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Episode 8
The man, whose entire body was covered in dirt as if he had just buried someone, stared at the ground for a long time before finally opening his dry lips.
“I don’t know how to say nice things. If you don’t abandon me, then I won’t abandon you either.”
There was weight in those words.
But to Rose, Kwan was still a stranger.
When Rose said nothing, Gray quietly stepped forward and spoke.
“They’re people from the slums. Still, they don’t recklessly covet what belongs to others, nor do they act like thugs. And even if they did, shouldn’t everyone be given a second chance?”
Even after hearing this, Rose only looked at them. After a long while, she finally spoke.
“I don’t have much. Even if I work myself to death, I might only be able to provide food. Is that still okay?”
Most of them nodded weakly.
At the time, it was probably nothing more than hope for the present moment.
But neither Gray nor Rose knew just how desperate that hope was to people who believed they were only waiting for the day they would die.
The slum dwellers, once called street trash, threw their lives into the work of the trading company.
To hold onto a chance they had never been given before, they worked sincerely and began producing results that could be trusted.
Under the leadership of Rose and Gray, the trading company grew at a frightening speed.
People called the Chaos Trading Company “lucky.”
Those who did not know how many plans had been made and crushed never saw the blood-soaked effort behind it.
Even if prophetic dreams were said to guide Rose and the company’s future, no one understood that without moving today, even luck lying at one’s feet could not be grasped.
That was why Rose cherished and encouraged the efforts of the countless employees.
Only those who do not give up on today can have tomorrow.
That was Rose’s belief.
“I am living proof of that.”
It did not matter if people thought it was the stubbornness of someone who rose through their own efforts.
For Rose, life was something you gained only by fighting desperately.
It was a life like war.
Count Arodel used Rose’s entire life simply because they were blood relatives.
With a single gesture from the Emperor, her deposition and death were decided, and she was not even allowed to cry out that it was unfair.
Rose could run away, but she did not have the power to kill them or fight back.
In an empire that owned vast lands, all she had was one small trading company, and even protecting her own life was exhausting.
That was why the fierce passion of the slum people stood out so strongly to her.
Once the trading company stabilized, Rose gathered the employees who had stayed until the end and become full-time staff.
They lowered their heads, too anxious to even look at Rose, afraid they might be told they were no longer needed.
“I’ll return it to you now.”
The people looked confused by her sudden words.
Rose looked at Kwan, who seemed to be the only one who understood, and slowly explained.
“You gave me your entire lives, saying you would work like oxen and horses. Now you have the strength to protect your own lives, so you should take them back.”
They nodded, but they did not fully understand.
The days when they traded their lives for a single piece of bread were still deeply carved into their bones.
When Kwan stepped forward and explained further, their faces slowly brightened, and tears began to gather in their eyes.
Perhaps that was when it began.
When the trading company became more than a way to make money—it became a tool to protect people.
From that moment on, Chaos began to take root as a massive community of shared fate, tying together the lives of Rose and countless others, along with their families.
Rose stared at the meeting room door for a moment, then spoke to Kasa.
“It would be best if everyone could hide behind the shield I prepared and no one got hurt, but that won’t happen. At best, we can only hope the wounds stay small. Even so, I can’t make them bear the cost of the freedom I wanted and the choices I made today. That would be unfair.”
Her quiet voice was cold and firm, but the corners of Kasa’s lips curved into a smile.
Through the window, the red sunset painted the corridor where the two stood, revealing their faces.
After watching Rose—who always thought too much—Kasa spoke his true feelings in a heavier voice than usual.
“I’m your sword. Whenever you draw it, whoever you stab—it’s all up to you.”
“…That’s surprisingly serious.”
As Rose tried to laugh it off, Kasa firmly grabbed her shoulder.
“You’re the one who saved me.”
“Kasa.”
The playful grin Kasa usually wore was gone.
Standing there was the boy who had survived with burning will even at the edge between life and death—the same boy Rose had first met at the count’s estate.
Kasa spoke softly but firmly.
“You fed me and clothed me when I was drying up and dying. That’s why I’m alive today. So my today, my tomorrow, and all the days I’ll live belong to you. Do whatever you want with them. I was a sword placed in your hand from the start. Your will is my will.”
After finishing, Kasa narrowed his eyes and smiled seductively, just like always.
Following the wind blowing in through the window, his red hair swayed as if it were burning.
Seeing how the beggar boy she had met by chance had grown into someone strong who now stood firmly by her side filled Rose with strange emotions.
Feeling awkward, Rose roughly ruffled his hair and joked.
“When did you start living with honey dripping from your mouth? Did you stop practicing swordsmanship and start training flattery instead?”
Kasa bent down and stepped closer so she could touch his hair more easily.
Seeing her own face reflected in his red eyes made her chest tighten unexpectedly.
Kasa blinked rapidly, then pinched Rose’s cheek, teasing her as usual.
“What? Are you moved? Gonna cry?”
“No, I’m not.”
Rose slapped his hand away, glared at him, then couldn’t hold it in and laughed.
“Thank you.”
Kasa pretended not to hear, straightened up, and grumbled while fixing his messy hair.
“What did you do to my hair? Do you think I’m still a kid?”
Kasa—and everyone inside that room—might have been nothing more than fleeting encounters.
But those countless moments piled up and gave Rose affection she had never received even from blood relatives.
After quietly watching Kasa, Rose spoke.
“I don’t need a sword. It’s enough that you’re my person. I’ve already made a deal with the Duke, so you don’t need to step in.”
“Do you trust him?”
