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Chapter 13
When Reginald met that gaze head-on and felt an inexplicable pressure, the corner of Cleora’s lips slowly curved upward.
“Your eyes really resemble your great-grandfather’s.”
“My great-grand… what?”
“He may have been a bit scatterbrained, but when it came to devotion to the family, he never lost to anyone.”
“……”
What was she talking about now? Why bring up his great-grandfather all of a sudden…?
“Just what are you—”
“I like you.”
Cleora cut off Reginald mid-sentence, flashing a grin as she rose from her seat.
“You said you’d be investigating, right? If you need anything, feel free to ask. I’ll answer everything.”
“……”
“Of course, before that—”
Cleora handed the ledger she was holding to Reginald, smiling faintly.
“Could I see the person who wrote this ledger? I have something to say to them.”
A chill ran down his spine.
For a moment, goosebumps broke out on Reginald’s skin at Cleora’s smile.
She was just smiling—so why was it so frightening?
Swallowing hard, Reginald nodded calmly.
“Understood.”
It was an absurd request—no, an order—but the thought never even crossed his mind.
All he felt was that he had to follow her words properly. That was all.
“Oh, and…”
As Reginald turned to leave, her voice called out again.
He turned his head slightly, and Cleora smiled gently at him.
“Could you call someone for me?”
“Who…?”
Cleora spoke softly to the puzzled Reginald.
“The slaves.”
After Reginald left to fetch the financial officer, Cleora remained alone in the room, gazing blankly out the window.
The scenery here was neither familiar nor welcome to her.
It was the place she had once hidden away in, avoiding people after her mother’s death, exhausted by grief.
Seventy years had passed, yet to Cleora, this place felt as though she had visited it only two years ago.
Still bearing the pain and scars of war, she found this not-so-large castle uncomfortable and oppressive.
The memory of that day—when she sat in the deepest part of the castle and cried endlessly—still felt strangely vivid.
The doubt and pain she had felt back then, when she had lost her entire family and was left alone to head back to the battlefield, was a sorrow no one else could possibly understand.
Two years ago, Cleora had buried that grief and pain here.
‘Kelleagos.’
She bit her lip hard and drew in her chin.
When she first arrived here, the question she asked most often was how she was even alive. The second was why she had fallen into the future.
And now, a third question—one that abandoned the answers she once had.
‘Why did you send me seventy years ahead?’
She focused on the number itself.
If she could leap through time and be born seventy years later, wouldn’t a hundred or even two hundred years have been possible?
Seventy years might have been mere coincidence. But if Kelleagos had orchestrated something, then that span of time surely carried meaning.
‘Did you want to prove that everything I threw away to stand on the battlefield was worthless?’
Cleora let out a quiet sigh, frustrated by a situation she couldn’t understand.
“Excuse me.”
At that moment, a calm voice spoke beside her. Turning her head, Cleora saw white fabric before her eyes.
“Are you unwell?”
The white fabric spoke.
Cleora tilted her head up.
It was a maid far taller than the others.
She looked to be the oldest among them, perhaps in her mid-twenties.
“If you are ill, I will call a physician.”
Her tone was cold and dignified—more like a noble lady than a servant.
Cleora stared at the maid, then tilted her head slightly.
‘Who is she?’
It was a face she felt she had seen somewhere before. Clearly her first time meeting her, yet it felt as though someone familiar was about to come to mind.
After observing her for a long moment, Cleora spoke slowly.
“Your name?”
“Ceris.”
“Your family name?”
“Qualto.”
Ceris Qualto. An ordinary name, but an extraordinary surname.
It wasn’t a name used in the Empire or any of the nearby countries.
Murmuring “Qualto” under her breath, Cleora suddenly widened her eyes.
“Alzas Qualto?”
“…Do you know my grandfather?”
Cleora sprang to her feet in shock.
Even considering that Cleora herself wasn’t fully grown, the height difference between her and Ceris was considerable—at least a full head.
“Your grandfather? That Alzas Qualto got married?”
“Pardon? Ah… yes…”
Ceris tilted her head, confused by the strange reaction.
