Hacking the Game Didn't Go as Intended [Part Two]

CHAPTER 232: The Eye of the Storm

Her voice cracked.

"I feel like... like it's all my fault. If I hadn't been born, none of this would've happened. My mother would still be alive. My father wouldn't have lost his will to live. My brother wouldn't have lost his strength. The kingdom wouldn't be so... hollow."

Daisuke finally spoke, his voice soft and thoughtful.

"...I lost my parents too."

Lumielle's eyes turned to him.

"I used to think the same. That maybe it would've been better if I hadn't been born. But over time... I realized something. I couldn't let the gift they gave me—the gift of life—go to waste. Even if they were gone, I could still carry their memory with me. Still live... and live well, for their sake."

His fingers reached up and gently stroked her head. She closed her eyes, her lips trembling.

"You should do the same," he continued. "Treasure the precious life your mother gave you. Your father... well, he should be treasuring it too. Taking care of the precious children she left behind, her final gift to him. But his will wasn't strong enough to bear it."

He looked at her earnestly. "That's why you need to continue being strong. For him. For Reneal. And for yourself."

The princess's lips parted, but no sound came. Her tears finally spilled, warm trails down her cheeks.

"You've done a good job enduring, Lumielle. You've carried all this pain and responsibility without ever complaining. I'm proud of you." He brought a comforting hand to her back. "I'm here now. And I promise... I'll fix everything."

Without warning, the girl flung her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder. Her sobs came softly at first, then deeper, trembling against his chest.

Daisuke held her close. His hands moved up and down her back in slow, soothing strokes.

He didn't speak.

He was just there.

And for now, that was enough.

***

The moon cast a pale glow through the thin drapes of Silvestia's bedroom, its light brushing over the mess of books, scrap metal, and parchment strewn across her desk. Her fingers paused, trembling slightly as they held a pair of pliers.

Her eyes veered to the door. Then the window.

They were still shut. Still locked.

But likely not safe.

The Kaelmonts weren't here—not physically. Not yet. But the memory of them lingered like smoke in her lungs, impossible to breathe past. And those eyes... the ones that haunted her dreams, always watching, always waiting... they weren't there either. Not tonight.

Still, her hands shook.

The furniture she'd pushed against the door groaned softly whenever the wind gusted. She had wedged sharp objects beneath the window, rigged pots and pans to clang if anything disturbed the frame, and lined the floor near the entry with small metal trinkets that would scatter and ring if stepped on.

It wasn't much.

But it was something.

Silvestia sat hunched at her desk, hollow-eyed, the shadows beneath them dark as bruises. Sleep had stopped being a luxury—it was now a danger she couldn't afford. The moment she closed her eyes, her entire world could fall apart in a heartbeat. So, she stubbornly clung to wakefulness.

Before her lay the memento she was making—part keepsake, part distraction. But it wasn't enough to mask the erratic thump of her heart.

Her lips pressed into a thin line before whispering, "Just until morning..."

Then she closed her eyes briefly—not to rest, but to summon courage—and muttered, "As soon as Mama and Papa wake up... I'll tell them everything. Lugene and Rue won't get away with this."

Her hand curled tightly around a small screwdriver as if it were a blade, tears rippling down her face.

Tonight, she wouldn't sleep.

And tomorrow, she would be heard.

Tomorrow, this prolonged nightmare would finally end.

***

Before the first light of dawn crept over the jagged silhouette of the mountains, a crowd had already begun to stir. Huddled masses of slum folk wrapped in ragged cloaks and threadbare shawls gathered eagerly at the wide, open field designated for the charity event.

Their voices were soft, filled with cautious hope. Makeshift booths festooned with decorations lined the field, stocked with trays of fresh bread, bowls of stew, grilled monstron, and fruits. The servers managing them smiled politely, though their gazes sometimes drifted toward the horizon.

At scattered action stations, cooks labored over fire pits and hot stones, their work accompanied by the delicious scent of frying spices and roasting monstron. The aroma wafted on the breeze, stirring growls from empty stomachs and excitement in hollow eyes.

Then came the sound of marching boots.

Soldiers, clad in polished armor, escorted long lines of slaves toward the venue. Chains rattled. The slaves kept their heads low, the demihumans among them had their ears pinned flat and tails stiff with tension.

Some of the slum folk turned their heads, drawn by the noise. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"They're bringing them here too?" someone breathed.

The murmurs turned to open whispers as even more citizens—dressed in cleaner, finer clothes—began to gather around the periphery.