novelraw Chapter 167 : Chapter 167
Chapter 167 : Chapter 167
Chapter 167: Pilgrimage (4)
“Read it, Ernst.”
Phew.
Ernst let out a long breath.
He had been wiping his damp face with a towel. It was the dead of winter, yet they had worked him into a sweat. Professor Argento was truly vicious. Demian’s father was no better. Thinking that, Ernst glared at the table in the dormitory common room.
“You should see a transmitted report.”
The sheets of paper piled on the table.
Ernst picked them up.
His vision was blurred from the condensation on his glasses.
“It is a summary of the current state of the territory you will rule. I have also attached several questions. Teaching a brat requires an inordinate amount of effort.”
A floating mass of light hovered beside Ernst.
From it came Christophe’s amused voice.
“Thank you, sir. You have made my life more troublesome.”
Ernst muttered as he wiped his lenses.
He skimmed through the papers. Christophe’s summary was short and concise. Judicial authority, corvée mobilization rights, as well as ownership and taxation rights. The document organized the territory’s condition according to the authorities imposed upon the Tresckow domain, then posed several problems for Ernst.
Even so, there was only one truly vexing question.
Christophe demanded that Ernst estimate the value that could be assigned to each of those rights.
“Members of your family will covet those authorities.”
Ernst nodded.
The right to govern a territory was itself a commodity. Authority could be divided and traded, just like land, gold, or goods—sometimes even instead of serfs. There had once been an era when regional borders became hopelessly entangled because of this. One territory might be ruled by three or four families: one handling trials, another overseeing administration, and another collecting taxes.
“A fief is not a nation. Even power can be traded when necessary. Your family members are waiting for such a situation to arise. Would it not be wise to at least have a rough sense of the price?”
“I will keep that in mind.”
A lie, of course.
Ernst thought so as he tossed the papers aside.
He spread the reports messily across the table, then turned away. He collapsed onto the sofa and sighed. Even getting dressed felt like too much effort.
“You know this already, but—”
“I am sorry. I do not have time to chat, sir. I am quite busy reviewing the documents you sent.”
“Do not bluff. I can picture your pitiful state perfectly.”
“That cannot be. I am sitting in a rocking chair, carefully studying the reports.”
“I would sooner trust heretics than your words.”
“Ernst.”
Christophe whispered softly.
“It seems you have no intention of yielding anything. Your grandmother’s domain—to no one at all…”
“Of course.”
Ernst answered firmly.
“I cannot relinquish any authority. If that were my intention, I would never have made a deal with you. Offering myself in exchange for the Duke of Sharma’s protection…”
“There would be no reason to make such an illogical bargain.”
To Ernst’s muttering,
“Of course.”
Christophe replied with a faint laugh.
“You sought this arrangement with the intention of betraying me from the start, did you not? If I were to demand the Tresckow domain, you would discard our deal and oppose me without hesitation. That much is obvious.”
“You understand me well. As expected, we communicate easily. Perhaps because we distrust each other equally?”
“I am not so sure.”
If I claimed that I desired no compensation,
that I merely wished to soothe your grandmother’s lingering spirit,
that this alone was the reason I helped you—
if I said that, would you believe me?
At Christophe’s question,
“I would not.”
Ernst rejected it without hesitation.
In his mind, he recalled his memories of Portsmouth.
The obsolete tactical control device abandoned in a ruined position. The symbols displayed upon it. A magical apparatus that reduced grotesque and beautiful scenes alike into curved lines, coldly tallying countless lives. Through that device, he must have observed and commanded innumerable lifetimes.
His deceased grandmother—and Christophe as well.
“Let me ask you directly, sir.”
Ernst whispered.
He picked up the book resting on the sofa’s armrest, ‘The Vile Adventures of Sir Abraxas,’ and opened it.
“When did you grow accustomed to it?”
After witnessing how many deaths, did you grow accustomed to death itself?
“I cannot believe it.”
Not my grandmother’s eternal rest,
nor the notion that one could grow accustomed to another person’s death.
The idea that one must inevitably become accustomed to it someday.
“I simply cannot believe it.”
***
At the same time, in Abel’s office.
Demian spoke in a low voice, his head bowed.
“You already know, Professor. That after returning from Portsmouth, Ernst decided to inherit the countship…”
Abel nodded once.
Flap.
He unfolded a freshly laundered towel.
Then he placed his cherished blade across his thigh. As he wiped the worn blade, he spoke.
“I had a general sense of it. It seems Duke Sharma agreed to assist him.”
“Yes. Christophe Jean-Jacques Saint-Sharma has taken on the role of Ernst’s guardian. It appears he intends to support him until he comes of age.”
Which means—
Demian was about to continue, when—
“That a deal has been struck.”
Abel murmured impassively.
Ernst’s grandmother, Brunhilde von Tresckow, who had passed away not long ago, had shared a bond with Duke Sharma. He had heard that they had cherished one another since childhood.
Was that the basis? Was he supporting Ernst simply because he was the eldest grandson of an old friend? Abel could not easily accept that. Christophe had not wavered even at Fleur’s death, a woman supported by the Sharma family. A single night of melancholy had sufficed. Nothing more. And beyond that, Christophe was—
“…A fiend.”