Ignoring her, Cleora opened her mouth in genuine admiration and let out a hearty laugh.
At the sight, the maids exchanged glances, and Ceris frowned slightly.
Noticing their reactions, Cleora shook her head lightly.
“Ah, sorry. I just heard something utterly unexpected.”
“Is my grandfather getting married such a strange thing?”
“Of course it is.”
Who was it that called himself a womanizer?
It was Alzas—this woman’s grandfather.
The Qualto family, a minority clan from the far side of the Empire, had crossed the continent and settled here following the ancestors of Eisenbold.
They were known for their towering height regardless of gender and their overwhelming martial strength.
Because of that, Alzas had often gone to the battlefield alongside Cleora.
“Is Alzas still alive?”
“He passed away five years ago. But… did you know my grandfather?”
“Of course I knew—”
About to answer in delight at hearing a familiar name, Cleora suddenly froze.
Catching the suspicious looks directed at her, she snapped back to her senses, cleared her throat, and smiled awkwardly.
“It’s not important, so let’s leave it at that… But why is a descendant of the Qualto family working as a maid?”
Great height and strength were ideal for wielding a sword.
Alzas had been a knight, as had his parents.
If she was his descendant, becoming a knight should have been natural—so why a maid?
As Cleora tilted her head, Ceris hesitated.
Seeing her odd reaction, Cleora tilted her head again. With a small sigh, Ceris held out her wrist.
A long scar ran from her wrist up to her elbow.
“I was injured ten years ago, and after surgery, I became unable to wield a sword. The doctors said the tendon was severed and that I would never be able to hold one properly again. So…”
“Just because a single tendon snapped, you can’t wield a sword?”
“Pardon? Ah… yes…”
Ceris replied stiffly, frowning.
To call such a wound ‘just’ that…
She gazed steadily at Cleora, who seemed to say nothing but displeasing things.
Still focused on the scar, Cleora slowly lifted her head.
Meeting Ceris’s gaze, she rolled her eyes thoughtfully.
True to Alzas’s granddaughter, she was tall, well-built, with a solid frame.
She claimed not to have held a sword for ten years, but it didn’t look like she had neglected her body—her muscles were still there.
‘What a waste.’
The Qualto family was an outstanding lineage of knights.
Even among Eisenbold’s many distinguished knights, the Qualtos were unparalleled.
Especially now—this place full of incompetents—having a Qualto here would be reassuring.
Licking her lips, Cleora pondered briefly, then spoke.
“Let me ask you one thing.”
“Please.”
“If I let you wield a sword again, what would you do for me?”
“…What?”
The frown on Ceris’s face vanished in an instant.
Absurd as it sounded, Cleora’s words were more than enough to leave her stunned.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Exactly what I said. If I heal this, what will you give me in return?”
“That would be…”
What would she give in exchange for holding a sword again?
For someone born a knight and living as one all her life, the day she could no longer wield a sword was no different from death.
Ten years had passed since then. The heart she thought had died began to race at Cleora’s words.
They were baseless words from a young girl whose identity she didn’t even know—but still…
“That would be—”
“Oh, there you are.”
Just as Ceris bit her lip and was about to answer, the door flew open and a servant rushed in.
“I was told preparations are complete and that you should be escorted. I’ll guide you.”
“Oh, really?”
Cleora replied briefly, glanced at Ceris, then turned away.
“Think carefully. I’m not someone who lies.”
“……”
“I’ll hear your answer tonight. I hope it’s one I’ll be satisfied with.”
Ceris watched Cleora pat her arm lightly and leave with the servant.
A small, slender figure. Arms that looked like they had never held a sword.
Yet despite that, Cleora seemed impossibly large.
‘Child, you must have a broad back. Even if it’s small and fragile, you must become someone who can carry everyone on it. I hope you grow to resemble her back—the one who threw everything away for the sake of people who were nothing special.’
Stories her grandfather Alzas used to tell her about Cleora.
Whenever he spoke of those days—now no more than fairy tales or legends—Ceris would look at him as though listening to a heroic saga.
Recalling the rough hand that used to pat her head, Ceris pressed her lips together tightly.
