Adoption. That was a word I had never even considered.

But Ilga, staring into the darkness, had indeed murmured it. Unless I misheard.

I turned back and asked.

“Adoption? You?”

“Yeah. Not even a bastard child. There isn’t a single drop of noble blood in me. The true heir of the Freiges family, Ilga Freiges, was someone else.”

My mind reeled.

It wasn't like when Riona had called herself Miku Orunkaim.

“Huh...? I don’t understand.”

“It’s nothing complicated. The real Ilga Freiges died in that war, a battlefield sacrifice. It was his first campaign. I was an orphan with no known lineage, taken in by the Freiges family in his place.”

Speechless.

Ilga continued to stare into the darkness, only his lips moving.

“To Marquis Freiges, I was likely a replacement for his lost child. Or perhaps just a cork stopper to halt the Marquise’s tears... It’s laughable, really. I wasn’t even the same age as the real one. I only happened to have similar hair and facial features to what Ilga Freiges had when he was young.”

A child plucked from a poor orphanage by Marquis Freiges was named Ilga and cherished by the couple. Even when the child acted differently from the real Ilga, they would simply smile, watching over him as if he were truly their own.

I asked,

“Did you... um, from the beginning... know?”

“That I was just a substitute?”

There was so much bitterness in his words that even nodding felt difficult.

But Ilga kept going, never once looking at me, his gaze locked on the night.

“Of course, I didn’t know at first. The Freiges couple never told me. Or rather, they didn’t want to admit it—to themselves—that I was a fake.”

“I see...”

“Either way, I was brought into the Marquis' household, unaware of anything. I was given a life without worries about food, shelter, or clothing. So, I thought I was simply lucky, blessed by the gods. I loved them as if they were my real parents.”

But one day, a servant let something slip. The truth that had been carefully hidden from the boy—the existence of the real Ilga Freiges, who bore the very name given to him.

From there, the boy investigated on his own. He discovered the truth about Ilga Freiges.

He learned...

That the room he had been given once belonged to the real Ilga.

That the clothes the Marquise had dressed him in as he grew up once belonged to the real Ilga.

That the ones truly loved by these kind parents weren’t a nameless boy—but Ilga Freiges.

—I was nothing more than a replacement.

The love they had given me was all an illusion. As long as I resembled him, it didn’t have to be me. It could have been anyone.

Because the one who was meant to receive that love was no longer in this world.

“I collapsed to my knees.”

“Did you hate them?”

Ilga scoffed.

“Of course not. How could I hate them now? They gave me so much. But still... I wanted them to see me—not the nameless boy who played the role of Ilga Freiges, but me.”

Ilga let out a sigh, one that carried the weight of an old man’s exhaustion.

Staring into the void.

“But I don’t need borrowed love anymore. That’s why I decided to become more Ilga Freiges than the real one ever was. A noble of Galliant’s proudest lineage. A true and courageous knight. Even without bloodline or talent, I needed to be those things.”

“...”

“You said you split the class into two. Noblesse oblige. Nobles have responsibilities. At the very least, students of the fourth and fifth groups are not yet knighted. The duty of battle falls only on true knights of noble blood.”

Still gazing into the darkness, he added one last thing.

With a smile.

“But Ryoka had a point. I don’t know if those students truly entered the academy to become knights. But rather than shielding them from battle, we all—both them and us—need to become stronger.”

As I barely managed a silent nod, Ilga continued.

“What noble duty? No matter what grand words I spout, with my power, I can achieve nothing. I must become stronger. Immediately. I must become the real thing.”

“...”

“Like you and Ryoka. Like Scale and Belzhein. I thought I could hold my own to some extent, but being here has only exposed how pathetic I am.”

Finally. At last, Ilga looked at me.

Seeing me too stunned to speak, his smile twisted bitterly.

“I am weak.”

No, that’s not weakness. It’s not about the sword. It’s not about bloodline. Your strength lies elsewhere.

Mental fortitude. That’s why you can acknowledge your weakness. I wanted to tell him that, but the words caught in my throat.

Ilga scratched his cheek with a fingertip, looking awkward.

“In the end... I just wanted my foster parents to love me. More than the happiness they gave me, more than the happiness the real Ilga would have given them... I wanted to bring them even greater joy. So that one day, they could look at me with pride and say, ‘You are truly our son.’”

To be a noble. To be a proper knight. And to live longer than they did.

All of it—to surpass the real Ilga.

To obtain love that was real.

I forced words from my throat, a voice thin and trembling.

“...You were trying to become more real than the real one...”

“Yeah.”

“...Then, you have no business dying...”

Use us. Me. Void. Riona. The commoners, too.

To achieve your goal.

“Heh, exactly. That’s why, truthfully, I’m grateful to Scale and Belzhein, too. Even if I acted the way I did. But I can’t allow them—non-nobles—to risk their lives protecting me. I must be a noble of dignity, a knight of valor, and, above all, Ilga Freiges.”

Ilga exhaled a long breath, this time refreshingly.

“If being scorned is the price for not letting commoners protect me, so be it. I pushed them away. I was angry—at my own weakness.”

Maybe because he had finally let it all out, his expression seemed a little clearer.

“That’s all it is. Just childish selfishness. Well? Have I repaid at least half the debt now?”

“...More than enough...”

Ilga took out a handkerchief from his pocket and plopped it onto my head.

“Then stop crying already, Eremia. Give me a break. If people see this, they’ll think I did something to you.”

Digging into someone’s past isn’t something to do lightly. Not with Oujin. Not with Ilga.

I returned the handkerchief to him, now completely soaked with snot.