Vol 1 Chapter 22: Epilogue – The Prince Elvyn and the Lost Memories

Cloudy Night Sky in the Capital…

POV: Elvyn El Rose

I was standing at the edge of the golden palace balcony when the night wind brushed against me. The breeze gently stirred my blond hair.

I looked up at the night sky for a moment. The grey heavens seemed to blend with my restless heart.

…

I stood still for a few seconds before turning back and returning to my room.

I sat alone in my chamber. Documents sealed with rose wax had piled up on my desk.

I tried to move my hand to hold the golden pen. But the moment I gripped it, my hold slipped.

The pen fell to the floor, bouncing and spinning in the air before stopping on the marble tiles.

I picked it up. Then, I reached for one of the rose-sealed documents. My hand carefully broke the wax seal.

My blue eyes read each line on the brown parchment with care. At the end of the text, there was a column waiting for my signature.

I tried to mark the column with my pen. But my grip loosened again. The pen dropped onto the desk before finishing its task.

My breath felt heavy. I couldn’t focus.

Not because the workload was stressing me out, but because my heart felt empty.

I touched my chest and could feel a void there, something I couldn’t explain. Ever since the world’s memory collapsed seven years ago, I had sensed that a part of my soul had been erased, buried by history.

I closed my eyes and could feel a presence so warm. Someone precious. Someone who had shaped me. Someone who made me feel alive.

Not as a Prince,
Not as a royal advisor,
Not as a military general,
But as Elvyn El Rose.

Every time I tried to remember that person, the face was always veiled by wilted rose petals.

The harder I tried to recall, the more my head throbbed. I knew… the world had forced me to forget this person.

I looked up at the dim ceiling. My lips pressed tightly.

“Who are you?”

That figure never answered me, not even in dreams. This room remained as silent as the part of my heart that had lost someone.

…

My thoughts were scattered. I couldn’t let them weigh me down endlessly. I turned back to my desk, forcing my focus.

There, a rolled-up document lay beside the pile of rose-sealed papers. It was Clara’s report about the two fugitives she had investigated for nearly two weeks in Rose Valley.

I picked up the report and opened it again.

Clara had only just returned. The report was written with her usual neat, cold precision.

“No signs of the fugitives. Their tracks disappeared deep in the forest.”

“They are strongly suspected to have been killed by wild beasts. No remains were found.”

“Or likely died in an internal conflict between criminals. No evidence of involvement from the valley villagers.”

“The area is safe. Extremely safe. Safer than the capital. I advise you not to send anyone there.”

“Fugitives not found. Search concluded.”

“Likely deceased before the investigation team arrived. No bodies or traces of their presence were found.”

…

My hand tightened around the report. I knew… Clara was not telling the whole truth. But as a detective of conscience, Clara was known for her honesty and integrity. Even when she lied, her lies were clean — unlike the petty deceptions of nobles.

I didn’t want to doubt her. She had contributed greatly to the kingdom’s stability. Besides, she… was one of the few people I could confide in without worrying about aristocratic masks.

I placed the report back on the table. I wouldn’t question her — at least not for now.

“Ugh…”

I held my head as a stabbing pain throbbed through my nerves.

“Elvyn—”

A gentle woman’s voice suddenly echoed in my mind. I clutched my head with both hands. My blond hair fell messily over my fingers. Yet—

“Why… can’t I remember her?”

I lowered my gaze to the shiny floor. Tears had already dripped onto the ceramic tiles.

“Tes… tess…”

I touched my eyes. Tears were spilling down my cheeks.

I bit my lip and let myself curl forward, waiting for time to wash the sorrow away.

…

The night felt unbearably quiet, leaving only me in this room.

I sat silently on the gold-trimmed chair. Its polished surface glimmered under the lantern’s glow.

But the shine didn’t distract me. It couldn’t pull me away from the scent of roses that had haunted my soul for years.

“Who was I… before the world chose to forget?” I whispered into the still room.

No one answered. Only faint memories and an empty heart remained.

For the past seven years, a vague silhouette had haunted my dreams. A woman, her silver hair gleaming under the moonlight.

Her smile was enchanting. Her touch is warm. And her voice was softer than the melody of a full moon night.

“Elvyn… be the light of this kingdom. I may fall into darkness. But you… you must remain its light,” she whispered beneath moonbeams.

Every time her voice echoed, my chest tightened. Like an old wound left unseen.

Every time a red rose bloomed in the palace garden, I felt the urge to cry without knowing why.

…

After the memory of the world fell, countless people lost parts of themselves. I was no exception.

I knew… what vanished from my soul was more than just a memory.

What disappeared was someone who had given meaning to my life before the world chose to forget.

I once asked several palace officials about my unease. But they told me to let it go. They said it was merely a side effect of the collapse of world memory

More than that, I knew they simply wanted me to focus on my duties as prince. They cared more about my position than who I truly was.

I refuse to forget that faint memory, even if it shatters me night after night. Because to me, that memory is my identity.

