Chapter 41: The concept of romance

The Fall of a Perfect King

In his past life as Magnar, Sylas had defied fate itself. He had risen from the filth of chains and the lash of the whip, from the despair of a nameless slave to the throne of Leon. But power was a fickle thing. It was never truly owned—only borrowed.

Building a kingdom was not simply about conquest; it was about control.

Magnar had learned early that power did not belong to the strongest. Nor did it belong to the wisest, the most just, or even the most ruthless. It belonged to the one who understood what people truly desired.

And people? They were never satisfied.

When he had first arrived in Leon, he had fooled them all. They had taken him for a cunning man, but not a dangerous one. A foreigner, a former slave, who spoke with eloquence, who played the fool when it suited him and the strategist when it was needed. He whispered promises of prosperity, and they listened.

He built their economy from the ground up. Trade routes flourished under his hand. He established ministries—not for power, but for control.

• The Ministry of Anti-Slavery, a declaration to the world that Leon would no longer stand on the broken backs of the enslaved.

• The Ministry of Internal Defense, ensuring stability, stamping out rebellion before it even whispered of existence.

• The Ministry of Progress, bringing scholars, engineers, and military strategists under his command.

He fed the hungry, clothed the poor, educated the ignorant. His laws were fair. His justice was swift.

But the people? They wanted more.

They were never content with what they had. They did not want to simply thrive; they wanted to rule.

And Magnar, the perfect king, gave them what they desired.

Genocide.

War.

Destruction.

He led campaigns that shattered nations, that wiped out entire bloodlines and rewrote history itself. He stood upon the ashes of fallen civilizations and proclaimed Leon's greatness. His people cheered. They adored him for his ruthlessness, for his brilliance, for his unquestionable success.

For a decade, there was peace. A silence earned through fire and steel.

But silence was not what his people wanted.

Leon did not crave security—it craved domination.

And when Magnar denied them their dream of absolute conquest, they turned on him.

The people who once praised him, who knelt at his feet, who called him their savior, now whispered words of treason. They had followed him, adored him, until he no longer served their desires.

At 55 years old, the perfect king was abandoned.

He, who had never known love, never indulged in the weakness of companionship, found himself truly alone.

His only friends had been the elders, the scholars, the warriors of Feros. And by now, they were all dead.

His deathbed was not one of grandeur, not one of mourning. There were no lovers to weep for him, no family to remember him, no friends to stand by his side.

There was only silence.

And in that silence, Magnar learned the final truth of power.

It was never enough.

A King Reborn, A Love Unknown

Knowledge had always been the cornerstone of power. Empires crumbled, kings fell, armies perished—but knowledge endured. It was the one thing no man could fully conquer, no mind could entirely possess. Even in his past life, when he stood above all others as Magnar, knowledge had been his true obsession. Not love. Not friendship. Not family.

And so, when death claimed him, he sought knowledge even in the afterlife.

Would he awaken in hell, condemned for the blood on his hands? Would he face judgment, a trial for his sins? Would he see demons, feel the fires of damnation, or stand before some higher power, pleading for salvation?

No.

There was nothing.

No hell. No Lucifer. No divine retribution.

Only light.

And when he opened his eyes, he found himself reborn. A new world. A world where magic was real, where kingdoms rose and fell not by steel alone, but by the forces of the arcane. A world where Leon—his kingdom, his legacy—no longer existed.

He was the king erased from history. A forgotten ruler. A ghost of a past that no one remembered.

Perhaps this was a new universe entirely.

But for the first time… his life was comfortable.

No chains. No whips. No scars of servitude.

He was not born into slavery. He was not forced to claw his way to the top through blood and betrayal. For the first time in two lifetimes, he had peace.

And now… he had Livia.

He, who had never indulged in love.

He, who had seen romance as a foolish fantasy, a distraction from the grander game of power.

Ha.

Perhaps he should indulge in this emotion.

It was strange, how people worshipped love. They wrote songs about it, waged wars in its name. In his old world, the very concept of "romance" as a genre had not existed. It was a meaningless notion, an impractical indulgence for the weak.

And yet, in this world, love was everywhere. In books. In music. In whispered confessions beneath moonlit skies.

Could it truly be as grand, as intoxicating, as powerful as people claimed?

