Vince and the Magic Crown
A small crown glimmered deep within the cave, alone.
It breathed in silence, as though awaiting its master.
Three years remaining
“The village is tedious. Draining, too, Kyrie.”
“You went again, Vince?”
The wooden door opened. The young human called Vince stepped inside. With the sound, his long, lustrous hair—gathered into a single tie—shifted. Kyrie lifted their eyes from the book and studied him, lids narrowing.
“I’ve told you before, Vince. I can’t speak with the villagers on any fundamental level. There’s no need to force yourself to go.”
“And I’ve told you, Kyrie—two people alone make a closed world. Speak only to each other, and thought contracts. It tilts. That’s why I go, even when it costs me.”
“You think those ‘boring’ villagers will widen your thinking?”
“At least they offer something we can’t find among ourselves.”
Vince set down his things and prepared his tea. Kyrie watched his back for a while.
“For me, one person who understands me—you—is enough.”
Vince laughed softly, at himself.
“If you can believe that, perhaps you’re already complete, in your own way.”
He took the seat across from Kyrie.
“I still want to understand them. The villagers. No—understanding isn’t required. I only want to speak. Even knowing how pointless that desire is.”
“There’s nothing strange in that,” Kyrie said. “You’re simply living as a human.”
Kyrie raised the cup and drank.
They were twin mages.
Capable, and relied upon by the villagers—yet isolated all the same, their difficult temperaments seeing to that. And so they had left the village and lived quietly in the forest. …And yet, lately, Vince had begun to return to the village again and again.
Vince loosened the tie of his long hair and spoke, a sigh mixed into his voice.
“Whenever I open my mouth, it’s always the same—‘Don’t make it so complicated,’ or ‘Let’s talk about something more fun.’ And yet I think I’m already speaking simply enough. Lightly enough. No special knowledge—just the framework of this world.”
“Oh?” Kyrie said. “Then tell me.”
“Many things. But what stayed with me was our gender.”
“A familiar subject. ‘You’re a man, after all,’ perhaps? Or ‘that older sister of yours’?”
“‘That older sister.’ I’ve said it again and again—those words warp your personhood, Kyrie. They don’t understand it’s a matter of dignity. Gender is nothing more than a sign. And yet it carries too much meaning now. That’s why it must be handled carefully.”
“I’ve already given up on being understood by them. Think only of your own safety. If speaking for me harms you, then don’t speak.”
“Your dignity is my dignity. I can’t give up—no matter how often it’s denied.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I don’t speak only for myself. As long as there are people who are hurt in silence, someone has to.”
“You’ve taken on a difficult task. I respect you for it—truly. In a world where being assigned man or woman is taken for granted, you’re asking people to widen how they understand themselves. Without a visceral sense of discomfort, such an idea will feel abstract. People think only within the frames they already have.”
“Which is why those frames must be questioned. I’m not asking for perfection. I don’t even know whether I manage it myself. Just a little doubt. That’s all. And yet… it never seems to reach them.”
“Yes. …I don’t know what to say. I’m a lazy person—one who’s stopped trying to make others understand.”
“Then I’ll try a little longer. I’m an inconvenient person—one who wants to be understood.”
Vince lowered his eyes, just slightly.
“I know it, Kyrie. I explain too much. I don’t know how to stay silent. Like a child.”
“I wouldn’t call you a child. Still—don’t push yourself.”
Kyrie raised the empty cup to their lips.
Two years remaining
“I’m back, Kyrie.”
“…Welcome home, Vince.”
The wooden door opened, and Vince came in. Kyrie looked up from the book. Vince’s glossy hair swayed as he walked, but fatigue—something dimmer—rested on his face.
“Did something happen?”
“We were preparing for the summer solstice festival. We usually help with magic, but in places like that, I realize how useless I am. Everyone moves so smoothly. Even in all that chaos, they just find what they should be doing.”
“Our roles—and the kind of intellect they require—are different. Naturally so.”
