TuxedoTranslations

Chapter 52

Original Timeline, Tulip Kingdom, Inn.

Padma was interrogating the man in the black robe, while occasional cries of pain came from the next room.

Edward frowned, worried about disturbing the neighbors, and decided to go next door to set up a soundproofing spell.

Before leaving the room, he glanced at Zeman, who stood motionless like an ice sculpture beside Albin’s bed.

“Go rest for a while. You haven’t slept all night.” He drew the curtains, blocking the glaring noon sunlight.

After dealing with those magical creatures earlier, Zeman was clearly more exhausted than him.

It was obvious that unraveling the magic wouldn’t be done so quickly.

Zeman’s gaze remained fixed on Albin, and he coldly refused, “No need.”

Edward sighed and tried again, “After being affected by magic and returning to the past, the timelines don’t sync. Little Albin will be very worried when he wakes up and will want to see you. There’s a lot he wants to say. You need to rest properly so you can stay with him and soothe him.”

This reasoning clearly made Zeman hesitate.

After a moment of silence, he nodded. “I understand.”

He sat in the armchair beside Albin’s bed, watching him rest peacefully and reaching out to gently brush away his messy hair.

His fingertips trembled slightly.

Albin had almost been in danger when he couldn’t see him.

If that had been an attack spell instead of a time-reversal one, he might not have seen Albin alive.

He had sworn to protect this child but hadn’t been able to prevent harm from coming to him behind his back.

Every time he thought he could handle it, in reality, he could do nothing.

Back then, his adoptive father, the Pope, had suddenly changed. From frugal, humble, and kind, he became lavish, cold, and cruel. People assumed the Pope had been corrupted by power and didn’t dare intervene, but Zeman noticed something was wrong and investigated it with Jacques.

From some old clerics, he learned that every Pope underwent such a change.

Jacques had overheard a conversation about how to gain the Pope’s favor and was shocked to learn it was a manifestation of divine possession.

But this divine possession had clearly erased the host’s own will.

When he told Zeman this, Zeman suddenly understood the vague words his adoptive father had once said.

His father had voluntarily given his body to the Sun God out of faith.

Like Zeman, his father had been recognized for his talents and brought to the temple from a young age, always a devout follower.

Being a vessel for a deity in the human world was the highest honor for them.

Zeman ended his investigation of the Sun God and the Pope.

But Jacques kept urging Zeman to leave the Sun God’s temple, fearing that Zeman would eventually be possessed by the Sun God himself.

Zeman refused.

Jacques asked sharply, “Even if the Sun God orders you to die, would you accept it willingly?”

Jacques had joined the temple impulsively; his faith wasn’t devout. Between the deity and a close friend, he would undoubtedly choose his friend.

“Of course,” Zeman said calmly, with absolute certainty in his eyes. “Without the Sun God, I would be dead long ago. It is the Sun God who gave me life.”

Jacques was furious at his reply and punched him in anger.

“Just because of that fire?”

Zeman tilted his head, dodging the attack. “Yes.”

Zeman could barely recall his childhood, only remembering the fire that struck his home when he was four. He should have perished with his parents, but he woke up unharmed, saved by a traveling Sun God cleric.

The cleric told him he was protected by the Sun God, which is why he survived.

The cleric also said he had a unique talent and sent him to the Sun God’s temple to study.

Facing the stubborn Zeman, Jacques argued loudly, eventually storming off in frustration.

Before leaving the temple, Jacques firmly said, “I am your sworn knight. I will never let you become like His Holiness the Pope. When I find a way back, I will give you a good beating!”

A sworn knight shouldn’t leave the Holy Child for long, but Zeman silently allowed it.

He didn’t need anyone’s protection, nor a sworn knight.

Jacques had been drawn to the prestige of the title and the rarity of sworn knights, which is why he had made a show of defeating others to become Zeman’s knight.

Now Jacques was disillusioned, not devout, and staying in the temple could cause trouble if he clashed with the Sun God.

Zeman hadn’t realized that the day of their argument would be the last time he saw Jacques.

Adoptive father, Jacques, Albin… what could he truly protect?

It seemed those who had wanted to protect him were always the ones who ended up in danger beyond his reach.

Zeman exhaled, suppressing his chaotic thoughts, and closed his eyes to rest briefly.

One Year Ago, Thorn City.

It had been a while since Jacques formally adopted the two children.

That day, Jacques carried the unconscious Little Black and wearily entered the house, catching a whiff of a fragrant smell.

