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

Chapter 221. Leaving Home

Then ‍​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‍came the second, and the third.

Eight-year-old Logaris was like a calm young wolf, calculating the angle and force of every swing of his arm until the group of children who were taller and sturdier than him fled wailing, leaving a mess all over the ground.

“How unsightly,” the red-eyed Logaris remarked flatly. There was not the slightest emotional fluctuation in his tone, as though he were criticizing a badly painted scribble. “It is full of that cheap mortal emotion called ‘anger.’”

“I just hated trouble,” Logaris replied in the same cold voice. “That soul taught me something once: throw one punch to stop a hundred more. Since I was going to strike, I might as well beat them into submission in one go—beat them so thoroughly that they would be afraid of me even in their dreams.”

“Your so-called ‘establishing authority’ is, in essence, still a search for feedback from this pack of insects. You want them to fear you so they will not dare provoke you. That means that, deep in your subconscious, you still place yourself on the same level as them, playing the same petty game.”

He pointed at the children scattering in panic across the scene, as though he were pointing at a swarm of insignificant microorganisms.

“Would a person deliberately crush a few ants by the roadside to ‘establish authority’ so the other ants would not bite him? No. A person does not care what ants think. This carefully planned ‘retaliation’ of yours is full of that laughable mortal inferiority—the need to prove yourself in a heap of trash.”

“A truly strong person, when faced with this kind of provocation, should simply erase them. The way one casually wipes a speck of dust from a table, or crushes an annoying bug.”

“There should not be the slightest ripple in the heart. No anger, and certainly no thrill of revenge. There should only be pure, natural... cleaning.”

The scene shifted again, and the atmosphere instantly became oppressive and suffocating.

Inside the stifling wooden shack, his mother, Elvira, was wearing a tattered silk dress as she applied expired, low-quality lipstick in front of a mirror. Hearing the door open, she did not even turn around before snapping, “How did you get yourself hurt again? Did you wash that piece of clothing clean? You little debt collector, are you trying to watch me die in this rotten place?”

Her voice was shrill and vicious, followed immediately by a fit of wrenching coughs.

She covered her mouth, and bright red blood seeped through her fingers, staining the lace handkerchief she treasured like a jewel.

Logaris stood in the doorway with a birdcage in his hand. He stared at his mother’s face, twisted by vanity and illness, and his fingers unconsciously tightened. Veins stood out one by one on the back of his hand, and his breathing grew quick and heavy.

“Grating, is it not?” The red-eyed Logaris walked behind Elvira as though he were admiring a cheaply made piece of porcelain. “It disgusts you. It makes you want to vomit. It makes you want to rush over, seize her by the throat, and make her shut up forever.”

“But have you ever thought about why it hurts you?”

The red-eyed Logaris turned around. Those scarlet eyes, cruel with the insight of seeing through everything, fixed themselves mercilessly on Logaris.

“Is it because what she says is cruel? No.”

“It is because, in the deepest part of your subconscious, you are still hoping that this madwoman will suddenly turn around, give you a hug, and praise you for being a good child.”

The red-eyed Logaris let out a sneer, his tone dripping with contempt. “Admit it, Logaris. Your so-called hatred is nothing more than love denied, left to ferment. So long as you still regard her as your mother, so long as you still regard her as a person, she will always possess the authority to hurt you.”

He pointed at Elvira, who was still rambling curses without end, and his voice turned cold and remote.

“If what stood before you were merely a stone that made noise, or an ant baring its tiny fangs and claws at you, would you feel anger or heartache because of its racket?”

“A person does not lose his composure because a mad dog is barking. You are angry because you are still lowering your own worth, still trying to find some resonance of humanity in a lunatic.”

The red-eyed Logaris leaned close to Logaris’s ear, his whisper like a spell. “Cut away those unnecessary emotions, and then no words in this world will ever wound you again. That is... true freedom.”

The scene moved forward.

Time arrived at that rainy night that was destined to be remembered.

That year, the rainy season in the Northern Territory came especially long. The damp, freezing air was like countless icy needles, slipping through the pores and piercing into the cracks of one’s bones.

Elvira’s illness, like that crumbling home itself, finally collapsed completely amid the storm. It was a bottomless pit that devoured the family’s last Copper Sparrow Coin, and it also devoured the last thread binding Logaris to the role of a “son.”

That day, he had gone into town to buy medicine, but because he could not scrape together enough Silver Stag Coins, the fat, big-eared shop clerk at the apothecary had driven him out as if swatting away a fly.

“No money? Then what are you treating an illness for? You’d be better off going to the church and asking a cleric to say a prayer over her deathbed!”

By the time he returned to that drafty wooden shack, soaked in mud and rain, everything was already over.

The wind howled, and rain leaked through the broken roof. Elvira had died on that cold hardwood bed, and on her face there still lingered the last trace of her delusion of a noble life.

That smear of cheap lipstick had bled across her pale face like a ridiculous scar.

She was gone.

Gone with her vanity, her resentment, and the dream she had never once managed to realize.

Logaris stood by the bedside.

He looked at the corpse and waited for grief to descend.

But it never came.

There was nothing.

No tears, no heart-rending pain, not even the slightest trace of regret.

There was only a kind of hollow emptiness... the emptiness of being finally relieved.

Whether it was love or hatred, it all ended there.

“Look. This is the end of mortals.” The red-eyed Logaris stood behind him, and his voice carried an almost sacred indifference.

“No matter how much love and hatred entangle them while they live, after death they are nothing but a pile of decaying carbon compounds. In a few more days, she will become a heap of white bones, no different from the worms in the soil.”

“You did not cry then, not because you were cold-blooded.”

“It was because, in your subconscious, you understood that this biological shackle called ‘bloodline’ had finally snapped on its own.”

“Congratulations, Logaris. Your sentence has been served.”

In the scene, the young Logaris slowly turned around and walked to the window.

There hung a rusted birdcage.

That was the bird he had caught when he was four years old, and it had also been the only piece of “private property” he had possessed in his childhood.

He rummaged through that pile of broken tools and found a steel file.

Creeeak—craaak—

The teeth-aching scrape of metal against metal echoed through the deathly silent shack, accompanied now and then by flying sparks.

Again, and again.

The words that mysterious soul had spoken before disappearing now resounded through his mind over and over like a clap of thunder.

—“Go and see... a bigger world.”

Yes. It was time to leave.

This home had been his mother’s cage, and it had also been his cage. Now that the one guarding the cage was dead, it was time for him to fly as well.

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