Early the next morning, Wendy woke up in the softness of the velvet sofa. His body still felt comfortable, but his heart felt empty.
He instinctively looked toward the window. No one was in that spot. The chair Xi Ya often sat in was now quietly bathed in the morning light, as if no one had ever sat there.
No warm milk, no baked bread, and in the air, there was no reassuring scent of lavender. The Prince’s heart sank along with that empty chair.
He shook his head to shake off this inexplicable emotion and refocused his attention on the manuscript on the table.
Wendy picked up the pen.
But the tip landed on the paper, yet he couldn’t write a single word for a long time. The theories that had been so clear yesterday, the cases that had fit perfectly with this world’s history, were now all a tangled mess, charging around in his mind but finding no exit.
His train of thought had broken.
The feeling of writing as if guided by a divine hand, of thoughts flowing as smoothly as silk, had vanished without a trace.
What’s going on?
He irritably grabbed his hair, flipping through the chapters he’d written a few days ago, trying to get back in the zone.
The handwriting on the paper was still sharp, the insights still hit the nail on the head.
“The center of gravity of war is not to eliminate the enemy’s effective strength, but to destroy their will to fight.”
“How does one destroy their will?”
Wendy sat staring at that sentence for an entire morning.
“How does one destroy their will?”
He couldn’t think of anything.
‘Damn it, when did I become this dependent? She’s just a librarian. Without her, can’t I even write?’
But the more he admonished himself, the stronger the emptiness grew.
He realized, pitifully, that he had gotten used to it. Used to looking up at the bottleneck and seeing that encouraging smile. Used to hearing, when his thoughts ran dry, that casual question that “woke the dreamer.”
Without Xi Ya’s subtle prompting, without her vast historical knowledge as a reference, his On War had become a framework devoid of a soul—hollow and pale.
Wendy put down the pen and held his head.
This feeling was too strange, like a drug addict suddenly cut off from his supply.
“Wendy, you look really out of it.”
Laxana’s voice came from the doorway.
She carried a tray of exquisite pastries, a sweet smile on her face.
Astreia followed behind her, holding a bottle of chilled fruit wine that looked expensive at a glance.
“After three days of hard work, it’s time for a good break.”
The Princess Royal set the wine on the table, naturally walked behind Wendy, and placed her hands on his shoulders, kneading them with just the right pressure.
“My massage technique is unmatched in the army.”
The warm touch spread from his shoulders, carrying Astreia’s unique scent.
Normally, Wendy might have played hard to get and enjoyed it.
But today, he only felt an inexplicable fire rising from the bottom of his heart.
Irritation.
Irritation.
Extreme irritation.
This wasn’t what he needed right now.
“I made this especially for you.”
Laxana pinched a piece of strawberry cake and brought it to his lips, her movements intimate.
The sweet, cloying aroma drilled into his nostrils.
“Little Wendy, try this. Our best pastry chef made it just for you.”
“Take it away.”
Wendy’s voice wasn’t loud, but it made both women freeze.
The cake fell to the floor and shattered.
“I said, take it away.”
He brushed aside Laxana’s hand.
Then he abruptly stood up, shaking off Astreia’s massage.
“Can you two be quiet for a moment? I need to think! I need to concentrate!”
This rejection instantly froze the air in the reading room.
Astreia and Laxana were both stunned.
This was the first time Wendy had spoken to them in such a distant tone.
“Wendy… what’s wrong with you?”
Laxana’s voice trembled slightly, tears welling in her violet eyes.
“Did we do something wrong?”
Astreia’s hand hovered in midair, afraid to touch him again.
Wendy looked at their hurt expressions, and a pang of guilt surged from deep inside him.
But the guilt was quickly swallowed by a stronger restlessness.
Right now, his mind held only one thought—find Xi Ya.
“No, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
He forced a smile.
“It’s just… I need some time alone.”
Astreia slowly withdrew her hand, a trace of hurt flickering in her emerald starry eyes.
An unpleasant standoff ended with the two girls leaving.
In the empty reading room, only Wendy remained.
He leaned back weakly in his chair, staring at the ceiling, more lost than ever.
Physically, he couldn’t resist the closeness of Astreia and Laxana.
Logically, he craved Xi Ya as a spiritual friend.
Now, the withdrawal of one left him empty, while the approach of the other felt out of place.
What in the world… was happening?
That night, Wendy lay on his dormitory bed, tossing and turning.
He closed his eyes, but his mind uncontrollably conjured Xi Ya’s figure.
She was smiling, sitting by the window, the sunlight gilding her pink, shoulder-length hair.
“Wendy, are you troubled?”
Her gentle voice echoed in his ears.
The reassuring scent of lavender lingered at the tip of his nose.
“Ngh…”
Wendy jolted awake from his dream, his forehead covered in cold sweat.
His longing for Xi Ya, at this moment, became overwhelmingly intense.
‘Damn it, what the hell is wrong with me?’
He slapped his cheeks hard, trying to clear his head.
Knock knock knock.
A rapid knock sounded at the door.
Wendy threw on a coat and opened the door to find Instructor Tracey standing there, her face frosty.
Without a word, the female instructor slammed a stack of sheepskin parchment against his chest.
“Wendy Black, is this your latest progress report?”
Tracey’s voice was filled with disappointment and suspicion.
“The logic is chaotic, the arguments insufficient, and there are even several contradictory parts! This is nowhere near your level!”
“Have you run out of inspiration?”
She stared hard at Wendy.
“Tell me, what’s going on?”
Wendy looked at the manuscript, covered in red-ink annotations, and his face went pale.
Those annotations were as glaring as mockery of his incompetence.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
This pain of creative stagnation, this torment of spiritual emptiness—
He suddenly raised his head, looking past Tracey’s shoulder toward the library.
He had to find Xi Ya.
No matter what.
“Instructor, I…”
“What do you want to say?”
Tracey’s expression was severe.
“Don’t tell me you need a few more days off!”
Wendy didn’t answer her question.
He just took a deep breath, then strode out, bypassing the stunned female instructor.
“Wendy! Stop right there!”
Tracey roared behind him.
“Don’t you know the Dean wants to see your progress report tomorrow?!”
But Wendy was deaf to it.
He needed that woman.
He needed her guidance to complete On War.
Or rather, he needed that thoughtful gentleness to fill the void in his heart.
Just then, an even more terrifying thought flashed through his mind.
What if Xi Ya had already left the Academy?
What if she never came back?
That thought made his steps even quicker—he was almost running toward the library.
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