Of all the things he could’ve possibly pondered while staring at the bizarre bullshit currently threatening to destroy his perfectly good eyesight, Killian found himself remembering something oddly specific.

Back when he was younger, there’d always be those people who wished they were living inside a novel.

Not just any novel, either. They usually preferred to talk about completed ones. One with a predetermined happy ending where all the major problems eventually worked themselves out and everyone important somehow managed to survive.

"...?"

Such a random thought out of the blue, right? But for some reason it felt absolutely fitting for this very moment.

Back then, Killian naturally thought that had to be some nonsensical wishful thinking.

In shorter but less polite terms, complete bullshit.

Because if they had enough free time to daydream themselves as whimsical protagonists elsewhere, then surely they had enough free time to finish their homework instead of begging to copy his.

Unfortunately, after years of experience, he eventually realized that even if those people were granted ten uninterrupted years of leisure, they’d still somehow fail to finish their assignments and would instead develop increasingly creative methods of pleading for assistance.

So eventually he stopped arguing.

Instead, he sat there doing homework while listening to them explain the obvious benefits of being fictional characters. Meanwhile, he toiled away on behalf of every imaginary Zerg-slaying prince, world-saving princess, and legendary hero they apparently envisioned themselves becoming.

And yet now, of all times, it was that admittedly irritating conversation he remembered.

Their most popular reason had always been plot armor.

Fair enough.

Who wouldn’t want that?

Granted, Killian always maintained that plot armor was only useful if one happened to be the protagonist, not some tragic character who survived every conceivable hardship only to choke on a proverbial rock near the end.

Obviously his friends didn’t particularly like his take on that, but he was doing the homework so he called the shots.

Then there was the usual appeal of adventure and freedom, of being able to become anything beneath whichever available sun happened to exist in that setting.

Looking back on it now, Killian could actually understand why they liked that idea so much. Young nobles, particularly recognized heirs, rarely got to choose their own paths, and for people trapped by expectations, the fantasy of becoming whatever they wanted must’ve sounded appealing.

Ironically enough, now that he was older and considerably less rigid than he used to be, he found himself thinking of an entirely different reason he could actually add to the argument.

Though far removed from that enticing plot armor or the ability to just be anything, he was more into the fact that in novels, problems appeared like trains.

Trains that most of the time made actual sense.

You get one train for every problem, and oftentimes it would get developed by adding more cars to it.

The characters would then tackle those problems one at a time, and even when the situation became complicated, there was usually enough structure for readers to make an educated guess about what might happen next. At the very least, they could develop some expectation of how things were likely to unfold.

More importantly, the solution was often traceable, implied, or clearly being set up ahead of time.

And because stories were meant to be consumed by actual people, most authors had the decency not to throw seventeen unrelated catastrophes at the same individual simultaneously.

Killian couldn’t help but realize that he found that deeply appealing.

If only they were living in those novels.

Because in novels, major events always seemed isolated, as though the entire universe politely paused so the protagonists could focus on the current crisis. The story would revolve around whatever problem mattered most, and everything else conveniently remained in the background until its turn arrived.

Reality, meanwhile, appeared to be written by a lunatic.

The Empire had problems.

The capital had problems.

His department had problems.

His younger brother and his gremlin-in-law were especially problematic.

In fact, the cadets surrounding him somehow attracted problems at a rate that seemed to violate several natural laws.

And because the universe apparently enjoyed tormenting him specifically, all of those problems had an unfortunate tendency to arrive at the same time.

Worse, they somehow always became his business.

Had he been some irrelevant extra in a novel, then surely all of this would’ve belonged to the main characters.

The blasted protagonists could’ve dealt with it.

The chosen ones could’ve dealt with it.

The people with plot armor could’ve dealt with it.

But no.

He had to be Killian-dammit-Nox.

Which meant the Empire’s problems became his problems. The capital’s problems became his problems. The increasingly bizarre collection of issues generated by people he personally knew somehow became his problems, too.

And now this.

Of all the things that could’ve landed on his desk today, it had to be this.

Killian clenched his fist as he summoned all the willpower and patience he had left as he bore witness to what had to be a joke coming out of the holographic projection.

__

Gone were the reports, charts, and alarming broadcasts that had dominated the screens all day.

Instead, what appeared was a sleek talkshow set that somehow managed to look luxurious without being obnoxious about it. Soft curved furniture sat beneath stage lighting, the backdrop displaying a tasteful panorama of stars and drifting nebulas. It had the polished atmosphere of a major interstellar program, futuristic but not so glaring that it hurt the eyes.

Seated on those couches were a female interviewer and two winged humanoids.