“Oh! Is that apple pie?” Jacques immediately perked up. His eyes brightened as he looked at the somewhat awkwardly-shaped apple pie on the table, bending forward to inspect it.

Albin proudly placed his hands on his hips. “It’s a reward for your hard work, Little Black and Uncle Jacques!”

He stood on tiptoe, patting Jacques’ head with one hand and Little Black’s head with the other, smiling brightly. “You both trained hard today! You’re amazing!”

Being praised like a child, Jacques scratched his face, feeling a little embarrassed.

But he couldn’t deny he absolutely enjoyed Albin’s compliments!

Ah—his exhaustion vanished instantly.

Being praised every day—what a wonderful feeling!

This is the ideal family he imagined!

They—the black, white, and gray—were truly a happy family.

He had a small complaint: “Why can’t Little White call me Daddy? He used to call me ‘Brother Jacques,’ and now it’s ‘Uncle’?”

“No, I have a dad.” Albin rejected him firmly. “If Little Black calls you Daddy, then I can’t call you brother anymore.”

Jacques couldn’t help feeling a bit regretful.

Albin blinked and smiled: “But that doesn’t stop me from liking Uncle Jacques. I see you trying to be a good father. Since Little Black has a good dad, I’ll be happy too.”

Jacques blushed again from the praise.

“Did Little Black get so tired today that he fell asleep again?” Albin leaned in to observe. “Was the training too intense?”

“No, it’s that kid who trains too hard—he won’t stop even if you try to pull him back,” Jacques sighed, placing little Black on the chair. “Even when I’m not around, he secretly trains more. I really didn’t expect he’d be such a stubborn kid.”

Albin anxiously tended to the injuries little Black got during training.

“Why is little Black training so hard?” Albin asked, puzzled. Clearly, they weren’t facing any major crisis at the moment.

Jacques chuckled: “It’s better if you ask him yourself later.”

Albin nodded, watching the sleeping little Black, and his concern resurfaced.

“Should we wake him up to eat?”

“Leave it to me.” Jacques’s eyes glinted with mischief as he grinned, calling out, “Ah, if little Black doesn’t wake up, I can eat Little White’s homemade apple pie all by myself—handmade, mind you~”

Little Black, who had been sound asleep, twitched suddenly.

He shakily lifted his hand to brace against the table, struggling to raise his head and open his heavy eyelids, like trying to activate a rusted robot left unused for years, creaking as it moved.

From his throat came broken words: “My… Little White’s apple pie… is mine…”

He snapped his eyes open, ready to challenge Jacques, but his sharp gaze collided with a pair of clear red eyes. Realizing the person in front of him wasn’t Jacques, he hastily softened his expression.

“Open your mouth, ah—” Albin cheerfully held up a spoonful of apple pie, blowing on it a few times before bringing it to his mouth.

Little Black stiffly opened his mouth and was fed a bite of sweet-and-sour apple pie made with honey.

And it was Little White feeding him by hand!

Completely unprepared for such treatment, little Black seemed out of his body, chewing blankly, the warmth spreading through him, restoring some strength.

Jacques, seeing this, shouted from the side: “I want Little White to feed me too!”

He sat with his arms drooping on the table like a big dog, chin resting on the surface, waiting to be fed.

“Ah—” he opened his mouth eagerly.

Albin scooped another bite for him, but little Black suddenly grabbed his hand.

Staring at Jacques, little Black bit down on the spoon in Albin’s hand.

“Little White, I’ll feed you.” To prevent Albin from being tricked again by a shameless adult, he took the spoon and fed Albin instead.

Albin happily complied, sitting obediently and opening his mouth to be fed.

Little Black’s gaze passed over the hot apple chunks on the spoon, landing on Albin’s expectant face.

The sky hadn’t fully darkened yet, and he could still see his reflection in Albin’s eyes.

Albin was watching him intently.

So, so cute.

Little Black carefully blew on the pie to cool it and handed it over, but another spoon beat him to it, already in Albin’s mouth—Jacques.

He widened his eyes in disbelief.

Experience beats youth—Jacques raised his chin smugly, shooting him a victorious glance as if to get revenge for earlier.

“Damn you, you rascal!” Little Black jumped up instantly.

“Call me dad, you brat!”

The two were about to clash around the table, black aura already swirling off little Black.

Albin blinked in confusion.

“Aren’t you two eating the pie?”

They both looked at him: “We are!”

Though they said they were eating, they ended up feeding Albin together enthusiastically.

Left bite, right bite—Albin was starting to worry he wouldn’t be able to finish… He puffed out his cheeks, grabbed two spoons, and fed them back.

