The Military Princess Won’t Fall in Love with a Magic Scientist

Chapter 220. Logaris’s Secret

Earlier, ‍​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‍elsewhere—

Inside the dilapidated wooden hut, rainwater dripped through the rotten rafters onto the mud floor with dull, heavy thuds.

Each drop sounded like a funeral bell striking directly against the nerves, perfectly recreating that thoroughly unpleasant stretch of childhood.

Logaris sat side by side with the red-eyed “version” of himself on two benches covered in wood mold. Around them, the walls resembled translucent screens, with countless scenes flickering and overlapping across their surfaces.

“This illusion is modeled rather well.” Logaris swept his gaze across the surroundings, his tone as calm as ever. “Even that nauseating smell of rotting timber has been reproduced so precisely. It is practically a pixel-perfect replica.”

“Do not be so demanding. After all, this is your memory.”

The red-eyed Logaris bared his teeth in a grin, his scarlet eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Or rather... the garbage heap you have been desperately trying to forget.”

As his words fell, the mottled walls around them abruptly turned transparent, like a series of massive holographic screens. Countless scenes flashed across them in rapid succession before finally settling on one bleak image.

In that scene, a four-year-old boy was crouched in a drafty corner. He wore ill-fitting clothes made of torn coarse cloth, and in his hands he clutched a little blue bird with a broken wing.

The bird trembled and tried to struggle, but those tiny childish hands pinned it down with desperate force.

“You should not bind it. Flying is a bird’s nature. It is a right granted to it by nature itself.”

A voice sounded out of nowhere.

And yet, within the illusion, there was no second person present.

Following the boy’s gaze, a vague spirit-form without any facial features emerged from the void. It radiated a soft milky-white glow, and its voice carried an age and learning that did not belong to this world.

“I do not want it to fly away.”

In the scene, four-year-old Logaris lowered his head. His voice was childish, yet it already carried a stubborn possessiveness.

“It is raining outside. If it flies out there, it will die. I only want it to stay by my side. This is the safest place.”

At that sight, the red-eyed Logaris revealed an expression that bordered on admiration. Leaning forward slightly, he pointed a finger through the air at the child holding that little bird’s life and death in his hands, his voice gentle in the way one might tempt a lost lamb astray.

“To hide behind the cheap mortal excuse of ‘protection’ is a little too hypocritical.”

A strange light flickered in the scarlet depths of his eyes.

“Admit it. What you felt in that moment was something a hundred times sweeter than candy itself—the pleasure of domination.”

“You were born to revel in that feeling.”

“Its life or death, its hunger or fullness, even whether it would live to see the sun tomorrow—all of it rested on a single thought from you.”

“In that cage, you were its heaven. You were the god who ruled over everything.”

The red-eyed Logaris’s voice carried a bewitching power, coaxing him on step by step.

“You did not want it to fly because gods do not permit their believers to slip from their grasp and fly toward an unknown freedom. That absolute power of control is the true sustenance your soul craves, is it not?”

Logaris ignored the temptation entirely. He only stared at the vague spirit-form within the scene, and the depths of his eyes rippled faintly.

That was the greatest secret in his heart, and the anchor that had kept him from sinking completely into madness in that twisted environment.

When he was three years old, a soul from another world, because of some unknown accident, had taken up residence deep within his consciousness.

That soul claimed to come from a place where technology was highly advanced.

During those endless nights of hunger, cold, and his mother’s curses, that soul had served as both father and teacher to him.

It taught him how to observe the world from a microscopic perspective. It taught him what natural philosophy was. It taught him the truths called “physics” and “chemistry.”

Even words as treasonous as “Are kings and nobles born any different from other men?” had once echoed through this drafty wooden hut.

“He was a good teacher,” Logaris said softly, his voice carrying a trace of remembrance so faint it was almost undetectable.

“A pity that he was also an utterly softhearted fool who perished because of his own conscience.”

The red-eyed Logaris leaned back against the chair, arms folded across his chest, and let out a sigh of frustration, as if lamenting wasted potential.

“At the time, his soul was far stronger than yours. If he had simply devoured the consciousness of a little brat like you, he could have been reborn in this world. But he did not. He actually chose to let himself be worn away by time, all for the sake of preserving that pitiful shred of mind you had.”

“Conscience killed a genius. Useless morality will only ever become a stumbling block for the strong. He held the key to the Divine Throne in his hands, yet died upon the threshold called ‘humanity.’ What a... pathetic idealist.”

The scene shifted again, and time advanced to Logaris at the age of eight.

The winter wind battered the wooden door with loud bangs. The vague spirit-form had already faded to the point of nearly vanishing.

“I have to go, Logaris.”

Its voice broke intermittently, carrying a final warmth and hope that felt all the more precious in that frozen world.

“Remember... knowledge is not a tool for enslaving others. It is the only ladder that leads to freedom.”

“If you have the chance, go and see... a greater world. Go and see those sights... that I never had the chance to witness.”

That was the first time Logaris understood what sorrow was.

It felt as though some enormous hand had closed around his heart and squeezed until he could not breathe. It hurt more than hunger ever had.

“He did not dissipate.”

Logaris looked at the eight-year-old boy standing alone in the snow and spoke with certainty.

“He simply fused with me completely. His knowledge, his logic, and the way he deconstructed the world all became part of me.”

“That is right. You inherited his transcendently detached perspective, but you also inherited the shackles of his mortal heart.”

The red-eyed Logaris leaned closer, his voice dropping low and magnetic, every word wrapped in poison coated with sugar.

“That is why you became even more withdrawn, even more alien to others. Because once you began looking down upon all living beings with that higher-dimensional rationality, you realized just how small and tedious mortals bound by morality and emotion truly are.”

“You felt lonely, Logaris. But not because no one was there to accompany you. It was because—you were meant to stand above the clouds as a cold god, yet forced yourself into a flock of sheep reeking of animal stench.”

The red-eyed Logaris pointed to the next scene, his face wearing an almost hollow indifference.

“Look. These are the ‘kindred spirits’ you kept talking about.”

In the scene, eight-year-old Logaris was surrounded in the mud by a group of village children.

Those children wore thick cotton-padded clothes, their faces twisted with the pure, instinctive cruelty particular to children of that age. They held clumps of mud in their hands and shouted the same vicious words they had heard the adults gossiping with.

“Bastard!”

“Fatherless mongrel!”

“Freak! I bet that eye of yours was cursed by the devil!”

SMACK!

A clod of cold, wet mud smashed hard against Logaris’s face, hitting the left eye he kept hidden beneath an eyepatch to conceal his heterochromia.

Mud and filthy water ran down his cheek, leaving him in a miserable state.

But the boy in the scene did not cry. His expression did not even change. Calmly, he picked up a stone with a sharp edge from the ground, and when the leading child charged at him, he hurled it with perfect accuracy straight into the boy’s forehead.

Blood splashed across the snow, vivid and shocking in its redness.

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