Saved Him, Now I'm Obsessed (10 Chapters Left to Complete) - Chapter 5

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“Please wait just a moment. I’ll gather the items needed for the examination.”

‘I need to pull myself together. If things go badly, Grandfather and I might die together at the same moment.’

Pretending to pack my belongings, I spoke in a very quiet voice so only Grandfather could hear.

“Insist that you absolutely know the treatment method, but never directly reveal how to prepare the medicine. Say it’s too complex and difficult, and must be done personally. Also state that the medicine can’t be taken all at once—it must be administered gradually over a long period.”

I didn’t explicitly say that buying time this way might extend our lives even slightly, but Grandfather seemed to grasp my intention and nodded firmly.

Since he had already accidentally used the word ‘Your Highness,’ I wasn’t surprised at all to learn the carriage was heading toward the imperial palace, as I’d anticipated this possibility.

The stern-looking old man introduced himself to us inside the carriage before we reached the imperial capital.

He said his name was Simmons, Chief Steward to His Royal Highness the Crown Prince, and that the noble person suffering from illness was none other than the Crown Prince himself. He sternly advised us not to lose decorum during diagnosis and treatment.

Grandfather and I nodded tensely.

Though I hadn’t lived a very long life, this was my first time ever stepping inside a palace.

And not just any palace—the Emperor’s own. I’d glimpsed the fortress walls from outside and tried to imagine how vast the interior might be, yet its actual scale far exceeded my expectations. Even after passing through the main gate, we remained in the carriage for quite some time.

Partly because it was already dark, and partly because I was so anxious about my precarious life, I couldn’t properly take in my surroundings as I followed Chief Steward Simmons.

Inside the room he led us to, a frail-looking child lay deeply sunken into a large bed, groaning in pain—so delicate he seemed as if even a single finger’s touch might break him.

Had Chief Steward Simmons not briefed me beforehand, I might have mistaken the boy for Prince Daniel, who had just turned four, rather than Crown Prince Ian, who was six.

His small frame—smaller than other children his age—appeared even tinier and more vulnerable, swallowed by the enormous bed. His face, pale as paper and soaked in cold sweat, looked as if he might vanish at any moment.

Until the moment I entered the room, my mind had been racing desperately, scheming how to stay alive—but now it had stiffened like waterlogged wood, creaking uselessly under strain.

All other thoughts vanished, leaving only one wish: that this small, fragile-looking child before me would suffer no more.

With his eyes closed, the child reached out his hand toward me. It was a desperate plea, like someone drowning and begging for rescue, yearning for someone—anyone—to help.

I quickly approached and knelt by his bedside, taking his hand in mine. Though this alone couldn’t relieve any of his pain, I held it tightly as if in prayer.

Though the child hadn’t opened his mouth, I clearly heard his voice screaming for help inside my ears—as vivid as a hallucination.

With my cold hand, I brushed aside the sweat-soaked hair clinging to his forehead, then whispered as if making a solemn promise to myself.

“I’ll protect you….”

At those words, the child opened his eyes and stared straight at me. His irises were a pale blue, reminiscent of a wide, calm lake. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from his face, as if I’d fallen under a spell.

“Jane….”

Whether or not I’d ever told him my name didn’t matter at all.

I witnessed the astonishing sight of his pale blue eyes instantly turning red—as if someone had dropped crimson ink into them.

Seeing my shock, Simmons, who had been standing silently behind me, let out a deep sigh. The Crown Prince’s eyes shifting to red—that was precisely why they’d secretly summoned an apothecary.

Healers previously called for treatment had drawn Ian’s blood, pricked him with needles everywhere, cut locks of his hair, and even donned bird-like masks while mimicking bird cries in attempts to drive away the illness—but none had managed even to correctly identify the ailment, let alone cure it.

Ian burned with fever as if inside a scorching cauldron, writhing in agony as though skewered all over by hot irons.

According to reports, every healer had rattled off every known disease: strange plagues, measles, beriberi, scurvy, smallpox—and one had even absurdly claimed it was childbed fever.

Yet no one could explain why his lake-like blue irises would suddenly flood with blood-red color.

