I Became the Narrow-Eyed Character in the Little Prince Game-Chapter 145: Hangover (3)

Prophet of the Apocalypse.

(prophète de l'apocalypse)

An old man who bore the weight of the world's karma.

The headmaster stared at the boy before him, his cooling teacup resting beside him.

Across the table sat a blonde with a brazen smile.

He had barged in under the pretense of needing something during office hours, then shamelessly settled himself in the most irritatingly conspicuous spot.

Thus, an impromptu private meeting was arranged.

"Ahem."

He had come saying he just wanted to have a conversation.

Yet now, instead of speaking, he merely fidgeted with his teacup, offering nothing but a cryptic smile whenever their gazes met.

"······."

He was waiting for the old man to speak first.

The headmaster let out a low sigh. He was already familiar with this serpent-like way of talking.

In truth.

This was only their second proper conversation. Yet the headmaster reacted as if it were routine.

Or perhaps—he truly was accustomed to it.

For to him, the present was nothing more than a fragment cut from the future.

In the end, the old man decided to humor the young man’s game.

"I’ve heard about what happened."

His voice carried lightly.

A few words recalling past events and hinting at what was to come.

He spoke while reminiscing about the last few days.

"Selena... that girl has improved remarkably."

"Did you speak with her directly?"

"I stopped by her hospital room for a moment. What kind of teacher could ignore his only student lying sick in bed?"

"Then that’s good news. I had heard that the relationship between you two had been strained for some time."

"Yes. It had been a while since we last had a meaningful conversation."

A brief recollection.

The old man remembered his student, lying weakly in bed.

Her entire demeanor had changed within just a few days.

The cold, emotionless gaze she once carried had faded. In those crimson pupils, droplets of moisture clung, trembling.

An unexpected downpour had come, streaking down her pale cheeks all day.

All while gripping the old man’s wrinkled hands tightly.

"I’m sorry, teacher···."

That voice still echoed faintly in his ears.

Gaston murmured to himself as he recalled the warmth lingering on his fingertips.

"It had been a long time."

Almost ten years had passed.

The last time Selena had displayed such raw emotion had become a blurry memory.

Before he knew it, the wrinkles on his forehead had deepened.

Old thoughts resurfacing left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"You··· have talent."

"From today onward, call me teacher."

For a brief moment.

He had recalled the moment he took her in.

The old man rinsed his mouth with lukewarm tea.

"I found myself reminiscing. About the time when Lianne was still alive."

"······."

"Back when nothing had yet gone wrong."

Lianne.

The moment that name was spoken, the atmosphere turned somber.

Neither spoke for a while.

If one were to ask why, the boy had his question prepared, and the old man already knew what it would be.

Feigning indifference, the boy took a sip of tea.

"There’s something I’ve never understood."

Clink.

The cup was set down.

"Why did you take her in?"

"······."

The reason.

The boy was asking for the reason.

Their gazes met in a composed exchange.

Selena.

The boy knew a part of the future.

At the same time, he knew that the old man before him was a prophet.

Which was why he could not help but question it.

Why had he taken in a girl who would become the seed of calamity?

Why had he merely watched as her younger sister fell into the hands of the cult?

Why had he failed to protect either of them?

A single question contained countless why’s.

The old man quietly traced the rim of his cup with his fingers.

The reason, huh.

Well.

There were two possible answers to that question.

One.

The old man could not defy the will of the world.

As the boy before him surely understood.

His ability came with a condition: he must not interfere with the story.

That did not simply mean he did nothing.

Rather, it was a process of faithfully carrying out the script and role assigned to him by the world.

If he foresaw a future labeled A, then he had no choice but to follow A.

There was no option for B or C, nor the choice to avoid the path entirely.

He simply moved as dictated by the script bestowed upon him.

A puppet.

That was how he saw himself.

A being that lived according to the script given to him.

Taking in Selena had been no different.

Whether she destroyed half of the academy as a traitor or lived as the boy’s repentant ally—

No matter which future unfolded, she was destined to stand at the center of the story.

To Gaston, bringing Selena in had been the only course of action.

And the second reason—

Yuda Snakeus.

Because the boy was there.

Long before he ever met Selena, the old man knew she would be saved.

That was why he had searched every slum in the Empire to find her.

"Teacher."

A life lived in submission to fate.

But that did not mean an absence of emotions.

