Chapter 17: “The Way He Repays Grace”

“Would you be a close companion for Silia?”

“Yes.”

“Would you be a strong shield for Silia?”

“Yes.”

“Can you trust Silia no matter what happens?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Can you protect Silia no matter what happens?”

“I will protect her, even at the cost of my life.”

“That’s reassuring. Please take good care of Silia.”

“You saved me, a dying boy, Duke. I will repay your kindness, no matter what.”

Thus, Roden, on a winter day in November of the year 1023 of the Continental Calendar, vowed to devote his life to the Duke’s daughter, truly serving his master to repay the grace that saved his life.

He was only ten years old at the time.

It was ominous, but he considered it fortunate that Silia had gone to bed, allowing Esil to be called out instead.

She had worked hard during practice and must have been exhausted after a day full of tension.

“Sleep tight, Silia…”

Standing still in the silence of the garden, Roden could only pray for Brikal’s tyranny to end soon.

He surveyed his surroundings.

The atmosphere was tense, and everyone wore uneasy expressions, uncertain when the sparks might fly in their direction.

The noblewomen, in particular, seemed worried about the “hero,” and Roden shared their concern for Esil.

There was no other reason.

Esil was Silia’s idol.

If Esil were harmed, Silia would undoubtedly be hurt as well.

Roden simply hoped this storm would pass quietly, but it showed no signs of subsiding.

“Can’t you speak louder!?”

Brikal roared, causing Esil to shrink in fear.

Brikal acted as though this were his personal space, tyrannizing even during Silia’s birthday party.

Roden felt anger boiling within him.

He had hoped for today to pass peacefully.

Was that such a lofty wish?

Did Brikal intend to cause havoc even in the Duke’s cherished household?

Roden felt a strong urge to strike down Brikal then and there.

“But at least… it’s fortunate Silia isn’t here.”

Finding solace in this thought, Roden resigned himself to what was to come when he saw Brikal rise from his seat and stride toward Esil.

Roden knew all too well.

Drunken violence only grew more uncontrollable, like a fish in water.

Turning his head to avoid witnessing the gruesome reality, Roden noticed something even worse.

“Oh… Silia, why…?”

Silia, who had gone to bed, was now stepping out of the front door.

Despite her knight, Madeleine, hastily following her, Silia walked toward the garden, clearly looking for Esil.

“Oh, Silia, why did you come out?”

Though he blamed her in his heart, the flames of trouble had already spread beyond control.

At this rate, Silia would witness her idol being mercilessly trampled.

Roden didn’t hesitate for long.

It was time to fulfill the vow he had made on that day in November 1023.

Though it had been an audacious promise from his childhood, Roden had never forgotten it.

He often asked his mother to tell him the folktale, The Dog’s Gratitude, which he loved dearly.

The story was about a farmer who had fallen asleep under a tree while taking a break from harvesting.

A fire broke out in his field, and his loyal dog, soaking itself in the river, rolled through the flames to extinguish them and save its master.

Though the dog’s body was scorched and it ultimately died beside its master, the farmer, upon waking, wept bitterly for the dog.

Roden admired the dog in the tale, marveling at its devotion to its master, even at the cost of its life.

With this story etched in his heart, Roden looked at Silia approaching from afar and muttered,

“…I’m sorry for always scolding you, Silia.”

He didn’t know what punishment awaited him for what he was about to do, but he was certain he wouldn’t escape unscathed.

Brikal’s ruthlessness was infamous throughout the kingdom.

His mood dictated the fates of others, often ending in death or severe injury.

Roden knew he wouldn’t be able to stay by Silia’s side after this.

But Roden acted boldly, like the dog in the story.

He hoped his actions would protect Silia’s beliefs and prevent her from witnessing her idol being humiliated.

With that wish in mind, Roden deliberately spilled wine on the Countess of Luvrak, one of the loudest noblewomen in the crowd.

“Ahhh!!”

As expected, her piercing scream momentarily silenced the garden.

“…You’re quite drunk, Your Majesty.”

