I Have Become The Snow Maiden I Created

Translator: Marctempest

Editor/Proofreader: TempWane

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Chapter 23: The Spiral of Fate (7)

A pain I experienced for the first time in my life.

When I was paying the price for my mistakes, a woman appeared.

She was horrifyingly beautiful.

For a moment, I mistook her for something other than human. But her beauty wasn’t the only thing.

Her words carried a sharpness that pierced through me.

-“A flower raised in a greenhouse dies when it steps outside.”

At her words, Artan drew in a sharp breath.

It was a precise and simple truth that struck at the heart.

Her expression was colder than before, as if she were reproaching me.

Artan thought it was deserved.

Even he found himself pathetic.

Running off alone out of arrogance and impulse, yet achieving nothing and holding back tears.

Only at that state did he momentarily observe his own actions with detachment. The mistakes he left behind were too many.

He realized it only now and regretted it.

Yet, he forgot all of it the moment he met someone.

With salvation so close, his repentance wavered, and his arrogance reared its head again.

Surely, the white and blue woman had seen through his foolishness immediately.

-“There are two paths for someone born in a greenhouse.”

A voice as clear as an instrument reached his ears.

Artan flinched and shuddered.

Someone born in a greenhouse—it was clearly a phrase referring to him.

For him, the greenhouse was the imperial palace, the empire itself.

The largest greenhouse of all.

The first path is to live a life unlike the weeds.

To be noble, untrodden upon.

Until yesterday, he would have naturally believed it was his life. But with his flaws exposed, he couldn’t nod in confidence.

-“The second path is to be unable to do anything without the greenhouse.”

The second path followed shortly after.

The terror of that sentence left Artan frozen. He believed it wasn’t his path.

No, he wanted to believe it wasn’t. But faced with the woman’s gaze that seemed to ask, “Isn’t that your path?” he couldn’t respond.

-“Which one are you?”

In the end, the woman asked, dissatisfied with his silence.

He had to answer. Yet, he didn’t want to disappoint her for some reason.

If he said it was the second path, she would be disappointed. His self-esteem would plummet.

Even if he said it was the first path, she might still be disappointed.

If he spoke without conviction, this mysterious woman would see through him instantly.

Heat rose to Artan’s head.

What answer would satisfy her?

Fortunately or unfortunately, he didn’t need to answer.

A sudden sound of footsteps diverted her attention.

Artan also turned toward the sound and widened his eyes.

“Quellière.”

He learned the woman’s name, but the situation was not ideal.

A group dressed in covert black garments had appeared.

Artan, with his exceptional talent and acute senses, picked up on the aura they exuded.

Quellière’s presence was peculiarly unreadable, but they were different.

A sharpness lay beneath their extremely restrained energy.

Knights never gave off such an atmosphere.

Artan instinctively judged that they were assassins or individuals from a similar dark domain.

Tension rose naturally.

“The Patriarch wishes to meet you.”

The woman, Quellière, seemed to be acquainted with them.

But they didn’t seem to be on good terms.

The assassins stood rigidly with hardened faces, and her expression seemed even colder.

Though the situation was tense, no immediate battle ensued.

If he had to guess why, it was likely because of Quellière herself.

Even surrounded by assassins in foreign territory, she remained calm.

Rather, it was the assassins who seemed nervous.

Especially the woman with purple hair, who appeared to be their leader, whose demeanor wavered.

Her stiff face and tense posture betrayed intense wariness.

It was remarkable.

The aura of the purple-haired leader was undeniably formidable.

Artan, as he was now, was no match for her.

Yet, such a person showed an attitude that went beyond wariness, bordering on fear.

The boy glanced up at Quellière with renewed curiosity.

Who exactly was she? Was she that strong?

Thinking about it, it was strange.

Who was this woman who appeared before him in his time of crisis, offering a cold yet insightful reprimand?

She acted as if she knew him well.

He wanted to ask, needed to ask.

“…For what purpose?”

But the dark-clad group hindered him.

They were clearly shady figures shunned by society.

Parasites of the continent, they were tumors and pus.

Those vile things dared to rob him of his time.

The crown prince furrowed his brows.

He wanted to converse with the woman quickly, but their petty talk kept distracting her.

The Patriarch, their purpose—Artan knew none of it, nor did he care.

So he grabbed Quellière’s sleeve and asked.

“Who are those people?”

For a moment, he felt as if her body stiffened.

Of course, it must have been his imagination.

She remained silent, standing as still as ice, befitting her appearance.

Ignoring the crown prince was a punishable offense under normal circumstances.

Yet, for some reason, Artan wasn’t upset.

Her aloofness seemed emblematic of her.

Fine, I’ll let it slide.

With that playful thought, Artan waited.

Truly, he was immature.

As a childhood friend once pointed out, he lacked understanding of his position and responsibilities.

The duties and dangers lurking within them.

“Let the boy go.”

Thus, when Quellière spoke, he merely tilted his head.

He didn’t see himself as being involved.

He had no idea what role he played in this.

That was why her next words took his breath away.

“Then I’ll go with you.”

They were words that struck at his core.

*

Having acted independently all along, I hadn’t anticipated this.

It dawned on me only after seeing Artan.

If I were to flee alone here, what would happen to him?

“…”

Two possibilities crossed my mind.

Whichever way it went, Sigila would inevitably try to take me with her.

Fortunately, she probably didn’t know that Artan was the Crown Prince.

A random, insignificant kid could easily be let go without issue.