He had mastered war, deception, strategy, and rule.

Perhaps it was time to master love.

The bookstore, "Em-MAV," was tucked between a jeweler's shop and a bakery, its wooden sign creaking slightly in the autumn breeze. The name was odd, but Sylas paid it little mind. What mattered was the knowledge within.

He stepped inside, the scent of aged parchment and ink filling his lungs. Books lined the shelves, organized meticulously by topic. History, magic theory, philosophy, and—most curiously—romance.

Sylas had always been a man who sought knowledge in all forms. And if love was truly as powerful as people claimed, then surely it was worth understanding.

His fingers traced the spines of the books until he found one that seemed promising:

"The Forbidden Rose: A Tale of Passion and Desire."

The cover was an ornate red, embossed with gold filigree, featuring a man and woman locked in an embrace—a little dramatic, but perhaps educational. He flipped to a random page and began to read aloud, his voice steady and analytical.

"Her breath hitched as his lips traced the delicate curve of her throat, his hands firm against the small of her back, pulling her against him. Heat pooled within her, a fire that only he could stoke. 'You are mine,' he murmured against her ear, his voice husky with longing. 'And I will have you—tonight.'"

Sylas blinked.

He frowned slightly.

This… was not what he expected.

But curiosity won over hesitation. Perhaps it was necessary to understand romance in all of its aspects. He continued reading, his voice still calm, still methodical.

"She gasped as his fingers trailed down her corset, untying the silk ribbons one by one, each movement slow, deliberate, agonizingly tender. The candlelight flickered, casting golden hues against his sculpted form as he leaned in, his lips mere inches from hers—"

A cough interrupted him.

Sylas looked up.

The bookstore had gone silent.

A handful of customers stared at him, wide-eyed, horrified, or, in some cases, amused.

A young woman was blushing so hard she looked ready to faint. An elderly scholar had his mouth agape in absolute disgust. The shopkeeper—an older man with graying hair—slowly set down the ledger he'd been writing in and gave Sylas a look of pure, exhausted disappointment.

A moment of silence passed between them all.

Sylas, still holding the book, frowned. "Is this not an educational text?"

No one answered.

Instead, someone whispered, "Did he really just read that out loud?"

Another voice, barely containing laughter, murmured, "He sounds like he's narrating a war strategy manual."

The shopkeeper pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sir," he said, his voice heavy with exasperation, "that is an R-rated romance novel."

Sylas slowly looked at the book in his hands. "…Ah."

A pause.

Then, with complete composure, he snapped the book shut, placed it back on the shelf, and nodded. "I see. Thank you for the clarification."

And without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the bookstore.

He would never speak of this moment again.

Sylas walked exactly one mile away from "Em-MAV", his steps calm and measured despite the humiliating experience he had just endured. He was a man who had once ruled an empire, had crushed rebellions, and had commanded the loyalty of millions—yet he had somehow managed to publicly narrate an R-rated scene in a bookstore like a scholar reading a historical treaty.

Unacceptable.

He would correct this mistake.

The next bookstore he approached had an equally odd name—"DETE-MAV." The sign above the entrance was painted in deep blue, with golden letters that gleamed in the morning sun. The shop was smaller than the last one, but something about it felt more refined, more scholarly.

As he stepped inside, a small bell chimed, signaling his arrival. The scent of parchment, ink, and faintly of tea filled the air. This was promising.

Unlike the last store, which had shelves crammed with books of all topics, this one was more specialized. There were entire sections dedicated to literature, philosophy, and poetry—a perfect place to find something truly informative.

Sylas navigated the shelves with purpose, running his fingers along the spines of neatly arranged books. He passed by titles such as "The Art of Love and Devotion," "A Study of Romantic Bonds in High Society," and finally settled on something that seemed… appropriate.

A book titled "Love in Letters: A Collection of Romance Across the Eras."

This one, at the very least, did not have half-dressed individuals embracing on the cover.

Satisfied, he pulled it from the shelf and flipped through its pages. The book was a compilation of love letters from various poets, scholars, and noble figures—a historical and literary analysis of romance.

This was exactly what he needed.

Taking the book to the counter, he was greeted by a middle-aged woman with glasses perched at the edge of her nose. She looked up from her reading and gave him a polite nod.

