The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL] novel Chapter 441

Chapter 441: Success?

There was silence.

Both of them registered what he’d just said.

"I-I mean—how would my friend sleep?! That’s what I meant! I meant, how does he—"

But his mother was already smiling like a cat with a fish bowl.

"Ahh, well..." she said, drawing out the words, "a good cuddle usually helps."

"Huh?"

"Isn’t that how you normally fall asleep? You’ve always liked being hugged. Maybe you should tell your friend to try that."

Ollie stared at her.

Then at the screen.

Then back at the pillow beside him.

A pillow that did not, in fact, have arms.

"This is evil..." he whispered.

The Marquise laughed. "Goodnight, sweetheart. I hope your friend figures it out soon enough."

And just like that, the call ended.

He was left alone.

Devastated.

Mentally spiraling.

Because—because what now?! How was he supposed to get an embrace to sleep?! Kyle was gone! The shirt wasn’t alive! His arms were too short!

And the forums.

What would be on the forums?! What did she mean?! What had he missed?!

"AHHHHHH!" Ollie screamed into the void and collapsed backward on the bed.

He was doomed.

And yet, he dared to glance sideways.

At it.

The shirt.

Kyle’s shirt.

It sat there like a cursed object. Not glowing, not moving, but somehow radiating danger.

Ollie stared at it like it might suddenly whisper secrets.

He yanked his blanket up and covered his head.

The poor blonde had been teetering on the edge of insanity. Because the moment he peeked out, it was still there.

Taunting him.

So harmless. So...folded.

His brain hissed, Just take it.

"Absolutely not!" he whispered aloud to himself.

His terminal chimed softly with the time.

02:14 AM.

He was losing the fight. Defenseless against late-night thoughts and fabric.

With trembling hands and a wobbly lip, he reached out—just to fold it better. That was all. Nothing suspicious. Just being neat.

He picked it up. The fabric was warm, as if it had been freshly pressed. Soft. Worn in. The kind that someone actually wore at one point, not the new ones you only use for formal settings.

And because Ollie had the self-control of a bread roll in a bakery, he sniffed it.

Paused.

Sniffed again.

He turned red. Again. Because from what he remembered, the toiletries issued by the military were all the same, right? So what was this? WHY DID IT SMELL SO GOOD?!

He flung it across the bed like it had burned him. Then stared at it in betrayal. And yet, moments later, he was crawling back toward it on all fours, whispering frantic apologies like a lunatic begging forgiveness from a jilted lover.

"...I’m sorry," he whispered to the shirt.

This was it.

This was rock bottom.

Emotionally compromised.

And since he was already on the floor of dignity, he did what any defeated mess would do.

He dressed the pillow with the shirt.

Because at this point? If he wasn’t getting an embrace?

He’d just make his own cuddle buddy.

Although it might’ve been a little too effective.

Because the problematic cadet, who was supposed to heroically search the forums for life-altering truths, ended up passing out.

Face down.

Terminal still open.

One hand mid-scroll. The other, clinging to his makeshift emotional support pillow now dressed in a borrowed shirt.

And in the soft stillness of the room, with his nose buried in a scent that spelled disaster, he finally drifted off.

Mumbling something incoherent about dessert.

And cuddles.