But if I tried to escape…

Wouldn’t Artan become an enticing target for either venting their anger or luring me out?

Even though he was still immature, it was clear he wasn’t just any ordinary child. His innate status seeped through his mannerisms and demeanor.

Uncovering his identity was only a matter of time.

And once the truth was revealed, his safety couldn’t be guaranteed. Too many forces aimed for royalty—especially the Crown Prince.

“…Hmm.”

When I glanced over, Artan was glaring at them with an indignant expression.

It seemed he still hadn’t grasped the gravity of the situation. To think this boy would one day become a great king—fate was truly unpredictable.

I looked back at Sigila and her group.

Their hardened faces appeared utterly ruthless.

There seemed to be no way to appeal for mercy.

Perhaps because of the overwhelming hopelessness, my head began to throb.

Of course, my life was the most precious thing to me.

But Artan held an enormous significance as a protagonist in this world. While I hadn’t confirmed his role in The Four Seasons War II, it was undeniable.

If something happened to him, history would veer off course completely.

Moreover… Artan had survived unscathed in the original story, despite facing hardships.

If he had encountered this many enemies, that would have been impossible.

This crisis was purely my own creation.

Even though it wasn’t my fault, Artan was more unfairly caught in this than I was. Neither he could die nor could I meet my end.

Fighting was out of the question.

Escaping was also… impossible.

After all, the transformation spell was designed for a single person.

If I carried someone else, the mana consumption would escalate beyond control.

Just helping Artan up a small slope earlier had already drained a considerable amount of energy.

Running away while being chased was out of the question.

Even the items in my tote bag were useless.

Since the high-grade items weren’t activated, there was nothing strong enough to overcome this predicament.

Then, I had to negotiate.

“Let the boy go.”

For now, I would pretend to comply and look for an opportunity to escape!

To do that, I needed to get far away from Artan first.

“Then I’ll go with you.”

I made my intentions clear.

Sigila seemed to ponder for a moment, her eyes darting back and forth, before eventually nodding.

The deal was sealed.

I took a deep breath. It was a daunting ordeal, but it was one I had to face.

As I moved toward her, someone grabbed my collar from behind.

“W-wait! You can fight them and win! Why would you make that choice for me…?”

Artan’s voice was laced with confusion and desperation.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

What nonsense was this kid spouting? Even delusions of grandeur should have their limits.

I was doing this because I couldn’t win.

He should’ve been able to figure that out with a bit of thought.

Was this really the same Artan Fricas who was hailed as a divine genius?

“Figure that out on your own.”

I coldly brushed his hand aside and walked on.

*

As Quellière walked away, Artan stared blankly at her retreating figure.

Eventually, she disappeared along with the merciless group.

“…”

Artan stood still for a long time.

He didn’t move, as though he were nailed to the ground.

The wind tousled his hair and stole the warmth from his body.

Already injured, the loss of body heat brought on a sharp chill.

But it didn’t compare to the coldness in his heart.

Like a man turned to stone, Artan eventually let out a pained cry.

“Ahhhh!”

His dignity as a royal had already been shredded during this ordeal.

Now, kneeling and clutching his head, he shattered even the last remnants of his pride.

He couldn’t endure otherwise.

He had believed he’d found enlightenment and could change for the better.

Yet, the very woman who had opened his eyes had sacrificed herself for him. And it was all because of him.

“Because I was too weak…”

Quellière was undoubtedly someone of extraordinary skill, far beyond what he could currently fathom.

The fear on the assassins’ faces made that abundantly clear.

She could have fought and won, but she complied with their demands.

By making a deal to let him go.

Only then did he realize his position.

He had unwittingly become a hindrance.

A burden that weighed Quellière down and tripped her up.

The fact that his very existence had been a hindrance to her was unbearably detestable.

Despite being this incompetent, he’d had the audacity to call himself strong.

The memory of his foolish arrogance constricted his chest.

What kind of strength was that?

“I’m…so weak.”

The words were painfully pathetic.

Quellière’s voice suddenly came alive in his mind.

A flower in a greenhouse.

That’s what she had called him, and she was right.

The sight of him floundering without the greenhouse’s protection was a perfect second path.

Perhaps she had seen through everything from the start.

He shouldn’t have been so stubborn.

He should have recognized his weakness and repented sooner.

Born and raised in a greenhouse, he was no better than a common weed.

He should have acted accordingly.

If only he had abandoned the expedition or at least brought along the Imperial Guard, none of this would have happened.

But he had hated relying on adults, so he would never have done that.

“Haha…”

A bitter laugh escaped him.

His swirling emotions spiraled further downward.

With his ego shattered and judgment clouded, his mind veered in a dangerous direction.

What would happen to Quellière?

She was strong and might not die, but she wouldn’t come out unscathed.

Because of him, she would be hurt.

The spot on his ribs where he’d collided earlier throbbed painfully.

The reality he faced with his own eyes was merciless.

Nothing changed, no matter what enlightenment he thought he’d found.

The only truth was that he was weak.

At this rate, ignorance might have been preferable…

Just as his forehead, pressed against the ground, began to ache and his vision blurred, a deep voice rang out.

“You truly haven’t realized anything, have you?”

Startled, Artan looked back.

A familiar face greeted him.

It was none other than Harold Grypheon, his childhood friend, Bulizé’s older brother, a swordmaster unattached to any knightly order or guard.

The Empire’s renowned hero, the Swordmaster Harold Grypheon.