Chapter 222: Chapter-222

Larus stayed for a long while that first night, lingering in the quiet of Heena’s chambers, reluctant to leave her side even for a moment. But her body was far from recovered, and though he desperately wanted to remain to ensure her safety, the weight of the new northern crisis demanded his immediate attention.

Reports had come in while Heena was in her coma—border skirmishes, diplomatic tensions with the northern territories, resource disputes that threatened to escalate into full conflict. It was the kind of situation that required someone with authority, intelligence, and the ability to think strategically under pressure.

Someone exactly like Larus.

The next morning, Larus prepared to depart with the specialized team Heena had assigned to him. The group consisted of elite envoys skilled in negotiation, along with carefully selected guards whose presence remained secret even to most of the palace staff. This was a precaution Heena had insisted on—their primary goal was diplomacy, not conquest.

Her orders had been crystal clear: “Talk first. Negotiate. Find compromise. Only if words completely fail do you transition to war. And if it comes to that, be ruthless and efficient.”

Heena did not go out to see him off. She was still too weak to move without assistance, and she absolutely refused to let Larus force her to endure the strain of a public farewell where she’d have to maintain the image of strength while her body betrayed her with every step.

Instead, from her bed, she offered a simple: “Good luck. Don’t do anything stupid. Come back alive.”

He had acknowledged it with a solemn nod, his eyes lingering on her face for a long moment, memorizing every detail like he was afraid it might be the last time he saw her.

Then he left.

As Larus began his march out of the palace grounds, something remarkable happened. Every guard along the route—from the inner palace to the outer gates—lined the path to bid him farewell. They saluted him with genuine respect, recognizing him now not as a pretty foreign prince who’d married their Empress, but as a true leader of the realm who had held the empire together when it threatened to fracture.

High above in her chambers, Heena stood at the window despite her weakness, one hand braced against the frame for support, watching his figure grow smaller in the distance.

System 427 floated beside her in his miniature lion form, his golden glow dimmed with worry as he watched the departure.

“Are you sure about this, Host?” the System asked quietly.

Heena glanced at the small creature. She had noticed over the past weeks that his attachment to this world—and perhaps to Larus specifically—was growing far too large for what was supposed to be a digital companion with emotional safeguards.

“System,” Heena said, her voice regaining its pragmatic Black Lotus edge, “now that the bulk of the mission is complete, the female lead is neutralized, and the male leads are under control, there’s no need for you to linger here anymore.”

The System’s ears drooped. “What do you mean, Host?”

“I mean you should return to the System world and stay there until the ten-year mark is reached,” Heena said firmly. “When the decade is up, come back to extract me. But until then, there’s no reason for you to remain.”

The System looked at her with something that might have been hurt in his digital eyes. “Are you sure, Host?”

Heena nodded, her gaze returning to the horizon where Larus’s convoy had disappeared. “Yeah. Anyway, you being here is no longer useful to me.”

The words were harsh, but they were also protocol.

The separation wasn’t merely because the System was becoming less useful operationally. Every seasoned Host followed this standard procedure when required to remain in a mission world for an extended period. Once the immediate danger had passed, it was common practice to send the System back to recharge and maintain its core functions. Even an advanced interdimensional companion was still fundamentally a delicate piece of sophisticated technology that required regular maintenance.

For Heena, there was an additional layer of cold pragmatism. Her System was still young—barely experienced compared to the Systems assigned to veteran Hosts. She had no intention of letting him grow too fond of this world or its inhabitants. Attachments created vulnerabilities, and vulnerabilities led to mission failures.

She lived by a singular, hardened rule that had kept her alive through multiple dangerous missions: no matter how pure Larus’s love might be, she could not—*would not*—return it fully. Love was a variable she could not afford to include in her calculations. It made people stupid. Made them take unnecessary risks. Made them compromise missions for emotional reasons.

And Heena had never failed a mission.

She wouldn’t start now.

A sharp knock resonated through the door, breaking her train of thought.

“Enter,” Heena called.

The primary royal physician entered the chambers, an elderly man who had served the imperial family for over forty years. He bowed low, his face etched with somber professional focus.

“Your Majesty,” he began carefully, “may I check your pulse again?”

Heena nodded, offering her wrist.

During their last examination—right after she’d “woken” from the coma—she had given him a subtle signal, a barely perceptible wink that had prompted him to tell Larus and everyone else that she was recovering normally and would be fine with rest.

It had been a lie.

They both knew it.

The physician took her pulse now, his experienced fingers reading the rhythm with the precision of someone who had spent a lifetime studying the human body. His brow furrowed as he concentrated.

“Your Majesty,” he said quietly, “your pulse appears normal on the surface, but I suspect it is not truly stable.”

“Indeed,” Heena replied, her voice flat and matter-of-fact.

“Can you tell me specifically what symptoms you’re experiencing?” the physician asked, pulling out a small notebook to record her condition.

Heena looked at him directly. “My monthly cycles have stopped.”

The physician frowned, his confusion evident. “Stopped entirely? Or simply delayed? How can you be certain given that you were in a coma for three weeks?”

“They should have come by now,” Heena explained. “Even accounting for the coma and the body’s stress response, the timing is wrong. They haven’t arrived at all.”

The physician nodded slowly, making notes. “We should monitor this for a few more months to establish a pattern. Is there anything else?”

“I feel pain,” Heena said, raising one hand to press against her chest. “Right here, doctor. In my heart.”

“You mean in your chest cavity?” he asked, reaching for his stethoscope. “Difficulty breathing? Pressure?”

Heena shook her head, her gaze piercing and knowing. “I mean my *heart*, doctor. Exactly in this place. The organ itself.”

The physician paused, his expression turning gravely serious. He looked down at his hands, then back at her face.

“Give me time,” he said quietly. “I need to conduct more research into this specific combination of symptoms. There may be treatments—”

“It’s useless,” Heena interrupted, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips that held no humor whatsoever. “I know my body well, doctor. And I know this poison.”

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