One bite each, and finally, peace!

Hehe, both of them were so cute.

With Jacques joining, this temporary little family became even livelier.

Jacques didn’t want to let the two kids rely on him forever. After a while, a subordinate delivered some money, freeing him from his penniless status.

Although he hadn’t inherited the throne, he still had a noble title, a full duchy, and a knight’s salary from the temple—his income wasn’t small.

He decisively moved the two kids to a better residence, in the north of Thorn City. It was somewhat secluded—perfect for their training.

The kids didn’t need to find work outside anymore; he would raise them entirely.

He taught them reading and writing, as well as improving their combat skills.

Albin wasn’t naturally inclined toward fighting and could have skipped training, but he insisted on building strength.

In a year, he would be the one to drag his father out of a burning building—he couldn’t risk being too weak then.

He trained daily, preparing for a future encounter with Zeman.

Most of the time, he practiced magic. Jacques wasn’t a mage, so he only taught theory.

Though Albin hadn’t learned proper incantation magic, he could already use slightly advanced spells to duel little Black!

Jacques, meanwhile, was studying ancient inscriptions on stone tablets, often disappearing for days in Thorn City to investigate ruins or request bizarre books from merchants.

This routine continued for a year, and autumn arrived.

Albin remembered meeting Zeman in October and waited eagerly for that day.

“Uncle Jacques, the book merchant has delivered the books.” Albin called inside, but there was no answer.

He walked into the study to find him.

Inside, Jacques was scratching his head over the copied inscriptions from a stone tablet, surrounded by piles of expensive books.

This was a familiar scene; Jacques had no scholarly talent but seemed intent on research.

Albin had asked before, but Jacques never explained.

He walked beside him, listening to Jacques mutter strange words.

“[Great Sage]… [War]…”

“Uncle Jacques, the book merchant is here. What are you muttering about great sages and war?” Albin asked.

Jacques snapped back: “Ah, let him wait a moment, I’ll be right there.”

Jacques stood, then abruptly froze, gripping Albin’s shoulder with blazing eyes.

“How can you understand the words I just said?”

Albin was stunned.

Right, those weren’t common words—how could he understand them, almost as if listening to monster speech, directly grasping their meaning?

“I don’t know… I just understand them when I hear them.”

Could he be a language prodigy?

Jacques tested a few more words:

“God, Sun, Magic Tower, 12, mass, murder, destroy…” Albin answered one by one.

“Some I didn’t understand. Was your pronunciation off?”

Jacques looked at him with delight, placing a full scroll of ancient text before him.

“Can you understand this?”

Albin glanced, shook his head.

If he could, he would have already told Jacques.

“What are these? Languages from other countries?” Albin asked, confused.

“No. According to divine records, written language was taught to humans by the gods, and the temple monopolized education, so the entire continent uses the same language.”

That made sense—Albin had traveled with his father to several countries with no communication issues. He had thought it was some quirk of a comic-book world.

Jacques picked up a sheet, his tone heavy.

“These are the original scripts used on this continent, forbidden by the temple, which has been destroying them. Using part of the royal library, I reconstructed some pronunciations and meanings and discovered a major secret. Thanks to your help, Albin, the parts that had stalled are now clear.”

Albin asked, “What secret?”

“A dangerous one.” Jacques forced a smile, dismissed the book merchant, and his relaxed demeanor vanished. Alone, he opened a letter.

He wrote down his findings, tied the sealed letter to a white dove’s leg, and released it.

The dove was sacred to the Sun Temple; in the western continent where the temple’s influence spread, no one would harm it. This was faster than sending via caravan or post.

Zeman’s Sunlight Necklace could track the dove, ensuring delivery. Jacques had used this method while traveling before.

Holy Sun Church, Sun Temple.

A handsome pope with golden hair walked through the temple corridor. Several white doves soared against the sunset, their holy wings circling the elegant and grand temple dome, then perched on a windowsill, preening.

One landed on Zeman’s windowsill.

The pope noticed something tied to its leg. With a simple motion, magic drew the dove into his hand.

He saw Jacques’s seal on the wax.

Jacques.

He remembered this man—he had left the temple after a major quarrel with his holy son.

The timing of that quarrel… the pope’s eyes darkened.

Of course, he could sense his son’s fluctuating attitude toward him, but seeing Zeman still prayed devoutly daily, he hadn’t intervened.

He was satisfied with his son. As for Jacques—

The pope broke the seal and read the letter. His eyes turned icy as he killed the dove.

“Prepare the carriage. Go to Thorn City.”