Having learned the truth behind Helene’s circumstances, Ilya deliberately took the long way home, allowing the cold streets of the capital to drown out the turmoil within his thoughts.
The details surrounding Helene’s distortion in the original novel had always been vague.
Now, however, the missing pieces had finally fallen into place, and with them came the realization that understanding the truth did not necessarily grant him the power to change it.
And more importantly, the person at the center of it all had no desire to be saved. Helene had already made her choice, and no amount of persuasion could reach someone who had long since convinced herself there was no road left but the one she was already walking.
If she insisted on pushing him away, then perhaps that was where things should end.
After all, there was a certain arrogance in believing that another person’s life ought to unfold according to one’s own convictions.
Not every tragedy demanded a hero, nor did every outstretched hand deserve to be accepted simply because it was offered.
Sometimes, the only thing left to do was to acknowledge another’s decision, however foolish or painful it might seem, and continue walking forward without them.
Because that was always how the world worked.
People often imagined that knowing the right answer was enough to change the outcome, yet reality had never been so accommodating.
Understanding the cause of someone’s suffering did not entitle one to rewrite their choices, nor did sympathy grant the strength to bear another person’s burdens in their place.
If Helene had chosen resignation over hope, then that decision belonged to her alone.
Whether it eventually led her toward salvation or ruin ceased to be his responsibility the moment she refused the hand he had extended.
The world was filled with people who could not be saved because they had already decided there was nothing left worth reaching back for.
Soon enough, Ilya returned to the Belozersky residence. Anastasiya was already waiting for him in the living room, reading a book as though she had expected him to return at this hour.
"...."
Something felt off.
He glanced around the room before realizing who was missing. Normally, Mariya would have been sitting nearby with a cup of tea, yet today there was no sign of her anywhere.
"...Where is Mother?"
"She returned to the North."
"Huh?"
Ilya had always known Mariya would eventually return to the Northern Grand Duchy, but not this soon.
More importantly, it was she herself who had insisted on remaining in the capital until the hostility between her and Father had subsided.
"Why would she willingly—"
"It was because of you."
"...."
Anastasiya closed the book in her hands before setting it aside.
"Mother didn’t want me to tell you," Anastasiya began. "She said you’d blame yourself if you found out. But Father never accepted your proposal because you convinced him... he accepted it because Mother paid the price afterward."
"...."
"At first, I couldn’t understand it either," she continued. "I kept wondering how someone like you had managed to change Father’s mind. Then Mother told me what happened."
"...."
"In the end... it was Mother again."
Silence fell.
Anastasiya suddenly rose from her seat and crossed the distance between before grabbing Ilya by the collar, her fingers clenching so tightly that the fabric wrinkled.
"Because of you," she said through gritted teeth, "Mother willingly walked into hell again. Why couldn’t you just stay where you were? Why couldn’t you just..."
She bit down on her lip until it almost bled, her grip tightening as her head slowly lowered.
"Hehe."
Anastasiya’s eyes slowly widened as she raised her head once more, her grip loosening as she stared at the person standing before her.
"Hah... haha..."
Ilya was... laughing.
To anyone else, it might have sounded insignificant. But to Anastasiya, who had spent her entire life watching him have the same indifferent expression no matter what happened, it was nothing short of horrifying.
"You..."
"Hahah... hahaha..."
Yet for Ilya, each laugh only dragged him deeper into the abyss.
That was right.
He was no Siegfried. He was no protagonist destined to arrive at the perfect moment and save everyone around him.
He was merely an unfortunate bastard who had transmigrated into this world as Ilya, a villain wearing the face of someone already fated to die.
The death of the original protagonist had never meant that the role of hero would simply fall into his hands.
How laughable. To actually believe he could change Helene’s fate, when he could not even protect the one person who mattered most to him.
What right did someone like him have to think he could save anyone?
Slowly, Ilya reached up and wrapped his hand around Anastasiya’s wrist, pulling the hand clutching his collar away from his chest before guiding it toward his own neck.
"...Then kill me."
"W-What are you...?"
"Isn’t that better for everyone? No one will be left to threaten your position, and Mother won’t have to burden herself for my sake again. Wouldn’t that be... our family’s happy ending?"
"L-Let go of me..."
"Isn’t this what everyone wants? Father gets rid of an embarrassment, you keep your inheritance, Mother finally—"
"I said let go of me, you fucking psycho!"
Slap——!
Anastasiya’s hand struck his face hard enough to force his head to the side as she yanked her other hand free from his grasp.
She stumbled back several steps, putting distance between them. Without another word, Anastasiya hurried toward the staircase, almost breaking into a run before disappearing down the hallway.
A moment later, the sound of a door slamming echoed throughout the mansion, leaving Ilya standing alone in the living room.
The servants who had witnessed everything remained where they were, none of them knowing whether they should approach him or pretend they had seen nothing.
After several seconds, one of the younger servants finally gathered the courage to speak.
"U-Um... Young Lord..."
"It’s fine."
Ilya walked over to the sofa, sat down, and leaned back against it as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
"Could someone bring me the cigarette packs from my room?"
"Y-Yes, at once!"
The young servant hurried off immediately, while the others remained. None of them knew what to say after what had just happened, so they just returned to their duties instead, leaving only a handful behind in case the young lord needed anything.
Not long afterward, the servant returned carrying several unopened cigarette packs with both hands.
"Young Lord... your cigarettes."
"Thank you."
Ilya accepted one of the packs, slid a cigarette free, and lit it.
"Hoo..."
Taking a long drag, he exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it slowly dissipate before him without saying a word.