasn’t successful. Something went wrong, and I didn’t grow. I was stuck in a ten-year-old body for a long time… a really long time.”

Laila’s mouth fell open at the revelation. Owen smiled faintly, gesturing to estimate his height back then.

“Nobody listens to a kid this small. And since I didn’t grow, there was nothing I could do. Everyone else became adults, but I was trapped in a child’s body forever—how do you think that feels?”

“…Why have you kept Sirun Alles alive?”

Laila asked bluntly. Owen Krote pondered briefly. He didn’t know how to explain that chaos. The still-youthful man paused to gather his thoughts before answering.

“I didn’t feel a reason to kill him. Everything had already happened and ended—what’s the point of killing him now? Revenge only matters when it’s meaningful. Plus, I was already plagued by severe apathy. Oh, and there was a bit of curiosity about how much further Sirun Alles would go.”

Back then, Owen Krote held the radical view that a nation where scientists were practically extinct deserved to fall. That twisted mindset hadn’t changed. But if Laila realized the Supreme Commander thought this way, he’d surely be disappointed. Owen hadn’t raised him to be particularly moral, but the academy’s strict ethics classes left Owen feeling unfairly blamed.

He gently licked Laila’s still-frozen lips. Laila exhaled as if snapped awake by the warm, almost hot breath. Watching his chest slowly settle, Owen rubbed his warm cheek. It was soft and pliable.

“…But if everything you say is true, Sirun Alles should face the truth exposed by citizens and be executed.”

“I told you, religion doesn’t collapse that easily. Survivors don’t react sensitively to past sacrifices and deaths. Wouldn’t they say it was necessary to preserve the species? It was right after the war, and people had already chosen a hero—me.”

Owen’s words weren’t wrong. At least up to the Second District, people were deeply satisfied with their current lives. They took pride in surviving countless disasters in a world of only summer and winter.

In that context, what’s the big deal if Sirun Alles killed a few for a longer, healthier life? If even the war hero was born from that drug, people would ignore the truth even more.

“Life is absurd.”

Owen Krote grinned, summarizing his arduous past with childish brevity.

“Honestly, even after the war broke out, I saw no signs of growing and gave up. But life changes unexpectedly. That’s how the current Owen Krote was born. I’d love to tell you more, but if I blabbed here, the general eavesdropping right now would throw a slipper at my head.”

As if on cue, a slipper flew noisily from the second-floor staircase. Owen giggled, amused by Donia Gamal’s ferocious act.

“Sirun Alles still believes all his atrocities can be controlled with the elixir, Fractus. But when you awakened alone at just five… what do you think I thought?”

It was a conclusion even a naive child could reach. Laila sighed. At twenty-three, he acknowledged why Owen Krote threw himself into danger to shield Laila from Sirun Alles’s eyes and ears.

Back then, he was furious at Owen’s extreme sacrifice, which left him comatose, but a vile old man like Sirun Alles would’ve suspected Laila without such measures.

“Now, having heard this much, do you understand why I’m telling you to return?”

He understood. But Laila had his own reasons.

“I have mouths to feed…”

At the less-than-positive opener, the glass in Owen’s hand shattered. Water and glass shards streamed over his leather glove.

“Uh, um. Your Excellency, want to sleep over?”

Laila smiled as politely as possible. He knew this was Donia Gamal’s house, but he also knew what to do to appease a Supreme Commander crushing a glass barehanded in a menacing threat.

“I noticed earlier—the bed’s pretty big. If Your Excellency is okay with it, of course.”

Owen Krote scoffed at the blatant seduction. He’d known since Laila boldly stripped at twenty that he wasn’t the coy type, but as years passed, Laila had grown oddly skilled at provoking people.

Instead of rejecting Laila’s offer, Owen countered.

“Donia Gamal will be pissed.”

“Buy her a cleaning robot as a gift. Honestly, at the general’s age, not having a domestic robot at home is proof of Your Excellency’s shamelessness.”

Shamelessness. Owen muttered, as if hearing the word for the first time. But on reflection, it wasn’t entirely wrong. He was indeed shameless.