“I know. Still, I just fumbled around. Someone even called me ‘slow.’ So… yes, I’m a bit down. I wish I could be as detached as you, Kyrie.”
“You can’t know that. I might fare worse.”
“Ha—somehow I doubt it.”
Vince took his teacup and sat across from Kyrie.
“Won’t you come tomorrow?”
“No interest. And don’t say, ‘If you reject things from the start—’ I went last year.”
“Right. We both came back without fitting in.”
“The village wrapped itself in joy and refused every other feeling. It was grotesque—pressing ‘You’re meant to enjoy this’ onto everyone.”
“On that point, I agree.”
“And yet you’ll go.”
“I will. If I treat it as analysis—what the crowd responds to—I can make something of it. …Though, honestly, I’m not looking forward to it.”
Vince shrugged and smiled. The smile held little weight.
“That part of you—I respect it,” Kyrie said.
Vince stared out the window. Outside, even as evening fell, children’s voices carried—bright, unguarded.
“You’ve really grown into a villager’s way of speaking,” Kyrie said quietly.
“Huh? That’s sudden.”
“Just a thought.”
“Well. I’ve been trying.”
Vince turned back to the window. Kyrie drank in silence. The tea was cold.
One year and six months remaining
“I’m back, Kyrie.”
“Welcome home, Vin—…Vince? What happened to your hair?”
Kyrie blinked once. Vince’s hair was no longer long, but cut short, neat around the ears.
“Someone in the village cut it for me. I thought it might make me easier to accept. A wider entrance helps, doesn’t it?”
“…I don’t think that touches the essence.”
“That’s why it matters.”
Vince laughed, weakly.
“It’s been all good, really. People who wouldn’t speak to me before do now. And the others say ‘You look great!’ They’re kinder.”
Kyrie’s brow tightened—only briefly.
“I know,” Vince said. “You hated being called beautiful.”
“Yes. I suppose I did.”
“You said—praise and insult are the same. Judging by appearance is vulgar either way.”
“I still think that.”
“I know. I’m not foolish enough to accept it uncritically. Still… I want to be accepted.”
He smiled. The smile was forced. His hand returned, again and again, to the back of his head.
“I thought you valued your hair.”
“It’s a necessary sacrifice.”
The words were flat. Vince looked down, shrugged.
“Funny, isn’t it. Just hair…”
Kyrie nodded.
“You must have many thoughts. I’ll listen.”
“Thank you. But speaking badly of the villagers feels… wrong.”
“If you wish to speak, then speak.”
Vince smiled thinly and left, gripping one arm tightly. Kyrie noticed the tremor and said nothing.
At the edge of Kyrie’s vision, strands of Vince’s former hair lay on the floor, catching the evening light. Kyrie stared at them for a long while, expressionless.
One year and three months remaining
“I’m back, Kyrie.”
“Welcome home, Vince.”
Kyrie lifted their eyes from the book and looked at him. Vince entered through the door, his face plainly lacking any spark. His hair, cut short, was dry—like straw. None of its former sheen remained.
“I think I’ll have some tea too.”
“I’ll do it.”
Kyrie stood and opened the container of tea leaves, cutting Vince off as he headed for the kitchen.
“You make tea for me again today. You’ve been oddly kind lately, Kyrie. Always like this.”
“Listen. Since we’re here, I’ll be clear. You need to stop going to the village.”
“What?”
The unusual force in Kyrie’s voice startled Vince. He looked back at them, confused. Kyrie themselves seemed taken aback, falling silent for a moment. Then they let out a small breath and, more gently than before, said, “Sit. Let’s talk.”
When they were seated across from each other, Kyrie spoke first.
“Are you truly being friendly with the villagers?”
“I am.”
Vince answered at once, sounding almost offended.
“They’re kind to me. They tell me all sorts of things. They even give me food.”
“Then let me ask it differently. How much of your own story do you tell them?”
