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chapter 32
“Hah… so you’re saying you were framed?”
“And you’re just pretending the beating never happened?”
“I can’t believe it. If that were true, why didn’t you ask for help? With Father and me standing firmly behind you, who would dare—what bastard would dare slander and frame the daughter of Duke Baph?!”
Although Billod had heard Yurian’s confession at that gathering yesterday, he still couldn’t understand it in the slightest. She’d been framed, yet accepted exile simply because she hated Latem? Why?
Latem was the most prosperous nation on the continent. Why would she hate it? She’d lived a dazzling life there as a ducal daughter, inferior to no one. She could have anything rare and precious in the world, feasted daily on delicacies from land and sea, and her dressing room was filled with dresses worth the price of a commoner’s house. There was no reason to hate such a life.
If she truly had been framed—if someone had been tormenting her—she could have told Father or him, her older brother. The problem would have been solved in the blink of an eye. And yet, what kind of foolish woman would kick away such a full and secure life of her own accord?
Billod pressed Yurian to explain it in a way that made sense. Yurian, who had been quietly watching him, asked instead,
“And if you knew who it was? If you knew who framed me, what would you have done?”
“What kind of question is that? I’d kill them.”
His face was so unapologetically confident that Yurian almost laughed out loud. He wasn’t bluffing or posturing. He said he would kill someone with utter sincerity, as casually as if it were nothing. Every time Billod revealed such a complete lack of common sense, she found it impossible to see him as anything resembling a decent human being.
“That’s why I didn’t say anything.”
“What?”
“Should I say it again? Billod Baph—you’re exactly why I walked out of the Baph Ducal House on my own two feet.”
There had been a time when she’d tried to change him. But in Latem, people thought it was stranger for her to criticize a brother who claimed he would kill anyone who harmed his sister than for that brother to say such a thing in the first place. Pushed into a corner by that world, Yurian had questioned herself dozens—hundreds—of times, wondering if she was the one who was wrong.
And yet, this was how it ended. Billod appeared with a large X-shaped mark branded on his forehead, proving that her judgment had been right all along. She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t a little satisfying. No—honestly, it felt quite deserved.
“So you’re saying it’s all my fault that you left the family.”
“Not all of it. But a significant part.”
“Who do you think you are, talking like that?! I’ve lived my life diligently, devoting myself to the family and the nation as the heir to the duke! That’s my only ‘crime’! And you—who irresponsibly abandoned the family—how dare you judge my life?! Does that make any sense?!”
In the end, the simmering rage inside Billod exploded.
Letting out a feral scream, he leapt to his feet and began smashing everything in sight—tables, sofas, every piece of furniture in the room. He hurled lighter objects, kicked heavier ones, and swung his fists wildly.
Fearing someone would be seriously hurt, the knights rushed forward—but Yurian raised an arm to stop them. As Billod raged, the sacred staff of repentance clenched in her hand began to glow with a white light. As if drawn by something unseen, Yurian stepped in front of him.
“That right there—that’s your sin, you bastard!”
Crack!
The wooden staff sliced through the air and snapped against Billod’s forehead with magnetic precision—crack! The split grain of the wood collided with a sharp, crisp sound. The clear, ringing note filled the narrow room, freezing everyone present in place.
Including Billod.
“W-What—what the hell are you doing?!”
“Tsk. I seem to have struck something unworthy.”
“You didn’t cut me, you hit me, you crazy—!”
Only after a long moment did Billod realize he’d been struck once again by some bizarre-looking holy relic. His face flushed crimson as he began shouting at the top of his lungs.
Strangely, it didn’t hurt as much as he expected. Still, it felt as though a single blow had drained the strength from his entire body. He’d lost consciousness yesterday with the same sensation. But unlike yesterday—when he’d been utterly exhausted from being pelted with stones for the first time in his life—today Billod was full of energy. He had more than enough stamina to withstand something like this.
Crack!
No one had said it would end with just one hit.
“Hey!!”
“I’m not the one hitting you. The holy relic is moving on its own.”
Hard to believe, but it was true. Each time Billod raised his voice in anger, the light enveloping the relic intensified—and at some point, it struck his forehead again. Yurian had never learned swordsmanship and had no interest in exercise, yet every single swing landed precisely on the X mark. That was because the relic itself was adjusting the force and angle perfectly.
Crack!
“At least tell me why you’re hitting me, you mangy—!”
“Well, maybe you could try barking less.”
For a while, the pattern repeated: Billod shouting, followed by the crisp sound of the staff. Before long, he was visibly exhausted, panting heavily, his face pale as though he might collapse at any moment. The exchange had become so one-sided that Billod almost seemed pitiful. Roksita nudged Uber in the side and whispered,
“Shouldn’t we stop this soon?”
“Stop it? Look—over there.”
Uber nodded toward the back with a slightly unsettled expression.
“I’m glad to see you looking more energized, Lady Yuri.”
Sol watched Yurian’s performance with a warm, satisfied smile. Whether Sol was remarkable for thinking this counted as ‘regaining energy,’ or Yurian was remarkable for mercilessly striking only his forehead, Roksita would later recall that she could never quite decide.
* * *
Evening shadows fell over the grand mansion’s dining hall.
Once used as an imperial villa, the historic estate exuded luxury in every detail—from the furniture and ornaments to the paintings on the walls and the statues in the garden. The dining hall was no exception, vast and imposing. Yet the servants standing silently along the walls, stiff as furniture themselves, wore expressions that were grim and heavy.
“……”
Though over a hundred attendants filled the hall, none dared to speak. Only one person—the master, seated alone at the long table stretching across the center—was permitted to make a sound. The table was laden with enough food to feed everyone present to bursting, yet every dish was prepared solely for him.
The young man who owned the mansion had refined features hidden behind long, unkempt bangs. His expression was empty as he mechanically chewed.
Whenever he gestured toward a plate, a servant would approach carefully—silent enough not to stir dust, yet swift enough not to test his patience—and transfer the food to his personal dish. The banquet had gone on for hours without pause. The servants were exhausted and starving, but there was no sign of the man’s meal ending.
“My lord, today’s news sheets have arrived.”
For the first time in hours, a voice echoed through the oppressive dining hall. A butler in formal evening wear entered and presented a thick bundle of gossip papers.
The man looked uninterested but did not refuse. He picked one that caught his eye and opened it. Then, upon seeing the headline splashed across the front page, his brow furrowed.
A Miracle Witnessed! The First Penitent Appears!
Yesterday at the Grand Temple of the Holy Kingdom, the first penitent among the ‘Sinners of the Oracle’ appeared. A woman working in the field of education in Melbourne spent time in spiritual reflection at the temple, realized her sins, and offered a tearful confession. Astonishingly, a divine voice descended along with holy light, declaring before all present that her repentance had been accepted.
As if to celebrate her atonement, a holy relic descended from the heavens and was placed into the penitent’s hands. Witnesses of the event testified that it was an unforgettable experience—one that both proved the divine and deepened their faith.
“…Yurian?”
The man’s eyes widened as he stared at the illustrated face in the article. Though the woman’s real name wasn’t printed, it was hard to believe there were two women in the world with such striking beauty—golden hair bowing submissively, blue eyes unmistakable.
Yurian was alive.
More than that, how could someone who had been exiled and stripped of both name and status appear in a gossip paper? He already knew that the mark of the sinner had manifested on the Crown Prince, Angela Reagan, and the young Duke Baph, and that they had gone to the Grand Temple.
Did that mean… they were all gathered there now?