To forget my identity… would be the same as killing myself.

...

I rose from my chair and walked toward the bookshelf in the corner of my room.

This bookshelf held my most treasured collection of books—magic, rose-sword techniques, military strategy, economic development, the administration of just governance, and even aristocratic etiquette. All of them were precious, and many were controversial.

But none of those books was what interested me tonight.

I reached for a thick volume with a black cover.

I opened its pages. Inside, neatly arranged, were all the notes Clara and I had gathered about the lost history.

My hand brushed through the pages one by one until it stopped halfway through the book.

I pulled out an old sheet of paper. The moment my fingers touched it, my hand trembled on its own.

A faint scent of dried roses drifted from the worn paper. I had discovered this sheet by chance in the ruins of an old church during an expedition with the knights to the western ruins of the capital five years ago.

The first time I found it, I saw the rose sigil stamped on it. My heart began beating faster. My eyes stung. But I didn’t know why.

It was clearly nothing more than a wanted notice issued by the Rose Kingdom. And yet… somehow, it felt familiar.

At the top was the emblem of a rose—the royal crest of the Rose Kingdom. Under it, the word “WANTED” was printed in thick black ink.

Below that was the image of a fugitive whose features were blurred, erased by history. But that was not what shook me.

Under the faded portrait was a line written in red ink:

“Threat Level: IV – Blightbrand.”

Blightbrand… a high-level threat capable of bringing down the kingdom itself. Throughout all the reconstructed archives of our history, only a handful of entities had ever been classified under a threat this severe.

I did not know who this notice referred to. But whoever they were, they must have been a terrifying figure—one who shook the foundations of the Rose Kingdom before the world fell into amnesia.

Not even rebel commanders who reached master-level combat were ever given a Blightbrand designation. Even those who commanded thousands of gifted soldiers.

At most, they were labelled Threat Level III – Stormbound, dangerous extremists who threatened public order.

I had ordered Clara to investigate further. Yet all we found were fragments of legends muttered by dazed survivors.

They dreamed of meeting mystical women.

Some said they encountered a goddess of salvation who handed them a red rose.

Others claimed they saw a goddess walking through the fog.

A few insisted they had received an apple from a sage in a crimson cloak.

But these were merely verbal accounts from people describing chaotic dreams—too subjective to be trusted, closer to myths than evidence.

Clara had collected such testimonies for years. At first, we didn’t take them seriously.

But one day, a survivor of the old world woke from a month-long coma and gave his final testimony. He delivered one last warning:

“They will return, the Disaster Princesses:
Blood Rose who overtook the tyrants,
Black Mist who embraced the women in the fog,
And their wounded sisters.
They will come to force the world to remember its sins.”

The next morning, Clara found the man hanging in his room.

…

I slipped the wanted paper back into the middle pages, closed the black book, and returned it to its place on the shelf. I stood there for a long moment, exhaling a heavy breath.

The night had grown colder. I walked to my bed.

I rested my head on the pillow. My fingers touched the scar on my chest. My vision blurred, and I drifted into sleep.

That night, I dreamed. And unlike all the other vague dreams before it, this one was clear.

I dreamed of a woman embracing me.

Not a noblewoman seeking my attention—but someone whose embrace made me feel alive.

She wore a blood-stained rose gown. Her silver hair flowed down her back.

She was not only beautiful… she was regal, untouchable—bearing the weight of the world’s sins on her shoulders.

Amid the ruins swallowed by thick fog, she held me in her arms.

Blood soaked my shoulder. Her breaths were ragged. Her lips were stained red. She whispered her final words:

“You must live… Elvyn. Live… live for everyone… I couldn’t protect—” she said weakly, coughing blood.

My eyes widened.

A blade veiled in mist pierced through her back and stabbed into my chest.

My chest bled. But the suffocating pain did not come from the wound.

It came from her embrace—from the fact that she was dying in my arms. I couldn’t stop my tears.

“Si—”

My lips uttered something terribly important. But before I could understand it, my eyes opened to the dim ceiling of my chamber.

I touched my cheeks. They were wet.

I wiped my tears away and covered my face, letting time wash away the sorrow.

...

I rose from my bed. I stepped slowly toward the balcony of the palace. The sky was still dark; dawn had not yet arrived.

From the west, the breeze carried a soft fragrance.

The scent of roses from the palace garden.

The same scent as the embrace of the woman in my dream.

And below my balcony, a woman with purple hair tied in a ponytail walked quietly through the lightly fogged garden.

She wore a grey coat. She stopped before the fountain.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out her wallet, and took out a folded slip of paper. She opened it and smiled softly as she read.

“Clara… what are you hiding from me?” I whispered with a faint smile.

The conscience-driven detective had grown warmer since returning from Rose Valley.

I knew everyone kept secrets. But I hoped she could help me answer the prayer I whispered at dawn:

“Who was I before the world chose to forget?”

Author's Note: This chapter has been rewritten (2).