novelraw Chapter 168 : Chapter 168
Chapter 168 : Chapter 168
Chapter 168: Pilgrimage (5)
‘Am I dreaming?’
The servant lowered his gaze.
A filthy blade was pressed against the back of his neck. Staring at it, he swallowed hard.
‘How did things end up like this?’
Creeeak, creeeak.
With each step the servant took, the corridor groaned.
The wooden planks beneath their feet screamed in protest. Three men were walking through the corridor of the Sharma family’s villa, the servant among them. A boy wearing the mask of a Saint watched their surroundings warily, while a young man in a Hero’s mask held a blade to the servant’s throat. The servant walked between the two men, toward the lord’s bedchamber.
‘Who the hell are these bastards!’
The servant bit down on his lower lip.
At first glance, he had thought them drunken ruffians.
Addled with alcohol and drugs, such scum occasionally attempted break-ins. Once their minds were drowned in bootleg liquor and illicit substances, even a duke’s authority ceased to frighten them. And the Sharma family’s villa, shabby in appearance, was easy to underestimate.
‘Even so…’
There should have been no need for knights.
The servants alone should have been enough to subdue them.
“Have you trained in martial arts?”
The young man in the Hero’s mask—Abel—spoke.
The servant’s body was better trained than that of most mercenaries. Abel and his companion had subdued him before infiltrating the villa. No guards were in sight, nor was there a single light to be found in the corridor. Abel had already realized that the rules governing this place were strange.
“Answer me. Are you nothing more than a servant?”
“Hmph. Of course.”
The servant frowned.
“I have served the Sharma family since my youth. It was grueling work. They are exceedingly fastidious. Still, it was worth it. The lord is generous with his purse. That is why I never neglected my training.”
“What compelled you to train your body?”
“Well.”
I do not rightly know, the servant muttered as he walked through the night-darkened corridor.
“The lord trusts no one. He does not even trust his own blood—so how could he trust a servant? He doubted us, so he made us train. He distrusts his kin, distrusts his servants, and cannot even trust his knights.”
Abel nodded.
Exhaling a breath tinged with steam, he surveyed the surroundings.
The servant was not lying. Though the villa looked merely old on the surface, Abel perceived spells and watchful eyes everywhere. Countless magic circles lay beyond the wallpaper, and it seemed as though troops were waiting in concealment beyond the walls.
‘Excessively obsessive.’
Staring straight ahead, Abel thought.
Too much care had been taken—both in preserving the villa’s decrepit exterior and in constructing its internal security. As if the villa had to look old. As if no one must ever see anything other than a wretched, dilapidated mansion.
‘Every possibility has been accounted for.’
Abel could have requested an audience with Christoph directly.
There was only one reason he had chosen infiltration instead. He could not dismiss the possibility that the Sharma family had come into contact with the Cult of Transmigration.
It was already evident that the cult was operating covertly within the Empire. The nobility would hardly be an exception. If anything, they would be prime prey. The four noble houses that formed the backbone of Siar would be especially enticing.
‘Only Sharma remains opaque.’
Orléans, Zayron, Mistrie, Sharma.
The four noble houses divided the imperial authority that sustained Siar. Orléans supported the Imperial House, Zayron defended the North. Mistrie aided the Mage Towers. Only the Sharma family’s true role remained unclear.
They merely claimed to devote themselves to philosophy.
“Master Märchen Blackmoor.”
Suddenly, Demian spoke.
He uttered Märchen’s name, but he was referring to Abel.
Demian understood this as Abel impersonating the Empire’s greatest sage to conceal his identity.
“I believe we have arrived.”
A massive, solid iron door.
Looking up at it, Demian murmured.
“Open it.”
Thud.
Abel shoved the servant forward.
There was no need for further questions. A door this secure could only lead to the lord’s bedchamber.
“Do not harbor foolish thoughts. You are a hostage.”
“…I know.”
Tch.
Snorting, the servant stepped forward.
He rummaged through his fur cloak and produced a bundle of keys, each inscribed with spells. Selecting the smallest one, he inserted it into the keyhole set in the center of the iron door.
‘He is aware, then.’
As he disengaged the lock, the servant thought.
No one had come running. That made the lord’s will unmistakable. Christoph had permitted the intruders’ visit.
Then just who were these two intruders?
‘It does not matter.’
The servant squeezed his eyes shut.
He was not afraid of intruders.
What he truly feared was the lord’s judgment.
“Why did you choose this method?”
Meanwhile, Demian asked as he stood beside Abel.
“Even if Duke Sharma is suspicious… this is dangerous. He will not forgive such discourtesy.”
“There is no need to worry.”
Of course, Demian thought as he listened to Abel.
If there were no need for concern, then this method made sense. Which led to another question.
‘What is he?’
To say that one need not worry about offending the duke.
Was Abel truly nothing more than a professor?
‘…Sword Saint.’
Why did Ernst’s words suddenly come to mind?
“Is it not done yet?”
Abel asked the servant.
From the smallest to the largest, the servant twisted keys into the lock one by one.