“I don’t tell them my story.”
Kyrie’s eyes widened as if to speak—but Vince continued, overlapping them.
“No—that’s not quite true. I tell it sometimes. Only sometimes. My stories are too complicated for them. Not useful. And above all, boring. So yes, sometimes. Just sometimes. But you can tell. No matter how simple the words, no matter how much care I take, they only pretend to accept it. They don’t understand anything essential. Still… this is better. Before, they didn’t even pretend.”
“Isn’t pretending to accept worse than refusing outright?”
“Even so, I believe that if I keep talking, someday they’ll understand.”
“You’re barely even having a dialogue.”
Vince’s face stiffened. His words caught.
“What you’re receiving now is conditional neighborly love. The proof is that you’ve even given up the hair you cherished.”
“That’s… true, but…”
Vince’s eyes darted as he looked down at the table.
“What you truly want isn’t shallow, surface-level exchange. You want deep mutual understanding, built through dialogue. If that isn’t possible, there’s no reason to go to the village at the cost of yourself. No—more than that. It’s harmful. You need to stop going. Now.”
“Kyrie…”
“I’ve said this before. One person who understands me—you—is enough. But is it different for you?”
“It is.”
Vince spoke weakly, but his words were clear.
“I told you before—I think a closed relationship between just two people is unhealthy. And I can’t help wanting to be understood by many people. Thinking that closed relationships are unhealthy—that feels reasonable to me. But wanting to be understood by everyone… I know. It’s a tainted desire, isn’t it? I feel pathetic myself. Why am I like this…?”
“It isn’t tainted. You’re simply facing things more directly than I am. That’s all. Just for now—put some distance between yourself and the village.”
“I can’t… I already promised. We’re having lunch together tomorrow.”
One year remaining
“I’m back, Kyrie.”
“Welcome home, Vince.”
Kyrie lifted their eyes from the book and looked at him. His hair was still dull, stripped of its former sheen—but in his eyes, for the first time in a while, there was a fixed intent, as though he had found something to aim at.
“A bard came today.”
This time, Vince spoke first—eagerly.
“Everyone was completely taken with them. Watching it, I realized something. What I’d been missing all along was artistry.”
“I see.”
“The way I speak—left as it is, it doesn’t reach anyone. So it needs to be shaped. Processed, so people can receive it while enjoying themselves. And then it struck me. I should write a story.”
“I see.”
“I’ll weave my ideas into it. Naturally—without making it preachy. That way, I get to say what I want to say, and everyone enjoys it. Nothing but benefits! Don’t you think?”
“Yes. I understand the usefulness of stories as well. If you have the will to do it, you should try.”
“Actually, I already have an idea. All that’s left is to write it. The theme is—someone who carries pain in their heart, yet remains silent.”
“What is that supposed to be? That’s you, isn’t it.”
“Heh—yeah, it is. But this isn’t a complaint. It’s just meant to be… a starting point for thought. If they read it, I think it might give people a chance to really consider things like that. And besides—if ideas like this come out of something I’ve written, maybe they’ll realize that I carry that kind of pain too.”
Vince smiled brightly. And yet, mixed into the smile was something like urgency. A faint shadow passed through Kyrie’s gaze—but Vince didn’t notice, pressing on, his words quickening.
“It’s going to be fine. This time, I really think it’ll reach them. You’re looking forward to it too, right, Kyrie? Ah—finally, they’ll understand the real me! It’s strange to put it this way, but… I feel like I’ve finally been saved.”
Kyrie met his eyes in silence. For a few seconds, they simply looked at him, searching for words.
“…I hope it reaches them.”
Kyrie murmured the words, as if in prayer.
Six months remaining
“I’m back, Kyrie.”
“Welcome home, Vince…”
Vince entered through the door. His dull hair was no longer unfamiliar—but his voice and expression were steeped in an intensity of irritation and impatience unlike anything before.