Done sorting his thoughts, Owen stood abruptly, scooping Laila up in his arms. Donia Gamal might later rage and shoot at his head, but that was fine. He could take a bullet or two if needed. If he got hurt, Laila wouldn’t leave him.

With mischievous thoughts, Owen Krote entered the guest room.

Since Philips, who would’ve tidied the bed, had finished his duties and gone to rest, the bedding was still slightly disheveled. Seeing traces of Laila lying and rising, Owen let out a pleased hum.

He gently placed Laila in the bed’s center, as if arranging him, and began undoing his complex uniform. Laila pretended to check overdue messages to avoid watching him undress.

The communicator mixed messages from the Colony with urgent empire-wide alerts. Laila read a report on the Supreme Commander’s well-being, then closed the window. Owen was hanging his intricate dress jacket on a chair.

He’d removed everything but his shirt—tie, pins, cufflinks, gloves… The items required for the Supreme Commander’s dignity were excessive. He bundled them with his gloves. He wanted to toss them carelessly, but each was military budget.

I really want to quit. Dreaming of a jobless life, Owen Krote flopped onto the bed and carefully unlaced his boots.

“Your Excellency.”

Instead of staying put after being dropped on the bed, Laila couldn’t resist and crawled over on his knees, sidling up.

Feeling soft hair and breath near his shoulder, Owen sensed his long-buried lust—dead a century ago under the River Lethe—stirring. He stopped unlacing his boots and pushed Laila aside.

“Stay still.”

“Why should I?”

God, I raised this kid wrong. Chewing on his lack of parenting talent and moral deficiency, Owen Krote leapt up from the bed.

“Owen?”

“Wait.”

He’d forgotten that a stranger’s house wouldn’t have the right supplies. Heading out, Owen paused, turned back, and draped the blanket over Laila’s head. Laila’s face, under the clean white blanket, was pale, flushed, and beautiful.

“Keep it on.”

“It’s stuffy.”

“No arguing.”

Owen was a soldier, after all. Silencing Laila’s protests, he left the room in loosened boots, looking disheveled, and knocked on Donia Gamal’s familiar bedroom door.

The wooden door swung open silently. Donia Gamal glared at Owen, her deep purple eyes blazing.

“What?”

“You know why. Lend me some.”

Seeing Owen shamelessly extend his hand, Donia Gamal’s gray eyebrows twitched like dancing waves.

“You bastard…”

“By rank, I’m your superior—your words are harsh.”

“You’re planning to screw around immorally in my house?”

“It’s legal, age-appropriate, genetically superior, and we gave each other our firsts purely—what’s the problem?”

“Your brain’s worse than a beast’s.”

Shuddering, Donia Gamal yanked open a drawer and hurled a small container at Owen’s smug face. Glaring as the beastly man smiled, satisfied with his prize, she belatedly mulled over his words.

“…Over a hundred years old and still a virgin?”

Ignoring her puzzled question, Owen, with his prize in hand, returned to the room where Laila waited.

Considering humanity’s lost history, he’d lived over twice the years registered in his imperial citizenship, but he was indeed a virgin. Half his life in a child’s body left no room for such things, and the rest was spent as a noble war hero.

Unless it was Laila, he wouldn’t bother with the messy act of licking someone’s excited fluids for connection. Donia Gamal’s confusion was natural, but Owen lacked much libido. He’d been too jaded for too long to revere such things.

But that was the past. Owen read the label on the container Donia Gamal gave him. Unused gel, with a barely valid expiration date. He was grateful it existed—he didn’t want to push the kid too hard.

Opening the door again, Owen wedged a shoehorn into the handle to prevent anyone from bursting into the blind-spot-free room.

Then he gently lifted the corner of the blanket covering the docile white lump on the bed. The kid was perfectly obedient. Told to stay put, he sat sweating under the blanket, and Owen couldn’t resist.

“Owen? Where’d you go…”

Patience was long gone. Recalling Laila at twenty, Owen Krote licked the lips of the puzzled boy as if devouring them. They were warm and soft. Prying them apart, something hotter and wetter welcomed him. Pushing the stifling blanket aside, Owen Krote shed his shirt.

