Chapter 14
“Fine… if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay. Then, Your Highness—shall we start building blocks?”
“…Building blocks? You actually mean stacking real blocks?”
“Of course! The building blocks of our lives, so to speak.”
It was supposed to be a joke, but the Third Prince’s reaction was painfully flat.
Yikes. Was this what people called a generation gap?
Back in the day, my old friends would’ve laughed at jokes like that. Kids these days were so cold…
I brushed off the awkwardness and poured the blocks out onto the floor.
The solid pieces clattered noisily against the wooden floor.
But no matter how loud the sound was, the door didn’t rattle — it seemed no one was eavesdropping.
“Good. Looks like there’s no one outside. All right, let’s get down to business.”
At last, I pulled the folded document from my pocket.
“…What’s that?”
“What do you mean, what’s that? It’s the contract Your Highness gave me yesterday.”
“This doesn’t look the same as the one I gave you…”
The Third Prince blinked those big eyes of his in confusion.
Then, with the quick reflexes of a squirrel spotting a chestnut, he snatched the document from my hand and began reading it intently—over and over again.
By the time the clock’s long hand had moved ten notches, he clapped his hands and exclaimed,
“…This is the easiest-to-understand document I’ve ever seen! Remarkable!”
“Really? I wouldn’t say it’s well-written, though.”
A proper contract is usually full of complicated words meant to confuse the other party.
Of course, I didn’t bother saying that part aloud.
The innocent prince was completely fascinated by the modern-looking format of the contract.
“Ah! But there’s one thing I don’t understand.”
“Ask away.”
“These words here — ‘Gap (甲)’ and ‘Eul (乙)’ — what do they mean?”
“Ah… ‘Gap’ and ‘Eul,’ you say?”
“Yes. I’ve never heard them used in the capital. Are they perhaps a local term from Lurupel?”
…Uh oh. I expected questions about minor details, not something so fundamental.
My eyes darted around as I tried to come up with an excuse, then I lied without even moistening my lips.
“They’re pet names.”
“…Pet names?”
“Yes! We’re going to be fiancés, at least in form, right? Don’t you think we should have nicknames to make our relationship look sincere to others?”
“…I suppose that makes sense.”
The Third Prince nodded innocently, cheeks turning pink.
Somehow, he looked… pleased?
His nose even turned a little red as he asked his next question.
“Um, I… I have another question.”
“Go ahead, ask as many as you like.”
“D-does Miss Lurupel… want to have a h-happy engagement with me?”
Now that was sharp.
I’d hoped he wouldn’t ask that, but the boy had managed to step right into every trap I’d set.
I clicked my tongue quietly. Fortunately, I had already prepared an answer for this one.
“Oh, that? It’s just a formality.”
“…A formality?”
“Yes. Like wedding vows. Everyone promises eternal love at the ceremony, but how many people actually keep that promise? It’s like that.”
“…I see.”
The brightness that had lit up his face moments ago faded instantly, replaced by a faint gloom.
Huh? Was that not the answer he wanted?
My mind began racing.
He had told me himself that he came all the way to Lurupel looking for someone who wouldn’t love him.
That wasn’t ancient history — that was literally yesterday. So my memory couldn’t be wrong.
He needed someone who wouldn’t love him.
Meaning, he shouldn’t care about things like “a happy engagement,” right?
“Your Highness, you didn’t want a happy engagement either, did you?”
“…No. I have no desire for such things.”
“Then why the long face?”
“…Is my expression strange?”
“Well, not strange, exactly… just…”
Disappointed? Bitter? Resigned?
I couldn’t quite describe it.
It was kind of odd seeing an eight-year-old make such a complicated face.
Then again, that was the heroine’s job to notice — not mine.
I decided to drop it and move on.
“So, do we just sign here now?”
Before I could steer the conversation, he spoke first.
He took out a fountain pen from his pocket, grasped it confidently, and signed his name in one elegant motion.
Did princes take special handwriting lessons?
His signature was grand and elaborate — fitting for royalty.
Yeah, impressive, but still—
“Wait!”
“Yes?”
“You can’t just sign it like that!”
“Why not? Is there a problem?”
“You’re supposed to read it carefully first!”
“I did read it.”
“You read everything? Even the part that says you can’t harm me in any way?”
I hurriedly stopped him and pointed to the clause near the bottom.
It clearly stated in red ink that Eul (the prince) must not do anything that could endanger or threaten Gap (me).
And just below that, a note said the clause remained valid even after the contract expired.
I’d expected him to at least question that blatantly unfair term.
But he just nodded calmly and signed the second copy, too.
“Once it’s signed, that’s it! No take-backs later!”
“Of course. I won’t take it back.”
“…You’re sure you read everything properly?”
“Don’t worry. Even without your warning, I already intended to make sure Miss Lurupel wouldn’t suffer any harm because of this.”
“Harm…? Wait, what harm?”
My clause was meant to stop him from harming me.
But the way he said it—like he was trying to prevent me from being harmed indirectly—sounded completely different.
It almost sounded like… he expected something bad to happen to him.
I frowned, puzzled, but he simply held the pen out toward me.
“Now, Miss Lurupel, your turn.”
“Um…”
“Go on.”
“Well… all right.”
I pushed down the uneasy feeling and signed the blank space above his name.
Whatever his circumstances were, they weren’t my problem.
In the original story, Hariela and the Third Prince were adults.
Which meant that during this engagement period, nothing dangerous should happen to me.
If I just played along until later—when the sub-duke of Caledonia became the Grand Duke of the North—and stayed out of trouble, everything would be fine.
As long as Hariela didn’t fall for him, then neither the main leads nor we side characters would suffer.
Unless, of course, this world decided to force the “original plot” to happen no matter what.
But that was a problem for future me.
The answer was clear enough already, yet something still felt off.
I tilted my head and signed the second copy of the contract.
“…So, the contract is complete now.”
“Not quite.”
“Huh?”
“The one I gave you before — did you throw it away?”
“No, I still have it, but…”
Ugh, I was hoping he wouldn’t ask that.
Reluctantly, I fished the crumpled paper out of my pocket and handed it to him.
He stared at it in dismay.
“…Was my contract that bad?”
“No, no! It’s just… well, things happened, you know? Haha…”
“…I see. Sounds like a lot has happened.”
He gazed down at the tattered sheet for a moment, then carefully peeled off a small round seal attached to it.
“It’s fine. The important thing isn’t the paper — it’s this.”
“What’s that?”
“A magical seal.”
“Magic?”
“Yes. Several enchantments are embedded in it. The main one ensures that neither party can ever break the terms of the contract.”
“Oh, I see— …wait, what? Did you say ‘ensures’?”
That… sounded a lot like coercion.
I reached out quickly, but he was faster — calmly pressing the seal onto our new contract.
The moment it touched, both our signatures and the seal itself glowed with a faint blue light.
“…W–what kind of magic did you say this was? The one that prevents us from breaking the contract? What happens if someone does break it?”
“Why worry about that? Were you planning to break it?”
“No! But it’s only fair to know the consequences, right?”
Hiding important terms from one party makes a contract invalid!
Sure, I’d hidden a few sneaky clauses myself, but that was totally different!
The prince, utterly unbothered, replied in his usual calm tone.
“You’re right. Hmm… If either of us violates the contract, lightning will probably strike.”
“Lightning? Where?”
“Why, on the head, of course.”
“On the… head? You don’t mean my head, do you?”
“No. The head of whoever breaks the contract.”
He answered with a pure, childlike smile.
…Was this kid insane or what?