He dragged a chair out roughly and dropped into it, slamming his back against the rest. Then he began to speak—quietly, yet unmistakably edged with anger, his voice stretched tight to the point of strain.
“It’s been three weeks since I gave my work to everyone. Three full weeks. And only five people gave me any response. Three weeks—and still they can’t even finish reading it? Are they really that slow?”
“At the very least, slower than we are,” Kyrie replied evenly. “Give it time.”
Kyrie’s tone remained calm, but a faint tension ran through it. They watched Vince. His eyes no longer held a steady focus, tracing the grain of the tabletop again and again. His fingers rubbed together on the surface, over and over, without purpose.
“No. I know. I’ve realized it. I know what ‘I’ll read it’ really meant—just politeness. They never intended to read it at all. They say ‘I’m busy, I’ll read it later,’ and then spend their days napping. Gossiping. Talking endlessly about who likes whom. Is that really more important than what I wrote? Does my work have no value? Do my ideas have no value? Do I have no value—”
“I found it compelling.”
Kyrie cut in, almost reflexively.
“The ideas were woven cleanly into an engaging story. The prose was clear—you could read straight through it. I truly enjoyed it. And at the same time, it carried real pain. If anything, it was too much like you—but I was surprised by your talent.”
At that, Vince lifted his face and let out a self-mocking laugh.
“You’re kind, Kyrie. You always praise me. You notice the metaphors I planted. You take in what I’m really trying to say.”
“I know you well,” Kyrie said. “…Still, five people did give you their thoughts. What did they say?”
“That it was interesting.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. I couldn’t believe for a second that they understood what I meant. They just looked at my story the way you’d peer into a sideshow—watched it, laughed, and moved on. They picked up the flashy parts and ignored everything else.”
Kyrie’s brow tightened. Before they could speak, Vince pressed on.
“Now I see it clearly. No one actually cares about me. Not even a little. After everything I poured into it—and still, nothing reached them. No one tried to see. I wrote it like I was shaving away pieces of my own soul, and yet… maybe I was never needed at all. Maybe ‘me’ was unnecessary from the start…”
Kyrie’s gaze drifted slightly, as though searching for words. But it felt as though anything they said now would fail to reach him.
Three months remaining
“I’m back, Kyrie!”
“Welcome home, Vince…?”
The moment the door opened, Kyrie felt a sense of unease. Vince’s voice was neither the familiar exhaustion nor the anger-tinged strain of late. It was oddly bright—too bright, almost buoyant.
When Kyrie lifted their face from the book, Vince spoke with visible excitement, catching his breath as he went.
“I heard an incredible rumor! About something called a magic crown! Apparently, it grants infinite power—power to do absolutely anything!”
“And who exactly is spreading something that vague…?”
“But if it’s real—then maybe I could finally get my feelings across! Maybe we could truly understand each other at last! I mean, it’s infinite power!”
“No, but—”
“It’s been all this time, and only eight people have read my work and given me any response. And even then—it was all shallow. ‘Interesting,’ nothing more. At this point, there’s no choice but to rely on a magical artifact, is there?”
“Still… there’s no credibility to a story like that.”
“That’s the thing—it’s not just a rumor. The bard mentioned it, and so did Elder Abel from the village. It’s written about in old books too! In the legendary village of Ladern, they say the crown was actually used—and the place flourished overnight. It’s gone now, apparently, but—”
“I do know that Ladern fell.”
“Even so, traces of its prosperity remain. Old foundation stones. Remnants of waterways. Fragments of history. So I was thinking—I’ll go investigate further in Arcelio. You know it, right? The great archive there! If I can find it, maybe I really can deliver my true feelings to everyone!”
“I see…”
Kyrie twisted their lips faintly, disinterested on the surface. Beneath Vince’s excitement, however, they caught the unmistakable scent of desperation—of hope edging toward madness. Deliberately, Kyrie shifted the topic.