To Gaston, Selena was not just a disciple—she was family.

How could he not care for her?

The old man had always wished for her salvation.

From the snake.

"······."

Though he had no way of expressing it to others,

Gaston had done everything within his power.

Clink.

With a quiet sound, the old man tipped his teacup.

Had he been lost in thought for that long?

By the time the liquid touched his lips, it had already gone cold.

The boy sitting across from him frowned slightly, but soon abandoned the effort and looked away.

Easing the lingering tension in the air, he leaned back against the chair.

He spoke briefly.

"Well... I wasn’t expecting an answer."

He had merely needed someone to voice his thoughts to.

A kind of idle lament.

"Conversations like this are difficult to have. I happened to think of an appropriate person, so I came."

A discussion about the future.

A topic difficult to share, even harder to explain.

In that sense, the old man made for an ideal audience.

He was someone who, like the boy, already knew the world's future and would not be easily shaken by absurdities.

If what the boy needed was a silent listener, then the old man was willing to oblige.

It was not a particularly difficult role to play.

"If you feel like it, come share a cup of tea from time to time."

"That’s surprising. I thought you detested meaningless conversation."

"When you think about it, aren’t we in a way disciple’s disciple or teacher’s teacher?"

Also.

In some futures, they were even friends.

The old man swallowed the words before they left his mouth.

"······Therefore, I have no reason to treat you coldly."

"That’s good to hear."

"However, I’m afraid I am not a man of many words. I hope you understand if I cannot answer certain questions."

"Oh dear... that might be quite the drawback."

A low chuckle.

The boy shrugged, as if that much was enough.

He set his teacup down on the table.

Perhaps he had another engagement to attend to.

Soon, he rose from his seat.

"I’ll be going now."

"As you wish."

"See you next time."

"If there is a next time."

"Of course."

A smirk.

With a fleeting smile, the boy turned away.

For a brief moment, the old man watched his receding figure.

Then, the door to the headmaster’s office closed, and the snake disappeared entirely.

"······."

Left alone once more,

Gaston idly ran his fingers over his gloved left hand.

Beyond the sensation of leather, there was nothing.

The last time.

During his prophecy to the boy, he had forced out a few extra words—

And paid the price.

His hand, reduced to mere ashes, was beyond the reach of magic or divinity.

A warning, of sorts.

Damn it all.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from fгeewebnovёl.co𝙢.

The world had spoken.

Do not overstep your bounds.

The role assigned to him was not that of a prophet, but a spectator.

Fate could not be changed without a dire cost.

Not yet.

Foresight.

The old man's ability was one that transcended the natural order.

Unlike the common divinations of astrologers, his sight followed a different path.

To a degree that was problematic—

For example.

The old man knew everything.

From the moment the boy decided to visit today,

To the words they would exchange in between.

Even down to the number of breaths he would take after stepping into the office,

The time he would spend holding the teacup,

The exact number of sips he would take.

834 breaths. 12 minutes and 56 seconds. 21 sips.

It was not a matter of observation or memory.

He had always known.

Since before the boy ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) entered the office.

Before the morning sun rose today.

Before the cult attack even began.

Perhaps even before the boy had enrolled in the academy.

No, in truth—

Ever since Gaston, as a fifteen-year-old boy, first heard the call of the stars.

From that moment on,

The prophet had foreseen, memorized, and understood all days to come.

His mind overflowed with an unbearable flood of knowledge.

For so long.

The old man had been living a reality overlapped with itself.

It felt like being trapped in a dream without end.

The present and the future, tangled together into a mess.

At this point, he could no longer tell if what he saw before him was truly happening—

Or if he was merely watching the future unfold through his prophecy.

As the story progressed further toward its inevitable path,

The prophet’s mind was unraveling.

And Gaston realized—

His time was running out.

One more year, perhaps.

Sixty years had passed since he first received the calling of the apocalypse.

From the young boy of fifteen to the elderly man nearing eighty—

Gaston had borne that burden all along.

For the sake of the future alone.

The conclusion is approaching.

An immutable truth.

Calamity would soon break the peace and descend upon the world.

The protagonists and supporting players would have to make their final choices.

And.

So would the old man.

I wonder.

He, too, would have to choose his final role.

Would he remain a silent spectator of the world?

Would he die as its recorder?

Or would he take on a different role altogether?

With the setting sun casting its crimson glow through the window,

The prophet closed his mouth.