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Chapter – 02
No matter how much of a scoundrel he was, killing someone?
Disgust welled up in me for the body’s original owner—Carlyle von Sigmund—but only for a moment.
A baron’s son murdering a commoner?
What kind of lunatic was this guy, to do something that insane? I was so dumbfounded it almost made me dizzy.
This might be fatal.
Carlyle knew all too well what kind of man Guntram was.
The House of Sigmund was one of the thirteen families that sustained the Kingdom of Nürburg, responsible for the northern borders’ defense—a family of warriors.
Guntram, the Duke of Sigmund and head of the house, was a man of unbending principles.
He was a perfectionist who lived by rules and duty, the very image of a nobleman’s honor and responsibility.
A man like that would never overlook his son murdering one of his own subjects.
Even if it was his own flesh and blood, he would hold a formal trial and pass down a sentence befitting the crime.
So that’s what he meant back then.
Carlyle finally understood Guntram’s words.
“You shouldn’t have woken up. It would’ve been better if you’d stayed asleep forever.”
No wonder the man hadn’t shown his face since then—not merely out of anger or disappointment, but because he truly meant it.
Fine. First, let’s hear exactly what happened.
“What happened that day? Did I really kill someone?”
“As I thought, you don’t remember. I suspected as much—you’ve been acting far too calm.”
“Tell me. What exactly happened?”
“You were drunk, my lord. In your drunkenness, you drew your sword and killed a commoner. Then, fearing His Grace the Duke’s punishment, you tried to flee—but fell from your horse and tumbled off a cliff. By some miracle, the search party found you alive.”
“That’s not a miracle. That’s bad luck.”
Carlyle disagreed entirely.
For a crime like this, death was the expected sentence.
And Guntram was not a man to hesitate before pronouncing execution—even upon his own son.
“Hmm.”
Thwack!
In his mind, Carlyle could almost see his own head flying off his shoulders.
That would be… inconvenient.
Sure, he’d died once before, but that had been an accident—this would be execution. That was an entirely different thing.
Should I run?
The thought crossed his mind for an instant—but it was pointless.
Unless Guntram decided to deliberately look the other way, there was no escaping.
Maybe even his previous “chance to escape” had been Guntram’s way of allowing him one last bit of mercy.
“This is bad. What should I do?”
he asked Maranello.
“To be honest, my lord… there’s no good solution. You know His Grace the Duke has already forgiven countless of your past misdeeds.”
“Hmm.”
Indeed—Carlyle had caused endless trouble: theft, arson, drunken violence, assault… the list went on.
Guntram had tried everything—pleading, discipline, even harsh corporal punishment—but nothing worked.
Carlyle would lie low for a while, only to fall back into the same debauchery.
And now, he’d committed murder. Surely even Guntram’s patience had run out.
Guess I was doomed either way.
Whether he’d died falling from a cliff or by his father’s sword, the result was the same.
“My lord, please—when the trial comes, lower yourself. Admit your sins. Beg for forgiveness with all your heart. That’s your only chance to live.”
“You think that’ll work?”
“It’s impossible to say.”
“Sigh.”
Carlyle brushed a hand through his hair, weary.
That afternoon.
“Father’s holding the trial soon.”
Selena appeared, giving her dazed brother a piece of advice.
“Admit you were wrong. Beg for mercy. Promise you’ll change. Remember—if you don’t, you will be executed.”
“…I’ll remember.”
After her, another visitor came—Frey, the protagonist of the story.
“Brother, this time’s different. If you don’t want to die, you’d better beg Father for forgiveness.”
“…Yeah.”
At least they cared enough to offer advice. That meant there was still some affection left, however faint.
But still, it changed nothing.
Begging won’t lessen the sentence.
Carlyle knew that too well.
Guntram—and the Sigmund family as a whole—valued the people’s trust above all else.
Their domain, Dekaron, was a northern borderland in constant conflict with barbarians.
In a place like that, losing the people’s faith could be fatal.