“In moderation. Let me ask you instead—what would you do with infinite power? What does truly understanding one another mean to you?”
“I just want them to understand me. To know what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling. I don’t need sympathy. They can disagree—that’s fine. I just want understanding. I put everything into that story. Everything. And yet, the people who read it—none of them ever saw me.”
For a moment, his words faltered, his gaze drifting into empty space. Then he looked back at Kyrie.
“What about you, Kyrie? What would you do with infinite power?”
“I would… stay with you—”
Kyrie lowered their eyes once, drew a small breath, then looked up again.
“Well. I suppose I’d eat cake. As much as I wanted.”
“Huh? Cake?”
“Yes. Cake. You wake up, and there’s an infinite supply of cake. At noon, more cake—different flavors. At night, more still. Doesn’t that sound like a dream?”
“Cake… I never would’ve imagined that from you, Kyrie.”
“Understanding others is often like that.”
“Is it…?”
“You may call me the Demon of Cake from now on.”
“Ha. The Demon of Cake…”
Vince laughed, weakly. Yet his eyes were fixed on something far away, beyond the room.
Two months remaining
“I’m back, Kyrie.”
The words did not come.
Kyrie spoke to the empty room.
“Still not back…”
Vince had said he was going to search for texts related to the magic crown—and since then, weeks had passed without his return.
“I suppose he’s safe…”
Kyrie drank tea alone.
The tea had long since gone cold.
One month remaining
“I’m back, Kyrie.”
This time, the voice was real. Vince entered the room, weariness clinging to him, yet his face carried an easy smile.
“Welcome home, Vince. You took your time.”
Irritation edged Kyrie’s voice.
“Sorry, sorry—for leaving you alone for so long!”
“That’s not the point.”
There was something in Vince’s tone—an unnatural brightness, and something else beneath it. Kyrie felt the irritation rise, hesitated, then stepped back, choosing to let Vince speak.
“How did the journey go?”
“More than well! When I went to Arcelio, I found it—detailed records about the crown. And I even went to see it myself!”
“What? You actually went to see it?”
“Yeah. It’s sealed deep inside a cave. So I went there. It looks like you need a special kind of magic to break the seal—but I think I could do it. It didn’t seem like particularly advanced magic.”
Kyrie was left speechless. Seeing this, Vince hurried on.
“Ah—but I didn’t break the seal, so don’t worry! Actually, I was thinking… maybe I shouldn’t use it at all.”
“…What? You’re not going to use it?”
“Yeah. It just doesn’t feel right for me.”
Vince said this with a shrug and a smile. Yet contrary to the gesture, his expression was clouded. His fingertips rubbed together unconsciously. After his eyes wandered for a moment, he spoke again, his voice barely holding.
“…Kyrie. If I were about to make an irreparable choice—would you stop me?”
“Of course. If I noticed.”
“I see…”
Vince said nothing more. His gaze drifted, almost meeting Kyrie’s eyes before slipping away again. There was a faint wavering there—as though he had nearly spoken, then thought better of it.
To Kyrie, in that moment, it looked no different from his usual, indistinct pauses.
One week remaining
“’m baaack, Kyrieee.”
“Welcome home, Vince.”
Vince’s face was flushed, his steps unsteady, his words slurred. Seeing him like this had, by now, become far from rare.
Kyrie stood over him, holding out a glass of water.
“You’ve been drinking again.”
“When you drink, you can have real communication, y’know…”
“You know that isn’t true.”
Kyrie forced him to drink the water, then guided him to the bed.
Six days remaining
“I’m back, Kyrie.”
“Welcome home, Vince… I see you haven’t been drinking today.”
“I feel sick…”
Vince sat across from Kyrie, his eyes unfocused.
“Today… I tried having a serious talk with Alan, from the village.”
“About what?”
“About what people with broken minds look like. And he laughed and said, ‘That’s just an illness. They should see a doctor.’ …It never even crossed his mind that I might have been talking about myself.”
