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Chapter 08
“……”
A silver-haired boy was sitting in the dining hall—the young head of the Kurtzpel family and its future lord.
“Huh? Isaac. Your cheek—”
Isaac, who had been rubbing his bruised cheek, glanced at the man sitting across from him.
The black-haired man’s eyes widened in surprise as he tilted his head.
“Did you fall while taking a nap or something?”
“As if.”
“Then what’s with that bruise? Don’t tell me you got hit by someone.”
“……”
Isaac frowned as he stared silently at his friend, who had no idea that the ‘don’t tell me’ was actually the truth.
What, seriously? That Isaac got slapped?
The black-haired man—Demilton—was shocked for only a moment before breaking into amused laughter.
“Puhaha—seriously? You’re not joking, you actually got hit?”
“Be quiet.”
“How can I be quiet? You’re telling me that Isaac got slapped in the face!”
Despite Isaac telling him to shut up, Demilton made a racket for a while longer before finally dropping back into his seat, grinning crookedly under Isaac’s razor-sharp glare.
Resting his elbow on the table with a thud, Demilton jerked his chin.
“So. Who was it?”
“……”
“Let’s see—how many people could do that to the cheek of the monster known as Isaac? There’s no one in the knight order capable of it. Oh, wait, there is one. Duke Eisenwald. Am I right?”
“……If it were that man, it wouldn’t have been my cheek—my neck would’ve been twisted clean off.”
“True enough. If it were Duke Eisenwald, he’d have snapped your neck. Then who was it? If someone managed to do that to your face, they should’ve had at least one leg shattered in return.”
“……”
Isaac stared at the animated Demilton as if he were fed up, then let out a sigh and turned his head away.
Demilton tilted his head at the lackluster response.
What’s with that look?
Though Demilton wore a puzzled expression, Isaac was biting his lip hard at the fact that, just as his friend said, he hadn’t been able to lay even a finger—no, not even a hair—on his opponent.
That fist…
Even while grabbing Isaac by the collar, the way the fist rose and struck his cheek flowed as naturally as running water. That wasn’t brawling—it was swordsmanship.
Moreover, it wasn’t just the arm that moved when the punch was thrown; the waist and upper body moved in unison.
That meant the person was thoroughly accustomed to using their entire body.
That kind of mastery couldn’t be achieved in just one or two years.
Ten years—no, at least twenty, perhaps even longer—of relentless training would be required to reach that level.
With skills like that, it should have hurt. But it didn’t.
The shock born from that contradiction was more than enough to leave Isaac dazed.
Demilton looked at his friend, who was rubbing his cheek without answering, with baffled eyes. What’s wrong with him? Is he hurt somewhere?
“Isaac. What’s—”
“I want to get hit again.”
“…?”
“Should I ask them to hit me again?”
Demilton stared blankly at Isaac as he slowly spoke, and contempt crept into his eyes.
Don’t tell me the young head of the Kurtzpel ducal house and its future lord is some kind of pervert who enjoys getting hit.
The realization shocked him—especially since they’d been friends for over a decade—and at the same time put him on guard.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not into that kind of thing.”
“What?”
“I’m not hitting you. Go find someone else.”
“……”
He’d always spouted crazy nonsense, but it looks like he’s finally lost it.
Demilton, determined to protect his own sexual boundaries, and Isaac, who’d fallen victim to a bizarre misunderstanding.
They glared at each other with mutual disdain, their gazes quietly colliding in midair.
Perverted bastard.
Crazy lunatic.
It seemed they’d misunderstood each other quite thoroughly.
“No matter how I think about it, it doesn’t make sense.”
Why the hell is that guy here?
Cleora couldn’t believe that a descendant of the Kurtzpel family was openly walking around inside none other than Eisenwald Castle.
To begin with, the Kurtzpel and Eisenwald families had never been on good terms.
Both were military houses and grand noble families.
Naturally, they were constantly compared—and Eisenwald always stood above.
The position of Supreme Commander of the Empire had been all but monopolized by the Eisenwald family for generations, while Kurtzpel was forever forced to take a step back.
As a result, the resentment between them deepened over hundreds of years, eventually culminating in a disastrous outcome during the war.
