I Became the Narrow-Eyed Character in the Little Prince Game

Sssaaa—
A gently blowing breeze.
Spring in full bloom brushed past the flower petals, scattering their fresh scent into the air.

Beyond the softly drifting fragrance, the season shone vividly.
And yet, within that season, there lingered an inescapable sense of dissonance.
Pooled blood on the ground. Frost clinging to every surface.

At the heart of that solitary winter, someone had collapsed.
The once-noble ice crumbled.
"Haa, haa…"

A ragged figure.
A boy, soaked in blood, gasping for breath.
His blue hair marked him as Ruska Vanity.

He had become little more than a ruined rag.
"Shit… what a persistent brat."
"Our little lord’s grown up, hasn’t he?"

"Seriously. Didn’t think we’d lose two of our own."
A few shadows loomed before the boy’s eyes.
Smirks curled on every one of their lips.

They looked down at the ruined Ruska with delight.
He was a perfect wreck of a human being.
Snowflakes swirled around them—proof of his fierce resistance.
Though it hadn’t even lasted five minutes.

"……"
Blood blurred his vision.
A dense, dull pain dragged his eyelids closed.

But even as he lay completely broken, the boy never released the sword in his grasp.
Perhaps finding that resolve laughable, their mocking deepened.
More jeers reached his ears.

"How about opening those eyes with a little more humility?"
"Why’d you go and rush your own death? We were just about to take care of you anyway."
"Did you really have to let the target escape? So damn annoying."

"Tch… cleaning this up is gonna be a pain."
Thunk—!
An arrow, loosed in jest, embedded itself in his thigh.

A burst of red spread beneath his pants as his leg twitched.
Ruska gritted his teeth.
Whether it was sadism or just play, they aimed only for places that wouldn’t kill him instantly.

Probably just trying to enjoy it while they still had time.
"Never thought the young master would betray us."
"He’d been so obedient until now."

"Give it three more minutes, and the faculty will start to catch on."
"Let’s clean this up and get out of here~."
It was laughable.

They were the ones who had betrayed the family.
Yet the boy couldn’t stop his name from being smeared in disgrace.
The vivid light in his blue eyes began to fade.

‘Was it all for nothing…?’
His consciousness slowly frayed.
It had been impossible from the start.

He couldn’t even defeat his sister—what hope did he have against the family’s assassins?
But he stood here, ready to die, so there was no room for regret.
This way, Emilia would be free.

The only lingering regret—
‘…I never got to become a hero.’
It was a small, childish wish buried in his heart since he was young.

He had always admired his father.
Always wanted to be like the man whose back he followed.
Now, it felt like nothing but a fading mirage.

Ruska chewed bitterly on the fragments of that crumbling self-image.
His fading heartbeat echoed through his eardrums.
"Ruska."
"A hero isn’t just someone who walks with miracles."
"If they can stand even on trembling legs, then the stars will name them."
"You be someone like that."

His heart pounded.
As if trying to shout to the world that he was still alive.
Faint pulses of life—his only tie to breath.

That flickering life was like grains of sand.
The more he tried to gather them, the more they slipped through his fingers, drowning him in despair.
The boy stood alone before his winter.

He grasped his shattered sword.
Sreee—
‘Maybe—’

With the last strength he could wring from himself.
A pitiful chill crystallized into something sharp and murderous.
Shaved frost took the form of a blade once more.

He stepped forward on staggering legs.
‘Could I… still become a hero?’
He asked himself.

A child drenched in filth, asking the question.
He had submitted to reality, tainted his reverence, adapted to it.
He had forgotten who he was, and drowned in adulthood.

And yet—could he still walk toward the night sky?
Would even someone like him be given a name by the stars?
Just as he raised his sword, a voice called to him.

[My child.]
It was like a miracle.
Spoken against the backdrop of a dawn too quiet to name.

A faint whisper found its way to Ruska.
[Why do you seek me in your tale of heroism?]
[There is no night or sky in life.]
[To shine if you wish to shine, to burn through if you wish to burn—that is life.]
[The name of your story is not given by anyone.]
[So then—live your own dawn.]
It was not the voice of a star.

He lacked the talent to receive any answer from transcendence.
It was simply that his still-burning heart hadn’t yet gone out.
A thirst for heroism, a will—that had sparked a kind of auditory hallucination.

In short, it was nothing more than a meaningless delusion.
But even so—
[Grasp your sword.]
[For the world remains your night.]

Even if it was a lie—
For the boy, it was enough.
[Shine.]

Ruska stood up.
He took his stance.
Behind him, frost swept like a fluttering cape.