Without waiting for a reply, Vince staggered into the bedroom.
Five days remaining
“I’m back… Kyrie.”
“Welcome home, Vince. You look tired.”
“It’s nothing… I just helped out with some farm work.”
“Even those who aren’t farmers are made to work the fields there?”
“It’s not like that, exactly…”
Vince lowered his eyes and fell silent. He opened his mouth again, as if to say something—but in the end said nothing, turned away, and collapsed onto his bed.
Four days remaining
“I’m back… Kyrie.”
“Welcome home, Vince.”
As Kyrie stood, the chair scraped loudly across the floor.
“—Hey! Shut up!”
Vince’s voice burst out without warning. Kyrie flinched, shoulders tensing. Vince himself seemed startled by what he’d said, clamping his mouth shut at once. The room fell silent.
Kyrie did not move for some time.
Three days remaining
“I’m back, Kyrie.”
“Welcome home. You’re early today.”
“I just thought… I wanted to talk with you. A lot.”
Vince made tea and began speaking at length—more than usual. But it wasn’t about living ideas or thoughts. It was all memories. Stories from the past.
Kyrie sensed something like a farewell woven through his words, but could find nothing with which to interrupt.
Two days remaining
“I’m back… Kyrie…”
“Welcome home, Vince. You went all the way out in this rain?”
“Not the village… I went to the cave…”
“What? The cave?”
“It just caught my interest… it didn’t mean anything…”
One day remaining
That day, Kyrie had gone to the village to buy food. While selecting fruit at the market, voices drifted from behind.
“See that one—his older sister, right? The one who’s been wandering around drunk lately…”
“Vince, you mean. He’s bad news. Probably booze or something.”
“He used to be sharper when he was a kid.”
“Doesn’t he realize people think of him as someone convenient?”
“You think he doesn’t know? I mean, look at him…”
Kyrie turned as if to look back—then stopped. Without a word, they left the stall.
Vince’s face rose unbidden in Kyrie’s mind, only to be shaken away.
That night, the door opened more quietly than usual.
“I’m back, Kyrie.”
“Welcome home, Vince.”
“I was there too. Back then.”
“What?”
Kyrie’s thoughts lagged behind Vince’s sudden words. Vince went on.
“When you were buying fruit. I was there. I heard everything. I’d sort of known, you know—that some people were laughing at me. But actually hearing it… somehow, it all just stopped mattering.”
His mouth twisted into something like a smile. His eyes were empty, unfocused—no longer looking at anything in particular.
Kyrie spoke without thinking.
“People speak ill of everyone at times… even I—”
“So it was insults, after all.”
Kyrie fell silent.
“I really tried…”
Vince’s eyes were clearly sunken. And yet, deep within them, there was also an oddly bright light—as though something that had possessed him had finally fallen away.
Kyrie could not give shape to the unease they felt. They could only watch.
Vince turned his back.
At the indefinable presence that lingered there, Kyrie’s breathing grew faintly shallow.
Zero days remaining
That morning, the birds were silent—though they should have been singing.
Kyrie woke to the sound of wind striking the window with unusual force.
When Kyrie stepped out of the bedroom, Vince was already gone.
In his place, a single book lay on the table.
It was old. Unfamiliar.
A bookmark had been placed inside.
Kyrie recognized the bookmark at once. It was one Vince had always used.
Kyrie opened the book to the marked page. There was an illustration of a small crown, accompanied by a long passage of text. Kyrie traced the words with their eyes.
“What…? This crown is said to grant infinite power to the one who wears it…”
Kyrie’s brow tightened.
“The crown uses the wearer as its host, siphoning the soul…
The wearer is infested, fused, until they become indistinguishable from the crown itself…
This is not a matter of power being granted. Rather, the wearer becomes the crown, mistaking its power for their own…”
Kyrie’s gaze drifted down the page.
“Furthermore, the crown draws out its full strength by amplifying the host’s emotions to their absolute limit…”
When Kyrie finished reading, they stared into empty space for a time.
