#038. It Seems I’m a Bit Weak to People Like You
The Grand Duke never asked me to be a true friend. This is a transaction. After all, we’ve never truly played together.
All the Grand Duke wanted was to show the emperor and empress that he was a normal child with a normal friend his age. And I simply needed a shield to protect me.
We meet once or twice a week for tea and conversation, all for appearances. But if you ask whether there’s ever been any emotional exchange between us—there hasn’t.
Still, considering that, the Grand Duke is giving me far too much. He assigned me five gardeners, gets me tailored clothes year-round, bought me a horse at twenty times the price, and even provides everything needed to raise it. And in return? He asks for nothing.
The curiosity that had long been building finally overflowed. I stared at him, unable to understand why he would ask me such a thing.
“So. Do you have a problem with it?” he asked.
“No. I’m just… curious.”
Even when adults offer kindness to children, it’s rarely without expectations. At the very least, they expect obedience, cuteness, or affection in return.
But the Grand Duke doesn’t even ask for that. And yet the support never stops. Even things I never requested.
Why? I simply couldn’t understand.
The hand that had been stroking his chin stilled, and silence settled between us. Thankfully, he didn’t seem offended.
Just…
“…Well. Maybe,” he murmured.
As if he himself hadn’t realized it until now.
“I guess I’m just a little weak to people like you.”
The Grand Duke was looking at me, but not at me. Somewhere far beyond. Perhaps a memory from long ago…
“People who start by asking why something is being given to them, even when offered just a little.”
In that moment, I became convinced of something I’d only suspected before—that the Grand Duke was a reincarnator. This child had clearly lived a life before. Someone who knew regret, longing, reflection. Someone who had been through something.
This wasn’t just a precocious five-year-old. Even the way he used the old-fashioned pronoun “go” for himself could be dismissed as quirky, but those eyes—you couldn’t explain those away.
A smile, which had briefly disappeared, returned to his face. The Grand Duke was still seeing someone from his past in me.
“So don’t ask for compensation. I’m not doing any of this for you.”
Then for whom? That someone from the past, no doubt. I bit my lip, then asked again.
“You don’t even need me to pretend?”
There were people like that during my long life as Yi Baek-ryeon. Those who looked at me and saw someone else. Some were aware of it, some not. But they all had one thing in common: they wanted me to mimic that person for them.
“Pretend?” the Grand Duke repeated, blinking innocently.
Feigning ignorance, huh? I gave a dry laugh and pointed it out bluntly.
“I mean the person Your Highness sees in me. Is it okay if I don’t act like them?”
Unlike me, it seems the Grand Duke doesn’t realize others can reincarnate, too. Even though I’ve dropped many hints, he still treats me like a child who can’t read between the lines.
The Grand Duke’s eyes widened—and then he burst into laughter. Under the clear sky, his laughter rang like a bell, light and youthful.
“If you think you can pull it off, go ahead and try.”
He playfully winked at me as he pulled his still-warm teacup toward him.
“But I doubt you can.”
No one in the world can be like that person.
He mouthed the words without sound, then sipped his tea again.
Watching him, I couldn’t help but wonder for a brief moment—who on earth was this person he missed so dearly?
Only for a moment, though. Not too much.
After finishing his tea, the Grand Duke left me with a final piece of advice: Think about what you truly want.
Left alone, I fiddled with my half-empty cup, sinking into thought.
How best to use the Empress’s upcoming birthday celebration.
Honestly, it was more of a distraction. A way to avoid thinking about the Grand Duke’s question—because that was a question I had never once asked myself in my past life as Yi Baek-ryeon.
I became the successor because there was no heir. I was pushed aside when the family head had a biological child. Then the family declined, and I took over again. And when the heir came of age, I handed it all back.
Then, as conflict between the Yi family and the royal family intensified, I was sent to the emperor to ease tensions. With political turmoil rising, I went to war. After unifying the continent, I focused on internal affairs—because stabilizing the people came first.
My life had always been determined by circumstance. I merely did what had to be done—what no one else could do.
So if someone suddenly asked me what I wanted to do with my life—I wouldn’t have the faintest idea.
If I were told to plan someone else’s life, or create a hundred-year strategy for the nation, that would’ve been easy.
So, as always, I chose to handle the problem right in front of me. What should I wear to the Empress’s birthday celebration? How should I present the gift?
Unlike the unanswerable question of my life’s purpose, this had a clear solution.
Leaving the cold tea behind, I rose to go meet Lord Appenlandry.
“Princess Blanche? Oh, the medicine you asked for? The testing’s almost done. We’ve found the proper dosage for donkeys, so now we just have to adjust for the horse’s weight and do a trial run.”
I waited for Lord Appenlandry to finish speaking before replying.
“About that.”
What I had requested from him was a sedative for animals. Over the past three years, the celestial steed had grown well—physically, at least. But its temperament was… terrible.
I still hadn’t named the horse, but it was extremely sensitive. So sensitive, in fact, that it would panic just from seeing its own shadow.
When I first found it, it was so scrawny it looked half-starved—possibly because it couldn’t eat properly due to its nerves.
I couldn’t allow it to have a breakdown in front of the high-ranking nobles at the party. So I had planned to sedate it a little beforehand—enough to keep it calm.
If it stood quietly, people would only see its impressive legs and strong back.
Then I’d subtly tell Liana the horse was high-strung, and she’d take it from there. She’d train it well. I’d make an impression, she’d get a great horse—everyone wins.
“The plan’s changed,” I said.
“…What?”
After seeing Liana’s skill firsthand, I changed my mind. Training? She wouldn’t need it. She’d know the horse was sensitive. She’d know how to handle it.
You ask how I know?
“I’m not going to use the medicine.”
Because I’ve spent half my life on the battlefield watching countless warriors—I know. Truly great warriors are never just good at one thing like in some fairy tale. They’re versatile.
There’s no such thing as a genius swordsman who can’t even string a bow, or a master of the spear who’s so terrible with people that he can’t lead even one subordinate.
That kind of narrow specialization is for ordinary people. Geniuses? They’re good at everything they need for war—even if they have small differences in proficiency.
They might not even know how to read, yet they instinctively devise winning strategies. They might never have raised a puppy, but they can rein in a horse and charge into battle.
That’s what geniuses do.
“Mmm, the horse is really sensitive, so it might go wild,” he warned.
So I decided to present the steed to Liana as is. She would know how to handle it—and that moment would etch me into everyone’s memory.
People would be amazed at Liana’s skill, then go home thinking about me. They’d remember me as the six-year-old princess who recognized Liana’s greatness and gave her a wild celestial steed only she could tame.
So I firmly replied, despite Lord Appenlandry’s concern:
“That’s fine.”
Because if it’s Liana, I know she’ll be able to handle it.
Appenlandry, unaware of my intentions, scratched his head and shrugged.
“Well, alright. Just promise me one thing. Don’t approach the horse yourself. Leave that to the adults. Okay?”
I hadn’t planned to go near it anyway. In this body, I could barely grip the reins. The horse would see me as a pest to be kicked out of the way.
“Yes, I promise.”
I nodded without hesitation, and Lord Appenlandry seemed relieved enough to forgive me for being so blunt.