Objectively speaking, they were beautiful enough that even someone completely uninterested in appearances could acknowledge it. Their features leaned toward the feminine and androgynous, their glimmering wings practically blinding beneath the studio lights. As for their hair, it looked exactly like threads of woven starlight cascading down their backs.

Aeruns.

Specifically, twin Aeruns.

And by the looks of it, and because of the nature of his work, he could unfortunately identify those two.

Normally, such things wouldn’t have been of any concern to anyone, much less Killian.

But not today.

Because right there on the screen was a background projection of himself—albeit a younger version—standing between similarly younger winged beings who must’ve been those very two.

"..."

"..."

No wonder his assistant squirmed the entire time.

Judging by his age, the venue, and the rigid expression that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else, it had to have been one of those rare diplomatic banquets where he’d been forced to accompany his father while fulfilling his duties as the next heir. It was probably nothing more than a commemorative photograph taken for the sake of diplomacy.

Unfortunately, what came out of the twins’ mouths next made it abundantly clear that they hadn’t selected that particular image by accident.

"We’ve liked him since then."

"You could just imagine how long that’s been."

The two exchanged bright smiles before one of them added:

"We’ve kept it in our hearts all this time, but after seeing how the people of the Empire could bravely pour their hearts out and show their affection boldly..."

"We figured we ought to do the same for the sake of our love."

The interviewer visibly lost her composure for a second.

To her credit, she recovered quickly, though not before covering her mouth in surprise. One of the twins immediately leaned forward and asked whether she was alright.

"Yes," the woman replied at once. "My apologies. I was simply a little shocked, Your Highness."

A little.

Killian thought that was a remarkably restrained way of describing the situation.

"So this visit to the Empire..." the interviewer who seemed to have made it to her position by being tactful and reading critical situations carefully continued.

"Ah."

One of the twins tilted his head, and across projections all over Star Net, it was as if their screens sparkled just a little too much.

"Actually, we hope that this trip won’t remain a visit for long."

"We hope to settle here with him in the future."

The interviewer’s smile twitched.

Only slightly.

"Your Highness... did you say ’we’?"

The twins glanced at one another.

Then, much to Killian’s growing horror, both of them actually blushed.

"Yes."

"We’re twins, after all."

"And with how busy Young Lord Nox is..."

The second twin tilted his head.

"Wouldn’t it be best if there were two of us to take care of him?"

At this point, the young official finally understood why his assistant had forgotten basic manners and barged into the office without knocking.

The interviewer, meanwhile, was demonstrating the sort of professionalism that deserved a medal.

"Should the public perhaps mark that on their calendars?" she asked bravely.

"That would be our wish," one of the twins admitted.

"But we can’t ask for that yet."

"We’re simply here to pursue him."

"Ah, I see."

The woman nodded and immediately pivoted toward safer territory.

"Then what’s your opinion on our Chief of Staff’s reputation for being married to his work?"

To Killian’s absolute horror, the twins brightened.

Not politely.

Not subtly.

They genuinely looked delighted.

"Isn’t that admirable?"

"We’re not put off by it at all."

"And since there’s already two of us..."

One of them smiled warmly.

"What difference would it make if he remained married to his work? Someone as admirable as him would surely be able to handle that much."

The second nodded.

"As Royals ourselves, we understand responsibilities."

"And it’s one of the reasons we admire him."

The interviewer maintained her smile.

Though admittedly, it looked increasingly difficult to do so.

Eventually, however, the interview began drawing to a close.

She mentioned that the twins had specifically requested this segment and asked whether there was a reason for doing so.

"Yes," one of them replied graciously. "While it’s probably unusual, we didn’t want to be misunderstood for coming here out of the blue. So we wanted to state our intentions as soon as possible."

"We’ve truly been inspired by the citizens of the Empire."

The interviewer laughed softly at that.

Mostly because the two genuinely looked hopelessly in love.

It was difficult to interpret their words as anything else.

As she began wrapping things up, however, she seemed to notice the way the twins were looking at her.

The expression was almost pleading.

Hopeful.

Expectant.

The woman hesitated for only a moment before smiling.

"Well then. As for the Chief of Staff, do you have anything you’d like to say to him?"

The twins immediately straightened.

As though they’d been waiting for that exact question from the very beginning.

Then, in perfect unison, they declared:

"Our Lord, please wait for us!"

"We’ve traveled through three hundred and five planets just to see you."

And strangely enough, they weren’t looking at the interviewer anymore.

They weren’t even looking at the audience.

Instead, they were staring directly into the camera.

As though they somehow knew that somewhere beyond the broadcast, Killian Nox was currently watching every second of this unfolding disaster.