Then, quietly, they closed the book.
“Leaving it out in plain sight—with the bookmark still in place. That’s a remarkably obvious signal, even for you, Vince.”
Kyrie shed their sleepwear and dressed for travel. A robe was pulled on. The book was tucked under one arm.
They opened the door.
“Please… let me be in time.”
Kyrie ran toward the village.
The sky was already beginning to darken, stained red and black.
・ ・ ・
Kyrie stopped midway up the slope leading to the village and drew a breath.
Bodies lay strewn across the ground—twisting, convulsing, groaning. It looked as though something had possessed them, burning them from the inside out. Their skin was unnaturally pale. Dark blotches spread across it, veins bulging as if writhing beneath the surface. Foam and viscous saliva spilled from their mouths. Their eyes were vacant, their throats releasing cries of agony like those of animals. Children, adults, the elderly—no one was spared.
The trees surrounding the village sagged, their leaves stained red, crackling faintly as though scorched. At Kyrie’s feet, fallen birds spasmed on the ground. Thunder rolled across the sky. Time itself seemed warped.
Kyrie murmured a spell and stepped into the village.
Everywhere, people lay collapsed, writhing in pain. Kyrie’s heart hammered in their chest. Still, they kept moving.
At last, they reached the center of the village—before the altar that had once been called sacred.
“Kyrie… you came after all…”
There sat Vince, consumed by the crown, transformed into something no longer human—enthroned like a king.
The crown bore no resemblance to the illustration in the book. It was sharp, twisted, grotesquely enlarged, pulsing like living flesh. It bit deep into its host. Clothing had torn away. Skin no longer retained its original color. Vince’s body had become a warped mass of flesh fused with the crown itself.
The altar, too, had lost its original form. What had once been a stone dais was now coated in a substance that was neither metal nor flesh, as though the crown itself were devouring the place. Root-like tendrils spread across the paving stones, dripping a fluid like blood.
In stark contrast to the villagers groaning around him, Vince’s face—seated upon the altar—wore a gentle smile. It almost looked peaceful.
He asked, with childlike curiosity,
“But why? Why are you okay, Kyrie?”
“Protective magic,” Kyrie said calmly. “I built it on the spot—based on that book, and on your spell patterns. Mostly on your magic.”
“Wow—Kyrie, that’s amazing! You really do understand me so well!”
Vince laughed aloud. The voice was unmistakably his, yet it sounded strangely clear—as though something else were speaking through him.
Kyrie’s expression hardened.
“Stop this, Vince. This isn’t what you wanted. You only wanted to understand the villagers—”
“I told you already! I don’t care anymore!” Vince shouted. “Let them feel it! Let them feel how much I’ve suffered! How painful it is to be misunderstood!”
A sharp pain pricked Kyrie’s chest. Whether it was the limit of the defensive spell or something else, they could not tell. Even so, they met Vince’s gaze.
“You never wanted to become this. I’ll find a way to separate you from the crown. Until then—hold back your power.”
“That’s impossible!” Vince screamed. “You’re telling me to restrain myself now? Why should I? Besides, it’s pointless! There’s no way to separate the crown from its wearer! No one’s ever written about such a thing—not in any account, not in any text!”
“Even so—if we search in earnest—”
“I’m the one who studied the crown more deeply than anyone in this world!”
As Vince shouted, thunder split the sky. Black clouds churned, a crushing pressure driving into Kyrie’s body.
“Do you have any idea how much I researched it?! Locked away in archives, relying on no one, understood by no one—and still I kept going! I kept going!”
“If you know it better than anyone, then there must be a way forward!”
“You just don’t get it!”
In that instant, the crown began to bubble and swell like rotting flesh. With a wet, bursting sound, tentacle-like organs erupted from within. One of them grazed Kyrie’s cheek. Pain flared; blood sprayed outward.
“Kyrie…?”