“He has a fever, but no rash. His sclera is slightly bloodshot, but not severely so. No signs of jaundice either. Palpation reveals no wounds, insect bites, or snakebites anywhere on his body. There’s also no discoloration or bleeding inside his mouth. It doesn’t seem to stem from trauma or poisoning.”

Grandfather listened quietly to the symptoms I relayed, then asked calmly,

“There must have been other unusual symptoms as well.”

This question wasn’t directed at me—it was aimed at Simmons, who had introduced himself as the chief steward.

Grandfather was an exceptionally skilled apothecary.

He knew not only common illnesses but also regional endemic diseases unique to specific nations. He’d even researched conditions as elusive as witches’ curses.

He studied illnesses and patients with near-obsessive intensity, which was precisely why Grandfather and I had never settled in one place, instead wandering from country to country—driven by his scholarly passion.

Local diseases shaped by their environments, native herbs found only in those regions, and folk remedies born of people’s lived wisdom—these all kept Grandfather perpetually on the move.

Thus, in matters of rare diseases, no one matched Grandfather. Seeing his reaction, I felt reassured.

His phrasing—’There must have been other unusual symptoms’—rather than ‘Were there any other symptoms?’ suggested he already suspected a specific illness.

If he could guess the ailment, he likely knew its cure as well. I exhaled the breath I’d been holding. The thought that Grandfather could save this suffering child brought me relief.

The steward, however, seemed reluctant to answer, silently stroking his long, thick white beard again and again.

“You must tell me, even if the symptom is difficult to describe. Only then can I make an accurate diagnosis.”

“I don’t even know how to explain this… but His Highness seemed to foresee the future. Whenever he said someone would fall down the stairs, someone inevitably did. When he claimed someone would visit, that person truly arrived. And once, on a perfectly clear day, he insisted it would rain—and indeed, a downpour followed.”

I stared at the steward with disbelief. I’d heard tales of witches who foretold the future or saints who received divine visions, but it was hard to believe this little child possessed prophetic abilities.

“He even instructed us to seek out the blind apothecary on Seventeenth Street. Until now, I found His Highness’s words hard to trust. We summoned every reputed healer for examination, yet none could even guess the nature of his illness. But seeing how instantly you, the blind apothecary he named, recognized the condition… it seems His Highness truly knows the future.”

He gestured toward me with his chin as he added,

“I didn’t even know this child’s name, yet His Highness immediately called you ‘Jane.'”

Grandfather nodded and replied in a calm tone,

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“That’s only natural. This isn’t an ordinary illness—it’s both a blessing and a curse. And those who can recognize these symptoms are no longer within the Carlobanian Empire.”

“What do you mean? Explain it clearly.”

“To put it simply, His Highness suffers from divine illness.”

“Gah!”

I barely managed to stifle the cry bursting from my lips with both hands. Divine illness! However prophetic the Crown Prince might be, to label it ‘divine illness’!

Goosebumps erupted all over my body.

At a time when a sharp blade already hovered at my throat, who’d dare diagnose it as ‘divine illness’? Grandfather must truly intend for his granddaughter and himself to be buried side by side somewhere in the palace grounds.

True to expectation, the steward spoke with clear anger in his voice.

“How dare you….”

Grandfather merely shrugged and replied,

“I see my wording displeased you. It’s also known as ‘the Prophet’s Agony’ or ‘the Prophet’s Fever.'”

Ah, honestly! Grandfather must have lost not just his eyesight but his courage too.

Even though I’d softened the term ‘divine illness’ with alternative phrasings, the steward’s furious expression didn’t relax in the slightest—and my heart shrank accordingly.

Unaware of the expressions on both my face and the steward’s, Grandfather spoke dismissively,

“It’s not so extraordinary. Prophets appear everywhere. Especially in the Stefan Kingdom, once called the ‘Divine Nation,’ such people have been born since ancient times. I understand His Imperial Majesty the Emperor’s own mother was from there. Thus, it’s perfectly natural that His Royal Highness the Crown Prince would suffer from divine illness.”

It was indeed true that prophets were especially common in the Stefan Kingdom. There was even a saying that the nation—once merely a small state—rose to become a proper kingdom not because of its warriors on the battlefield, but because it was beloved by the gods.

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