If the common folk turned against their lord—or worse, sided with the barbarians—it would spell disaster.
If I stay like this, I’ll lose my head. I need a plan.
Carlyle forced himself to think rationally.
Simple repentance wouldn’t earn Guntram’s mercy—the crime was far too grave.
If it were me who’d done it, I wouldn’t complain. But this guy—really left me a mess, huh?
As he muttered bitterly to himself, Maranello returned with new information.
“My lord, the trial date has been set. The herald will deliver the notice shortly.”
“When?”
“A week from now.”
“Soon, then.”
Carlyle frowned. Not much time to maneuver.
“My lord, if I may offer a word of advice…”
“What kind?”
“When the trial begins, declare that you’ll atone for your crime through military service. It may be your only chance for leniency.”
“Military service?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm… enlistment, huh.”
The Sigmund family had long considered it a noble duty to lead the wars against the northern tribes.
So Maranello’s suggestion was actually reasonable.
“Not a bad idea.”
There might be a chance for a reduced sentence—small, but still.
“Thanks for the advice.”
“It’s nothing, my lord.”
“But tell me something.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you being so kind to me? Everyone knows I’m a worthless scoundrel.”
“Heh.”
Maranello chuckled softly.
“It’s not that I think highly of you, my lord. You’ve committed a grave sin.”
“…”
“But this old man has watched you since you were a child. I don’t have the heart to see you executed. Nor do I wish to see His Grace stain his hands with his son’s blood.”
“Hmm.”
“So please, my lord. Avoid the death sentence, at least.”
Looking at Maranello’s sincere face, Carlyle couldn’t help but feel irony.
Guess Carlyle had it better than I did. Even after all this, someone still cares for him.
With a faint smirk, he nodded.
“I’ll keep your advice in mind. Thanks, Maranello.”
“Heh.”
Maranello smiled.
It had been a long, long time since those words had ever come from Carlyle’s mouth.
Even if death was looming, it was something.
“All right. I’ll think about it for a while.”
“Yes, my lord.”
After Maranello left, Carlyle sat lost in thought—until a herald arrived.
“By order of His Grace, Duke Guntram von Sigmund, the accused Carlyle von Sigmund shall appear in court one week hence. Until that time, you are hereby placed under house arrest.”
“…”
Hearing it aloud made the situation feel real. His mind began to race.
First things first—find out what really happened that night.
Carlyle summoned Maranello again.
“I need a favor.”
“Name it, my lord.”
“Can you bring me the case records? I don’t remember anything. I need to know what happened before I stand trial.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult. Please wait a moment.”
“Thanks.”
Maranello blinked in surprise at hearing the word again, but soon returned with the records.
Let’s see…
Carlyle began reading carefully. The summary went like this:
- Late at night, Carlyle sneaked out of the castle and went drinking at a tavern in the red-light district.
- Drunk out of his mind, he started a brawl and drew his sword.
- Thankfully, no one was killed inside the tavern.
- Stopped by onlookers, he staggered out into the streets.
- The next morning, Carlyle and the victim, Alberto, were found lying side by side. Evidence suggested Carlyle killed Alberto, tried to dispose of the body, then passed out.
- There was an eyewitness who saw Carlyle commit the murder.
This looks bad.
Carlyle winced and shut his eyes.
Still, since he’d started reading, he might as well finish.
Then—something caught his attention.
That name… looks familiar.
The eyewitness’s name rang a bell.
Jeffrey. Who was Jeffrey again? I’ve heard that name before… oh?
And then, a memory clicked.
“…Interesting.”
A crooked smile tugged at Carlyle’s lips.
His violet eyes gleamed sharply as they lingered on the name in the report.
“What’s interesting, my lord?”
Maranello frowned, uneasy.
How could someone call a murder case interesting?
“The witness. I don’t trust him.”
“Pardon?”
“I mean exactly that—the witness isn’t reliable.”
“What do you mean?”
“It might not have been me who killed that man, Alberto.”
Carlyle’s violet eyes flashed with intrigue.