At the time, Cleora had abandoned the battlefield and stormed the imperial palace, intending to take Rudias’s head.
If not for the nobles who clung to her legs and the emperor’s order begging her to calm down, the Kurtzpel family might have fallen that very year. Cleora’s fury was far beyond what the Kurtzpels could handle.
That was how irreparable the rift between the two families had become.
“Don’t tell me Eisenwald even accepted a commissioned fund from Kurtzpel?”
If they had taken Kurtzpel money, she was ready to rush over immediately and overturn everything—lord or not.
She’d rather take the money of a traitor who sold out the nation than Kurtzpel gold. Not even with dirt in her eyes would she accept that.
Damn money. It’s always money.
Still grinding her teeth, Cleora tilted her head as if a thought had just occurred to her.
After sinking into contemplation for a while, she curled her lips and rose from her seat.
She reached for the door handle to head out—and at that very moment, as if perfectly timed, the door flew open.
“Hm?”
Cleora lifted her head. Standing there was a dignified-looking butler—Reginald.
“Where are you going?”
Cleora stared at the butler, who had suddenly questioned her, then tilted her head.
“You came to get me, didn’t you?”
“……”
Reginald stood there with his mouth hanging open like a mute who’d swallowed honey, then hurriedly bowed his head.
“What is the matter?”
“……His Excellency is looking for you.”
His Excellency—so, the family head?
Hearing that he was summoning her after just one day, Cleora snorted inwardly.
If he was going to look for her this soon, he shouldn’t have locked her up here in the first place. Changing his attitude after only a day?
“Is that so?”
“Yes. So please, follow me now—”
“Ah, but I can’t go right now.”
“Pardon?”
Just as Reginald turned to lead the way, he looked back at Cleora in surprise.
The head of the Eisenwald family was calling for her, and she said she couldn’t go?
Wondering if he’d misheard, Reginald frowned—only for Cleora to calmly take a step forward.
The fluid, natural motion left Reginald and the guards at the door staring blankly.
Anyone watching would think she wasn’t a prisoner at all, but someone casually coming and going from her own room.
As Reginald frowned in disbelief, one of the guards cautiously spoke up.
“Should we detain her?”
“……Leave her be.”
A woman who refused to come even when the lord of the castle summoned her—would she really follow if guards tried to drag her back?
With a sigh, Reginald turned away.
Having shaken off Reginald, Cleora wandered through the castle and tilted her head at a familiar sight.
A small garden inside the castle.
The fountain standing within it, long since corroded and worn down from years of disuse, had lost its function ages ago.
Cleora silently gazed at the statue carved in the likeness of the Goddess of Victory standing at the center of the fountain, then glanced around.
True to a castle with few servants, there was no one tending the garden or even passing by.
A ducal castle with no sign of life even in broad daylight.
Once, the Eisenwald family had employed as many as three hundred servants just to manage the main estate—how had they fallen this far?
“In the end, it must be a lack of money.”
To think an era would come where a noble house struggled because it lacked funds.
Cleora slowly stepped into the fountain basin and clicked her tongue softly as she reached out toward the statue.
“Will it still work?”
Though only a week had passed for her subjectively, seventy years had gone by in reality.
She couldn’t be certain that things from the past would still function without issue.
That was why Cleora placed her hand against the statue with the utmost caution.
Thunk.
As soon as her hand touched it, the sound of something dropping echoed out.
At that signal, Cleora’s shadow flickered, then quickly seeped into her palm before vanishing into the statue.
Silence settled deeply over the garden as the wind blew.
Amid the stillness of rustling dry branches, a brief pause followed.
Then, a brown-tinged leaf fluttered down and touched the ground.
Rrrr—
At that moment, a small sound echoed as if something were moving from within, and the bottom of the fountain—where the statue pointed—sank downward.
“Still in working order.”
Cleora curled her lips faintly as she looked at the revealed staircase, glanced around once more, and carefully descended.
As if proving it hadn’t been opened even once in seventy years, the underground space was thick with dust and spiderwebs.
When she reached the very bottom, Cleora silently stared into the deep darkness—then snapped her fingers.