Demian uttered carefully.
Christophe’s epithet.
“I am not sure if I should say this, but the rumors surrounding Duke Sharma trouble me. I have heard that he killed his own child for political reasons…”
“That is enough.”
Abel already knew.
He knew the ominous rumors that followed Christophe’s name.
Outwardly, the Sharma family seemed distant from intrigue. They appeared devoted to the advancement of scholarship, philosophy among them. During times of war, they had not stepped into the forefront, instead earning imperial trust through service as civil officials rather than warriors.
Perhaps because of that, the rumors about Christophe were all the more vicious.
He rarely appeared in public. He supposedly never touched objects with his bare hands. He allegedly purchased all the buildings around his villa because light offended him. He was rumored to have been involved in the death of his eldest son, officially said to have died of illness. There were whispers of human experimentation using vagrant boys and girls as materials…
“We must not be swayed by rumors.”
Demian said calmly.
“Most information circulating in high society is unreliable. Even my father is subject to endless false tales because of his scars. Still, with my pilgrimage approaching…”
“You are worried about Ernst, then.”
“Yes.”
Demian nodded.
“With Lady Brunhilde gone, Ernst has no trustworthy family at his side. If he has made a dangerous bargain with Duke Sharma…”
“There would be no one to share the burden.”
“Exactly.”
Tap.
Abel set his cherished blade down on the round table.
Then he stood. Turning his back to Demian, he gazed out the window.
Night had already fallen. Beneath the darkened sky, the capital glittered with countless lights. Guided by those lights, groups of floating route airships drifted through the air.
“What do you think, Professor?”
Demian asked toward Abel’s back.
“Ernst is someone who never reveals his inner thoughts. That is why I came to consult you in his stead.”
“My opinion is irrelevant.”
Abel turned to face Demian.
Then he stepped forward. After sheathing the cherished blade resting on the table, he passed Demian and headed for the office’s arched doorway.
“What matters is Duke Sharma’s intent.”
“What are you doing?”
Abel asked, glancing back at Demian.
“Get up. The route airships will soon stop operating.”
“What does that matter?”
Demian tilted his head.
“You need not concern yourself. I can simply return via a transfer gate.”
“I dislike transfer gates. What if you end up transferred to some remote location? I do not trust a spell that disassembles and reassembles the body.”
“The chance of a failed transfer is only one in a thousand.”
“That is an unacceptably high probability.”
And more importantly,
you will not be able to return home on time tonight.
Abel muttered as much.
“Should we not go ask directly?”
Ask Duke Sharma,
what exactly he intends,
and what he wants from Ernst.
. . .
Late at night, in the capital of Naflansee.
The weather vane atop the cathedral rattled.
As the round-table-shaped wind plate spun noisily—
“Damn it…”
A servant of the Sharma family spat a curse.
Despite his fur cloak, his body trembled. It was not merely the cold. Touching his frost-covered nose, it was surely icy, but that hardly mattered. The unlit streets—those were what felt truly chilling.
“Anyone would think this was a heretic stronghold.”
The servant raised his head.
The Sharma family villa came into view at a glance.
It was too shabby to be called a duke’s residence. Thorny vines crawled up the outer walls like the grasp of evil spirits, while the cracked sections were preserved by the lord’s orders. The vines and fractured walls were protected, as if it did not matter if the mansion collapsed at any moment.
“Not even allowing torches… damn that cursed duke.”
And the lighting—
The servant carrying a lantern was taboo beyond all taboos.
To begin with, Duke Sharma had purchased every building surrounding the villa. Because light offended him, and to ensure everything was extinguished on time each night.
“Your Grace!”
The servant shouted toward the top of the villa.
“Everything has been loaded! Please enjoy your meal!”
A basket swayed beside him.
Inside the rope-suspended basket were foodstuffs: strawberry jam, rye bread, and several pieces of butter. A meager fare for a noble, yet Duke Sharma showed little interest in food.
That was not all.
The swaying basket began to rise,
being hauled toward the villa’s uppermost floor. The duke took his meals only in this manner, as though he wished to avoid encountering anyone at all.
“Yaaawn…”
After a long yawn—
“At last, I can sleep.”
The servant adjusted his fur cloak.
His duties were finished once the duke’s late-night meal was delivered.
All that remained was to sleep in some cramped room of the decaying mansion.
And just as he took a step—
“Stop.”
“Excuse us.”
Voices emerged from the pitch-black darkness.
They sounded like those of a young man and a boy.
“Are you employed by the Sharma family?”
“We have a few questions we would like to ask.”
The servant narrowed his eyes.
The darkness allowed only silhouettes to be seen.
Two men were approaching him.
“Stop!”
The servant hissed harshly.
Holding his breath, he retreated a few steps.
Then, examining the young man and the boy as they stepped out of the darkness—
“…You two…”
He tilted his head.
The tension drained from his face.
A young man dressed in formal wear, and a boy clad in a school uniform.
Both wore masks.
The young man bore the mask of a shouting Hero.
The boy wore the mask of a dying Demon King.
“…Just who are you?”
At the servant’s bewildered question,
the young man and the boy looked at one another.
Then they answered in solemn tones.
“A mere madman,”
“A true knight.”