“Wait. Do you think this is easy?”
Damn them all.
Grumbling, the servant put the keys away. He placed both palms against the iron door. As his fingerprints resonated with it, the lock was fully released. The highest-grade security spell had been embedded in the door.
‘And then…’
A stale odor surged from beyond the iron door.
Facing it, Demian wondered,
‘What is Duke Sharma, truly?’
Living in a place like this.
Christoph’s nature intrigued him as much as Abel’s.
“There is no need to worry.”
Abel whispered to Demian.
“Yes, of course.”
From beyond the iron door, Christoph’s voice echoed.
“Duke Sharma will not kill me.”
Abel muttered this quietly, and then—
“That is difficult to agree with.”
Whizz.
A crossbow bolt streaked past Abel’s side.
Needless to say, it was atrocious marksmanship.
“To be precise,”
Demian narrowed his eyes.
Inside the vast bedchamber, a tiny candle flickered.
Its light was far too feeble to illuminate the room.
“He cannot kill you.”
A thick candle stood atop a small table.
Facing it, Christoph sat.
“It is not that he chooses not to kill you…”
Holding an old crossbow,
a smile spread across his deeply wrinkled face.
“It is that he cannot kill you.”
At this very moment,
no matter what method he might employ,
no matter how much he wished to—
“…There is simply no way for him to kill you.”
***
“I will not hold you responsible.”
Waving a hand, Christoph spoke.
The servant was bowing deeply at Christoph’s side, begging forgiveness. Though Christoph wore a smile, his inner thoughts were obvious. Losing his head on the spot would have been no surprise. Duke Sharma was a merciless old man.
“I am sorry, Your Grace. I could not possibly stop them on my own…”
“I said I understand. Withdraw.”
“I have three children. Though I am of a minor noble line, they are precious heirs who must carry on my house—”
“My patience is beginning to wear thin.”
“Are you truly sparing me? Are you mercifully preserving my life?”
“Did I not say so?”
“Thank you! Thank you, Your Grace!”
Abel rested his chin on his hand, staring blankly.
He was seated at the table with Demian.
A single candle stood on the cramped tabletop. Abel gazed at the flame flickering at its tip.
“Why not remove your masks?”
As the servant scrambled away,
Christoph looked back and forth between Abel and Demian.
Where had they even found such masks? Childish to the extreme. It felt as though he had been mocked. With that thought, he sighed.
“Demian Fernando von Farenheit.”
“…Yes.”
At Christoph’s call, Demian answered.
He then removed the Saint’s mask. His blond hair gleamed red in the candlelight.
“You are worried about your close friend, are you not? Afraid that I may have deceived him while hiding some sinister intent.”
“That is not exactly—”
Demian lowered his head.
He was explaining the reason for their intrusion.
It was true that he had found the rumors surrounding Christoph unsettling, but he had not believed that Christoph had approached Ernst with concealed malice.
“Ernst is a clever one. I do not believe he could be so easily misled.”
“Of course. He resembles his grandmother—sharp-minded.”
“And so, I believe Ernst may have…”
Perhaps, in order to inherit the family,
to preserve his late grandmother’s place,
he might have entered into an unreasonable bargain with Your Grace.
Demian’s voice trailed off as he spoke softly.
“Indeed, he did.”
Christoph nodded.
“That boy said he would give me everything. That if only he could inherit Brunhilde’s title, he would give me anything. Of course, he likely did not mean it in earnest…”
But what does that matter?
Shrugging, Christoph laughed.
“I possess ample power. I could seize everything from him at any time.”
“…That!”
Clatter.
The table shook.
Demian had surged to his feet.
“Sit down, Demian.”
Abel whispered to him, his gaze still fixed on the candle.
“Yes, yes. Sit, Demian. I said I could take everything, not that I would.”
That said…
Muttering, Christoph rummaged through the basket on the table.
“Abel Argento.”
Strawberry jam emerged from within the basket.
Twisting open the glass jar, Christoph’s eyes glinted.
“I am curious about your intentions. Surely you did not come merely to indulge the anxieties of children? And in such a rude manner, no less.”
“Of course not.”
Your Grace must already understand this well enough.
Muttering so, Abel rose from his chair.
“I harbored a slight suspicion, but…”
Creeeak.
The bedchamber floor creaks as Abel stepped forward, toward the tightly shut window.
“It seems I was mistaken.”
Demian stared at the candle.
For some reason, his gaze was drawn to it. The red flame seemed, for an instant, to be tinged with many colors.
“Your Grace, you are planning something far more…”
Demian lifted his head.
“…Something far grander.”
He looked at the glass jar in Christoph’s hand.
The once-fresh strawberry jam inside had turned black.
As though it had spoiled in an instant.
“Are you planning to rule?”
Bang.
The window flew open violently.
Demian frowned.
“Your Grace—”
Abel’s voice was low,
as sudden sunlight flooded Demian’s vision.
“…Are you planning to rule time itself?”
Under a sky that was unmistakably midday,
Abel asked, his back to the light.