The red eyes staring straight at Rose demanded the truth, without a hint of humor.
Unable to lie, Rose gave a bitter smile.
“I want to.”
“Then you trust him. I’ll be the one who doubts.”
The calloused palm of a man who had held a sword tightly clasped her small hand.
As Rose stared at Kasa’s hand, a rattling sound from the window made her turn her head.
Beyond the glass, the sky was red, but near the horizon where blue still lingered, lightning flashed.
Kasa, reassured by his own words yet sensing Rose’s unease, changed the subject.
“Looks like a storm’s coming.”
“Yeah.”
Replying absentmindedly, Rose frowned as she watched the wind grow stronger and shake the window.
Maybe because of Kasa’s words—
The Duke of Aitan came to mind.
His black eyes, impossible to read, stirred her heart.
Whether she could trust him or not wasn’t truly important.
As long as the Duke did not break the contract, Rose could turn a blind eye to everything else.
Survival came first.
The distant lightning and wind mixed with heavy rain, soaking the dry land.
Jack’s expression was dark as he reported the news from the intelligence group.
Listening quietly, Khan let out a small laugh.
“So you found nothing.”
At those words, the butler Jack bowed deeply, apologizing.
“I’m sorry.”
“The timing?”
“The last information was cut off in Arga. We’ll likely need to send people there. It’s hard to say how long it will take.”
“I see.”
Jack, who took pride in the duke family’s intelligence network, left the room looking frustrated.
Left alone, Khan stared at the snowy plain where the blizzard had passed.
The fact that nothing was found about Rose was not surprising.
If it were something easily uncovered, it wouldn’t be a secret.
Khan quietly looked up at the darkening sky.
As always, his heart was empty.
He thought of his grandfather, the former Duke.
There was no real difference.
Their relationship had been nothing more than that of a teacher and student in swordsmanship.
Even blood ties stirred nothing in Khan.
If not for duty to the family, he would not have returned at all. He felt no attachment to the name “Aitan.”
Closing his eyes, the smell of blood and stale sweat from the battlefield came back to him.
The boiling thrill of battle never arose.
But when he thought of Rose—who had criticized him yet still guided the deal properly—the lifeless look in his eyes shifted slightly.
Still staring at the snowy land, Khan called the butler and gave an order.
“Tell her to meet at the temple in one week.”
“…So you are going through with it.”
The elderly butler’s eyes, filled with concern and affection, looked at Khan.
Khan answered indifferently.
“Yes.”
“The holy power and the mana of the Aitan family cannot mix. There will be pain. Are you sure you’re fine? If you get hurt—”
“I’m fine.”
Khan cut off the concern with a cold, short tone.
Jack, having learned Khan’s nature over time, did not press further and quietly left, wishing to grow even a little closer to him.
Khan lay on the sofa and looked out the large window at his territory.
Thinking that Rose would someday stay here, a cold smile appeared on his lips.
This was natural instinct.
As Aitan men grew up, they learned to fear women, and the easiest way was to despise the opposite sex.
Ironically, even such cowardly methods failed to stop them from loving.
For Aitan men, who were always weak when it came to emotions, women were both the most terrifying and the most intoxicating drug.
Khan muttered softly.
“Madmen.”
But even he was no different.
Conversation felt like uncomfortable clothing to Khan, yet he had gone out of his way to explain things to Rose.
When living in the wastelands, he sometimes went weeks—or even months—without speaking a single word.
Most nomads couldn’t properly speak the continental language, so communication became limited to short words.
Because of that, Khan often omitted subjects when speaking, and when he returned, Jack struggled just to understand him.
Even when talking with Rose, he had things he wanted to say, but couldn’t express them smoothly.
Despite his rough and blunt manner, Rose accepted it calmly, and thinking of that made Khan feel his choice wasn’t bad.
Her many secrets were fine.
Whatever she planned to do by dragging Aitan in didn’t matter.
What mattered was keeping Rose bound to the north.
“If she knew my true intentions, she might try to kill me.”
If Rose knew Khan was thinking of her as a partner, she would likely never allow it.
But Rose walked in on her own.
Rose chose Aitan herself and tried to bind the Duke with a guardian contract.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t heard the rumors or failed to investigate—yet she still entered his territory.
Khan had never believed in luck, but this time, he felt that heaven itself had favored him.
Now that Rose had stepped into the eye of the storm, being swept up in it was inevitable.
If Rose’s luck was greater, Khan’s heart would not beat.
If his own luck continued, he might finally experience that insane thing called love.
As his thoughts reached that point, Khan frowned.
“What’s so good about that, anyway?”
Right now, he was no different from a block of wood, unable to understand human relationships or emotions.
There was no family to teach him.
His grandfather had only sent him to the wastelands and wars to sharpen his abilities, never teaching him how to live as a human.
“I can teach you how to kill, but I don’t know how to live like a human.”
That was what his grandfather had said when the butler asked him to teach Khan more.
It was so painfully realistic that Jack had silently packed Khan’s belongings with a darkened face.
To Khan, love was nothing more than empty talk.
Honestly, anything would be better than feeling nothing at all.
Khan looked at the snowy land reflected in the window.
Snow was beautiful, but staring at it too long could blind you from reflected sunlight, or even kill you in avalanches.
The people of the territory called it the “white monster,” often secretly using it as a metaphor whenever an Aitan man caused his wife’s death.
“A monster.”
A cruel smile, sharp as frost, formed on Khan’s lips.
It was so vicious it made one’s spine shiver.
“It suits me.”
After murmuring those words, his pitch-black eyes, exhausted by boredom, slowly closed.
