* * *
If Ranshel just stopped Petro from crying and declaring he’d kill Zavad, then the same outcome wouldn’t repeat.
But if he did that, a new, unknown choice would open up.
Even if he had backup lives left, he couldn’t afford to act recklessly.
In this game, every mini-game was connected.
The remaining four chances would carry through to the end of the game.
[If all lives are lost, you will meet complete death. Proceed with caution.]
…This wasn’t something to take lightly.
‘Should I just kill him now?’
Ranshel stared down at Petro, who was practically asleep from the drugs.
Killing this old man now would be laughably easy.
After all, Ranshel was a specialist in murder.
That man would kill both him and Zavad if left alone.
And he had already done it—strangling two barely adolescent boys to death.
‘I have to take care of him now.’
He had more than enough justification.
Ranshel slowly reached out his hand.
But in that moment, a voice echoed in his mind.
—Father!
Ranshel shut his eyes tightly.
The voice resounding in his head… was unfamiliar.
It felt unfamiliar—just unfamiliar. And yet, he found it endearing.
[Recalling sub-character “Petro”‘s memories… 3%]
Ranshel took a slow, steady breath.
He tightened his fingers.
Only 3% of memories.
A mere glitch.
An error that should’ve been erased.
Something that had no place interfering.
“Father, I respect you.”
Just 3%.
A fragment smaller than a fingertip in the span of a lifetime.
“I want to be like you.”
Just for that—he didn’t want to understand.
“Father.”
Yet, the voice etched into his mind refused to fade.
This maddening error seemed determined to stay with Ranshel.
Because when it came to caring for one’s family, he knew far too well—so well it hurt.
Ranshel wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand, then exhaled deeply.
It wasn’t something he could easily comprehend, nor could he easily forgive.
But maybe… just once, he could give a chance.
Ranshel made his choice.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a bookmark, holding it up.
“What kind of flower is this?”
Ranshel followed through with everything exactly as it had happened before.
That meant Petro had once again decided to kill Zavad.
He’d recovered just 3% of Petro’s memories, and that had been enough to grant one chance—but it wasn’t a decision made from emotion.
It was one he made because he believed this path had meaning.
Rather than risk an unpredictable new choice, he chose to turn the outcome of an already-made decision into a success.
Ranshel didn’t plan to throw away his second life so easily.
The system didn’t grant five chances out of mercy—it meant trials would come that couldn’t be overcome otherwise.
He pursued Petro.
Just as before, Petro retrieved a sickle and a bag of iron chains from the servants’ quarters.
Everything was proceeding identically.
Ranshel even knew where he was headed.
Petro forced his legs to move, lashing at them to keep going, kicking his dragging feet forward.
If not today, he might never get another chance.
Wait too long, and someone else might kill Zavad first.
That couldn’t happen. He refused to let anyone else take Zavad’s life.
He slipped into the castle through a hidden passage in the forest.
This passage didn’t only lead to Zavad’s room—it connected to various secret chambers throughout different floors.
The old man had worked for the Pomel family since before the castle was rebuilt.
Among the remaining servants, Petro was the only one left who still knew the passage’s location.
The others had long since died or left.
And now, using that very passage, he was planning to kill Zavad.
‘…Is this really the right thing to do?’
The thought flickered through his mind—but vanished as quickly as it came.
Despite the contradictions, his mind was clouded with a drug-like certainty.
‘This is right. This is what must be done.’
He wouldn’t let the pain drag on. It had to be quick—swift and clean.
Reaching a hidden space just beneath Zavad’s room, Petro pulled a pouch of hallucinogens from his coat.
He carefully pushed up a wooden hatch disguised to match the floor.
A lightweight chair usually sat on top, hiding it from view.
As the chair shifted slightly, a gap opened.
He slipped his hand through and let the pouch fall gently inside.
Next, he pulled out a garden pebble.
Using a firestone, he heated the rock until it was hot to the touch.
His actions were precise, practiced—like someone who’d done this many times before.
He dropped the heated rock onto the pouch.
The powder would react to the heat and quickly dissolve.
Sure enough, wisps of white smoke began to rise from the gap.
He shut the hatch quickly, placing his fingers on his pulse to count the seconds until the smoke filled the room.
Accounting for his elevated heart rate, he gave it extra time.
Then, he pulled a cloth mask over his face.
A voice rose from the smoke-filled room—familiar.
Petro stepped forward.
Through the haze, he saw a figure flailing, screaming, arms swinging wildly.
Wrapping the iron chain around his hand, he crept up behind Zavad.
Step by step.
Closer. Closer.
When he was close enough that failure was no longer an option—
Thud!
Something kicked his leg.
His body tipped before his mind could even register what had happened.
He stumbled, losing balance, and was yanked backward by an unseen force.
Crash! Petro hit the floor hard on his back, stifling a cry of pain.
He tried to sit up, but couldn’t.
His familiar sickle now hovered above his face.
One wrong move and it would slice through him.
‘When did he take my sickle?’
His pack was gone—he’d had it on his back.
The chain, once wrapped around his hand, had vanished.
He reached around, trying to find it, but his fingers touched nothing.
Panicked, his eyes darted around the room for anything that could help.
“You’ll hurt yourself like that. Just stay still.”
“……”
Petro froze.
At the edge of his vision, a face appeared.
Though the mouth and nose were covered with cloth, he’d recognize those eyes anywhere.
Shimmering green eyes that always looked slightly wet.
Eyes that used to watch him with concern—now staring down, cold and sharp.
“Let’s end this now.”
Ranshel gripped the sickle tightly.
He had been hiding in the room from the start.
It hadn’t been hard to arrive before Petro—Petro had to circle around through the forest tunnel, while Ranshel entered the castle directly.
Still, it wasn’t easy.
The physician was visiting that day, so Ranshel couldn’t walk in openly.
For some reason, security had gotten stricter, and even pretending to deliver a cart to the door didn’t get him through like last time.
He was good at sneaking in—but he couldn’t turn invisible. He needed a distraction.
Fortunately, one came easily.
“Oww, oww, my stomach! It was fine just a moment ago!”
Gary, sprawled dramatically on the floor, played up the worst acting anyone had ever seen—and drew everyone’s attention.
While that mess unfolded, Ranshel ducked and hurried up the stairs.
The only thing that bothered him was Zavad.
This time, he wasn’t injured, so there was no high fever from the monster’s blood.
He’d definitely be on alert…
From his hiding spot, Ranshel watched as the physician descended the stairs.
Then he slipped quietly into the room.
* * *