Laila was still in his dinner clothes. The guest outfit didn’t fit perfectly. Owen slipped his hand into the slightly loose pants.

Laila gasped, his face flushed, as Owen’s hand unabashedly kneaded his groin. After a few rubs and tongue mingling, Laila soon shuddered, climaxing like a greenhorn.

“Quick.”

Owen pulled his hand from the pants, glancing at his palm. They hadn’t been intimate since Laila’s desertion, but the semen was thicker and stickier than expected. Checking it by rubbing it on his palm, Owen drew a lip-twitch from Laila, who finally snapped.

“I really hate when you do this, Your Excellency…”

“That hurts.”

Owen feigned a pout, then burst into a hollow laugh. The laughter swirled over the quiet bed before sinking slowly into the damp air.

“Haven’t jerked off lately? It’s thick.”

“Please, there are kids at the Colony.”

“Well… You’re not the type to sit primly just to avoid a kid’s notice.”

Anyone who thought that didn’t know Laila. Judging by how he boldly stripped the moment he came of age, Laila had more sexual curiosity than Owen, despite his demure act.

Before Laila could protest, Owen yanked off his underwear and pants, tossing them under the bed. The semen-stained organ was as pretty as his face. Does a pretty face mean a pretty dick? Owen mulled the thought he’d had for exactly ten years, slowly rubbing the sticky semen over the organ as if spreading it, whispering.

“Where’d you do it? An alley? Behind the border? Somewhere secluded, right?”

Laila’s knees twitched with each of Owen’s whispers.

“Just touched the front? Did you think of Your Excellency while jerking off?”

“Touched here too?”

“Hng…!”

A wet finger probed the tight rear hole behind the half-erect organ. Laila’s flushed cheeks shook side to side, denying it.

“Didn’t?”

Nod nod. This time, his head moved up and down obediently. Hmm, Owen smirked at the disheveled beauty undone by a mere finger.

“No way…”

“I didn’t, I said, ah!”

“If you didn’t, why’s it so soft inside?”

Owen Krote is a pervert. Laila glared at Owen, who shamelessly slandered him without shame. He could feel Laila’s gritted teeth and indignation. Owen had said countless times that such antics in bed wouldn’t yield good results, but still. Owen pitied Laila, who seemed to recognize his own beauty yet not fully grasp it.

“Thought of Your Excellency while fingering yourself?”

“Please, at least change how you talk.”

Laila pleaded to ditch the third person, but Owen refused. He prodded Laila’s narrow insides with his index and middle fingers. Barely touched, the inner walls softened, gripping his fingers warmly. No wonder he was suspicious.

“Really never did it alone?”

“I said I didn’t!”

“No way. Here, put it in yourself and feel.”

“What…!”

Before Laila could recoil, Owen forcibly pulled his hand. Unable to match Owen Krote’s raw strength, Laila couldn’t resist and had to slide his own finger inside himself. Owen even pinned his limbs with knees and forearms to keep him from squirming.

Unable to fathom why sex required such torment or why self-defense moves were needed, Laila trembled. Inserting his own finger back there was something he didn’t want to show, even to the man who’d changed his diapers. But Owen, smirking, forced it. Adding his own finger to Laila’s stiff, barely moving one, he pried the tight space open, gripping Laila’s hand tightly.

“Come on, be honest. Four fingers slide in so easily, and you say you never did it alone?”

The sweet baritone demanded the truth menacingly. Laila’s lower lip quivered. Unable to resist, Owen bit his lips, sucking loudly. The mingling saliva was too sweet. He rubbed the clinging inner walls, pressing the entangled fingers, and kissed repeatedly. His mouth watered. It tasted sweet.

It was a dizzyingly sweet flavor.

“Hm? Answer quick. Where’d you learn to lie, my boy…”

The sweeter Owen’s voice, the more Laila felt suffocated. Amid the haze, his lower half was relentlessly probed, half by his own fingers—unbelievable. Flushing furiously, Laila shuddered and shouted.

“I did it! I did, so stop being an ass!”

“Tch.”