"Ah, an excellent choice," she said, adjusting her spectacles. "This collection features the letters of some of the greatest minds in history. It captures both the elegance and tragedy of love across different eras."

Sylas nodded, pleased. "That is precisely why I chose it."

The shopkeeper hummed as she wrapped the book in a fine cloth. "Are you a scholar of literature, sir?"

Sylas considered this for a moment. He had been a king, a warrior, a strategist—but a scholar of romance?

After a brief pause, he simply replied, "I am conducting research."

The woman smiled knowingly, but did not pry further.

With his purchase complete, Sylas stepped out of "DETE-MAV" with his book in hand, feeling far more confident in his understanding of romance.

This time, he would not humiliate himself.

This time, he would learn.

Sylas walked through the bustling streets of Valdenor, the book tucked securely under his arm. The morning air was crisp, the sky painted in soft hues of blue, with the occasional cloud drifting lazily above. The city was alive—merchants called out their wares, children ran through the cobbled streets, and nobles in fine silks strolled with a sense of detached elegance.

But Sylas paid little attention to any of it.

His mind was occupied with a singular mission—to understand romance.

Eventually, he found himself in a quieter part of the kingdom, a small courtyard garden nestled between grand stone buildings. A fountain stood in the center, its water flowing in smooth, rhythmic patterns. The perfect place for an undisturbed study.

He took a seat on a stone bench beneath the shade of a towering oak tree, the book resting on his lap. The distant sounds of the city became nothing more than a gentle hum in the background as he opened the pages and began to read.

"My dearest, the night without you feels as though I am trapped in an endless winter. The warmth of your presence lingers in my thoughts, and though miles may separate us, my heart remains tethered to yours, as though the gods themselves had woven our fates together…"

Sylas blinked.

…Dramatic.

He flipped to another letter, one written by a poet from a bygone era.

"When I lay my eyes upon you, I see the reflection of the stars, and in your touch, I feel the pull of the tides. You are not merely a woman, nor a queen—you are the very essence of the heavens made flesh."

Sylas stared at the page, then exhaled through his nose. People actually wrote like this?

He had read countless battle strategies, political treaties, economic doctrines, but never had he encountered such language.

Yet… it intrigued him.

Love, it seemed, was not simply affection. It was an art, a battlefield of words and emotions, a carefully woven tapestry of longing, devotion, and passion.

For the first time in his life—or rather, in both of his lives—he began to understand why so many pursued this elusive thing called love.

He leaned back against the bench, continuing to read, absorbing the intricacies of romance like a scholar dissecting an ancient text.

Perhaps… this was something worth exploring.

Sylas took a seat in the quiet reading area beside "DETE-MAV," a secluded space where only the faint rustling of pages and the occasional sniffle could be heard.

It was peaceful.

At least, until he noticed her.

A young woman, seated a few feet away, her face partially hidden behind a book titled "White Nights." Even from his peripheral vision, he could see her shoulders trembling, her fingers gripping the pages tightly. A quiet sniff escaped her, followed by another.

Sylas blinked.

Was the book so awful that she was crying? Or was it so moving that it brought her to tears?

In his past life, crying was reserved for the battlefield. Soldiers wept from pain, from despair, from the bitter realization that they wouldn't live to see another sunrise. Some clutched letters from loved ones, their bloodied hands smearing ink as they struggled to read a final message of hope. Others sobbed when they realized the bunker they so desperately crawled toward… wasn't salvation, only another grave.

And then there was Sylas. The one who sent them there.

But here? This woman was crying over ink and paper.

He observed her for a moment longer before exhaling through his nose and returning to **his own book—**a novel filled with grand declarations of love, heart-wrenching separations, and dramatic prose that rivaled even the most embellished war reports.

"When I see you, it is as if the sun itself bows to your presence, and the very air I breathe carries the scent of you. My heart, once hardened by war, now knows nothing but the agony of longing—"

Sylas stopped reading.

He squinted.

…Agony of longing? What was this nonsense?

Still, he forced himself to continue. If he was to understand romance, then he had to see it from all perspectives, even the absurdly poetic ones.

The woman beside him let out a muffled sob.

Sylas sighed.

…Perhaps he should take a look at "White Nights." If a book could make someone this emotional, then surely there was something to be learned from it.