At his fingertips, he held the dawn itself.
His once-faded eyes opened wide.
He erased all hesitation.

With the snap of his white veil, the last of his strength surged forth from both hands.
Just like the stories of heroes he’d always admired.
Just like the names he’d childishly longed for.

"Haa…"
His breath escaped him.
The temperature in the alleyway dropped with terrifying speed.

Step—
The boy took a single step forward.
A blade of ice, honed to perfect form.

The hand that found balance just a moment before now pierced the stillness.
The blue line of light streaked forward, aiming to shatter their formation.
A flash near the speed of thought lit up the surroundings.

"“……!?”"
The assassins flinched at the sudden movement.
Had they really thought he was completely subdued?

A few were caught off guard and yielded ground to the boy.
His blue hair flared as he launched into the attack without hesitation.
A brilliant light wrapped around the edge of his blade.

Shhhhrrrrk—!
His ultimate technique, imbued with the entirety of his pitiful life.
The icy blue blade was quiet—eerily so.

There was not the slightest tremble in Ruska’s blue eyes.
‘Star.’
That was the name the boy gave it.

Even if the world dismissed it as a fake, like a shard of glass stuck in sand—
Even if the world chose to call him something else—
It didn’t matter.

"Become a star like a guidepost."
"Let the weak hide in your shadow, and the strong find direction in your light."
To simply believe that he was a star.
That was enough.

To the boy, he was a star.
"Hhp…!"
Slash—

A direct line carved through the assassins.
Snowflakes surged in a brilliant white blaze.
Severed heads from the ambushed targets flew with the wind.

Those who let down their guard paid with their lives.
Only the quick-witted remained standing.
"……"

Six were cut down.
But even now, four enemies remained before him.
It was a more hopeful number than before, yet Ruska could go no further.

He had scraped the bottom of his strength—there was nothing left.
Thud—
His staggering legs gave out.

The end had come at last.
But the boy was satisfied with his own ending.
From the start, the difference in power had been overwhelming; to take down even half of them was a feat in itself.

Besides, Ruska hadn’t even been someone chosen by the stars.
This was the best he had been allowed.
The boy had already become a hero.

"This much… was enough… to deal a blow, right…?"
He didn’t worry about the stragglers.
He had dragged things out long enough that the faculty would surely have noticed by now.

Still, he had wanted to personally punish some of the traitors.
And—just for a little while—he had wanted to live like a hero.
Not as some worthless scrap of life, but as a single moment of iron and blood.

Ruska could feel his eyelids growing heavier and heavier.
"Damn it…!"
"W-What the hell hit us? What the hell was that just now!?"
"The little lord bastard tricked us! He had something left up his sleeve all along!"
"I told you we should’ve killed him and been done with it!"
"Just finish him off already!"
He was a dead man walking anyway.

The moment he violated the Mana Oath and went against the plan, it was over.
In another twenty minutes, his heart would be crushed—no doubt about it.
Maybe he’d be killed before that.

He didn’t ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) know.
The boy simply closed his eyes.
To fall into a sleep he wouldn’t wake from.

And to say a final, eternal farewell.
‘So quiet.’
Silence settled over him like still snow.

A cool spring breeze brushed past.
In a season finally in full bloom, the last of the chill slowly faded.
Ruska became still alongside his fading winter.

And at the end of that dawn—
"Ruska!"
A voice he knew well.

His vision opened on reflex.
The boy looked toward the sound with fading eyes.
There, blue hair he knew all too well fluttered in the wind.

It was none other than Emilia.
"Sis…?"
Why was she here?

Before the question could even form, a black veil fluttered into his vision.
A shadow descended against the backdrop of starlit night.
Beneath the coat, a crimson wine-colored shirt peeked through.

A figure that looked as if it had emerged from the darkness embraced Emilia protectively.
The signature narrow eyes were just as unsettling as ever.
"Heh."

A chuckle in the breaking dawn.
As his gaze met Ruska’s, the snake half-opened his lids.
White irises glimmered faintly as they swept the area.

Eyes so deep they threatened to pull you in at any moment.
Behind them, the alley was bathed in moonlight.
"You’ve done well, young lord."

The snake offered a short word of praise.
Then, aiming at the panicked assassins, he snapped fingers cloaked in blackness.
A flare burst from the boy’s fingertips, like a flash from a powder fuse.

And then—a sharp, resonant explosion.
Crack—!
"Shatter."

In that instant—
The remaining assassins in the alley all lost their heads.
Their lifeless bodies collapsed one after another.

No warning. Just collapse.
The boy could only watch, dazed.
"Did I startle you?"

Behind the resplendent moonlight—
A smiling memento mori.