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

Chapter 224. Ideals

“How ‍​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‍quickly time passes.” Sylvia swirled the wineglass in her hand, watching the crimson liquid cling to the sides. “Tomorrow I return to the Royal Capital. I am almost impatient to see what expressions those old fossils in the council will wear when they see me.”

“They will probably look as though they have seen a plague, or feel even worse than if they had seen a ghost.” Logaris pushed up his glasses, and a refined yet wicked curve rose at the corner of his mouth. “After all, everyone knows how insufferable you are.”

“Stop with the sarcasm.” Sylvia let out a soft laugh and turned to look at him. “What about you? Have you really decided to stay in this ivory tower and grow mold?”

“Grow mold? No. This is called settling and refining.” Logaris took a slow sip of wine. “The dean has already promised me the title of youngest professor and an independent laboratory. Compared to going outside and wasting words on fools, I would rather stay here and study the truth.”

“Besides, I am also rather curious whether I might be able to sift a few ‘normal people’ out of future freshmen—people barely capable of keeping up with my thinking.”

“Then you had better prepare some heart medicine in advance, Professor Logaris,” Sylvia said teasingly as she raised her glass. “After all, not everyone can endure your deranged teaching style.”

“The same could be said of you, Queen Sylvia of the future.”

The crisp sound of clinking glasses echoed through the silent night sky like some wordless contract.

“I only hope the next news I hear of you is not that you were impeached for infuriating a political enemy into a stroke during a council session.”

“Hmph. I shall accept that blessing. If I become queen, how about I appoint you Chief Court Mage?”

“I will pass. It sounds exhausting. Though... if you hand me the keys to the royal treasury, I might consider it.”

“Get lost!”

...

Their laughter drifted farther and farther away. The scene scattered like sand blown apart by the wind, then finally froze on the moment the two of them stood shoulder to shoulder upon the winners’ podium.

That had been the golden age when they were known as the Saint Arcadia Twin Stars.

Below the stage came cheers and applause like a tidal wave, while countless gazes of envy, jealousy, and worship converged upon them. In the scene, Sylvia tilted her head slightly, those silver-gray eyes still carrying an overbearing sharpness.

And the young Logaris pushed up the glasses on the bridge of his nose. A standard false smile hung at the corners of his lips, the kind worn by a refined scoundrel, but his gaze passed over the crowd and fell upon the distant, empty horizon.

This was the brightest, most vivid patch of color in Logaris’s memory—the part he least wished to have touched.

Crash—

A shrill sound of shattering rang out.

Inside the dilapidated, draft-ridden shack, the red-eyed duplicate of Logaris raised a hand expressionlessly. That warm scene, so bright it almost hurt, instantly exploded into countless specks of light and was swallowed by the oppressive darkness around them.

The rain was still falling.

Cold rainwater seeped through the rotting thatched roof and dripped onto the muddy ground, making a monotonous, maddening patter.

The red-eyed duplicate looked at Logaris, who sat on the bench with a slightly unfocused gaze, and a complicated expression appeared on his face.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

He applauded slowly, and the sound echoed through the hollow, deathly silent shack, sharp and unpleasant, like the curtain call of some vicious farce.

“Truly moving. I was almost touched to tears.”

The red-eyed duplicate wiped at eyes that held no tears at all in an exaggerated gesture, then his face abruptly turned cold, and a cruel curve rose at the corner of his mouth. “Two equally abandoned, lonely souls embracing one another in the cold night, licking each other’s wounds, seeking that pitiful scrap of warmth and comfort in each other. And you call that a bond? No, Logaris. To use a more precise term, that is called weakness.”

With elegant steps, he walked over to Logaris and bent sharply at the waist. That face identical to the original drew near, and those blood-red eyes stared fixedly into the other man’s.

His voice was low and magnetic, filled with a scalp-prickling power of seduction. “You have drowned yourself in the false security of being ‘needed’ and ‘trusted.’ Sylvia, who was always causing you trouble and yet trusted you without reservation, became your only anchor point in this utterly rotten world.”

“But have you soaked in that gentle dream for so long that your brain has rusted?”

The red-eyed duplicate straightened up, then suddenly thrust one long finger toward a place in the void, his voice turning shrill and biting.

“Have you already forgotten why that boy who had nothing, who crawled out from among the dead like a wild dog, fought so desperately to step through that gate in the first place?”

“Look at it, Logaris!”

At his violent shout, the void trembled fiercely. The final piece of memory that had not yet played burst open like a torn seal.

That was the beginning of everything.

Saint Arcadia Academy, the freshman entrance ceremony.

Inside the grand assembly hall, tens of thousands of magic gems were embedded in the dome, simulating a vast starry sky. Thousands of teachers and students dressed in splendid robes sat below, and the air was filled with expensive incense and the unique oppressive aura of high-tier mages.

And upon the podium, under the gaze of all, stood a frail figure.

That was twelve-year-old Logaris.

As the only specially admitted student of that year, he looked utterly out of place. Although he had changed into a brand-new gray uniform and washed the dirt from his face, his messy black hair, his cheeks hollowed by long-term malnutrition, and those eyes that showed no fear even before thousands of people all declared his origins—he had come from the wilderness, from the bottom rung of society, a lone wolf that had wandered by mistake into a flock of swans.

The deans of the various branches below watched him—some from the Knight Academy, some from the Magitech Academy, and others besides. Their eyes were full of anticipation and curiosity. They wanted to know what sort of dream this genius with all-affinity supergrade talent carried in his heart.

“Student Logaris,” said the silver-haired vice dean with a kind smile, his voice carried throughout the hall by the Amplification Spellwork. “Please tell everyone: what is your reason for stepping into the extraordinary?”

It was the kind of question with an obvious standard answer, a simple gift of points.

Everyone thought he would give one of those lofty, grand-sounding responses—“for the prosperity of the kingdom,” “for the future of humanity,” or “for the boundaries of truth.”

Yet the boy in the scene fell silent.

Standing before the enormous Amplification Spellwork, his heterochromatic eyes narrowed slightly.

In his mind, there appeared neither the kingdom nor truth.

He remembered that mother who had died on a rainy night, still dreaming of nobility even as she breathed her last. He remembered the little blue bird he had thrown with his own hands into the storm, its fate unknown. He remembered the otherworldly mentor who had once resided within him, taught him reason and logic, and ultimately dissipated into the void.

At that time, the silver-haired girl was not yet by his side.

His life had been a wilderness, containing nothing but endless cold wind and the fangs he had been forced to bear in order to survive.

The boy drew a deep breath and lifted his head.

Then he spoke. His voice was not loud, and it held none of a youth’s passionate fervor. There was only a kind of chilling resolve, almost ruthless in its coldness.

“I want absolute freedom.”

His young voice was amplified countless times over by the magic formation, echoing through the magnificent hall and making the crystal chandeliers tremble faintly.

“I want there to be no person, no rule, and no so-called god in this world capable of restraining me.”

“That is the only reason I study magic.”

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