The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL] novel Chapter 1131

Chapter 1131: Three Hundred and Five Planets

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:

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