Vince’s eyes wavered. For a brief moment, a shadow of conflict flickered within them.
Then the crown pulsed along his neck, and his expression was overwritten.
“Show me, Kyrie!” he roared. “That justice of yours! You’ve always worn that look—like you’re the only one doing the right thing, all smug and proper!”
Tumor-like bulges rose across the crown, bursting one after another with sharp pops. A dark, bloodlike fluid dripped out. The stench—like decay—burned Kyrie’s nostrils.
Then—
A cold, rigid sensation pressed against Kyrie’s leg.
Looking down, they saw a child collapsed at their feet, clutching a sword far too large for their small frame.
The child looked up, trembling.
“P-please… use this… defeat it… save us…”
“Hah—what’s this mouthy little brat?!”
A tentacle lashed out from the crown. Just in time, Kyrie seized the child and leapt aside. Whatever remained of Vince’s will could no longer be felt in the monstrous crown that sought to strike even a child.
Kyrie picked up the sword and advanced—slowly, silently—toward Vince.
“What’s this, Kyrie?” Vince jeered. “Are you going to kill me? Your one and only other half? You think you can do that?!”
Kyrie’s hands were shaking.
Then—just for an instant—the mouth of the crown twisted. It moved. Barely.
“Help me.”
The trembling stopped.
Kyrie stepped forward with resolve, raised the sword high, and drove it—without hesitation—into the heart that was no longer there.
For an instant, everything froze.
Then came a scream—piercing, tearing—like flesh and bone being ripped apart, like organs bursting loose. An obscene volume of thick blood erupted, spraying in all directions. Shreds of tissue and fragments of veins clung to Kyrie’s skin. Nausea surged, but Kyrie clenched their teeth and held their ground, gripping the sword.
How much time passed—seconds, minutes—they could not tell.
When Kyrie became aware again, silence had fallen.
They wiped the blood from their face. The first thing they noticed was the dense stench of iron. Their fingers were coated in a thick, sticky residue that would not come away.
The crown lay on the ground like a heap of ruined flesh, vein-like structures still twitching faintly. After a few final spasms, it went still.
Kyrie exhaled softly and looked down at the remains.
“I only needed—”
They stopped themselves. To look straight at that thought now felt like something would break.
Kyrie brushed back their clinging hair and looked up at the sky. The black clouds were clearing. The red-black stain faded, the blue beginning to return.
From somewhere in the distance came faint groans. One by one, figures began to rise slowly from the shadows of buildings.
After confirming this, Kyrie quietly released the protective spell—and left the place without another word.
One week later
Kyrie was at the market.
The village had fully regained its usual liveliness. Piles of fruit were stacked high. Children ran through the aisles. Adults laughed loudly. Kyrie reached out with both hands to take two apples—then, as if remembering something, drew one hand back.
As Kyrie took a single apple, someone tapped their shoulder from behind.
“So you’re Kyrie, huh? I heard about it—you’re the one who took down that monster, right? Really, thank you!”
Before Kyrie could even turn around, villagers gathered one after another, showering them with words of gratitude. One of them said,
“Hard to believe now, but that whole incident feels like a good memory already.”
Several others nodded.
“Vince was a bit too sensitive, don’t you think?”
“Everyone’s got emotional scars. Maybe he was just indulging himself.”
“Still—Kyrie, you’re impressive. Took it down in one blow, didn’t you?”
Someone laughed.
“Must’ve been rough, though—having someone like that at home.”
“You handled it well. I’d have run off long ago.”
The villagers echoed one another in easy agreement. What filled the space was a calmness—as though nothing had ever happened.
Kyrie did not speak.
Without changing expression, Kyrie gently placed the apple back onto the stall.
A breeze passed through the market. Somewhere in the distance, a child’s laughter rang out.
Someone said,
“Guess that’s everything, then. All finally over.”
The midday light stretched Kyrie’s shadow long across the ground.
— End —