Roselle spoke coldly, gripping Brikal’s wrist tightly as he raised his hand to strike.

Dazed from intoxication, Brikal sluggishly turned his gaze to Roselle.

“Roselle?”

Though Roselle wanted nothing more than to twist his wrist and cut off his head, she held back, seeing an opportunity to resolve the situation.

A knight named Duvel, who had been standing behind the platform, approached.

“Your Majesty, are you alright?”

Duvel, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, was ready to draw his weapon at any moment.

However, when Brikal motioned for him to retreat, Duvel stepped back to his place.

Roselle immediately spoke up.

“This servant is of lowly blood. Would you sully your noble hand with his unworthy blood, Your Majesty?”

As he bowed his head with a faint smile, Brikal laughed heartily, just as Roselle had anticipated.

“Hahaha! As expected! Only you truly understand me. Very well, then, let’s see what you can do.”

But Brikal handed Roselle a bottle of wine.

It was a test—a test of the loyalty of his favored vassal.

He always used such despicable methods to confirm loyalty.

A fleeting expression of dismay crossed Roselle’s face.

Though Brikal was drunk, he maintained his power through tyranny, and any slip-up would give him the perfect excuse to press further.

Roselle had no choice but to take the bottle of wine.

In an era of absolute monarchy, where the king’s command was law and truth, even a duke like Roselle had no right to refuse.

Roselle looked down at Roden.

Roden looked up at Roselle.

In their exchanged glances, something unspoken was conveyed.

“I… was wrong, my lord. I will accept my punishment willingly.”

There wasn’t the slightest tremor in Roden’s small eyes.

Roselle understood exactly what that unwavering gaze was conveying.

He glanced around the garden, wine bottle in hand.

The atmosphere in the garden, already cold and tense, had solidified completely.

It was time to bring the party to an end.

Roselle knew well that if the party didn’t end on a grand note, Brikal would throw another tantrum.

And so, Roselle gripped the body of the wine ottle firmly.

“…It won’t hurt.”

There was sorrow in his resolute voice.

Yet Roden, looking up at him, showed no sadness.

Rather, he felt relief—relief at being able to repay the grace that saved his life, even like this.

All he hoped was for it to end quickly, before Silia arrived.

“It’s alright, my lord.”

“…I see.”

Roselle, who had also seen Silia approaching, placed one hand on Roden’s shoulder and, without hesitation, swung the wine bottle.

Crash!

Shatter!

The wine bottle struck Roden’s head precisely, shattering into pieces and stirring a great commotion in the silent garden.

Some noblewomen screamed, and even the barons looked visibly shocked at the unprecedented sight of Duke Roselle’s actions.

Roden collapsed to the ground, limp.

Blood dripped from Roselle’s hand, cut by the shards of the broken bottle.

His mouth, too, tasted of blood.

“…Gellion.”

At his master’s call, Gellion, who had been frozen in shock, rushed forward.

His usually steady, grayish-white beard trembled faintly.

It was the first time Roselle had laid hands on a servant of the household, and even more unthinkable that he had drawn blood.

“Y-yes… my lord…!”

“…Take him to the infirmary. The broken bottle missed his vitals; he should survive.”

Roselle spoke coldly.

His gaze, colder and more terrifying than any expression he had ever shown, exuded overwhelming dread.

He seemed like an entirely different person.

With the help of the butler, Damian, Gellion hastily carried Roden into the mansion.

Brikal, who had been frozen in shock, clapped his hands and chuckled.

“Hahaha! What is this? You have a cruel streak too, don’t you? Oh, Duke Roselle, you grow more intriguing every time I see you, hahahaha!”

Roselle ignored Brikal’s grating voice, turning his back to him as he pressed a handkerchief to his bleeding palm.

It was the first time, since attaining his position, that he had shown his back to Brikal—a gesture foreboding of what lay ahead.

Disregarding Brikal’s laughter, Roselle gazed at the garden still reeling in shock and made his announcement.

“This party ends here. It’s late.”

As if waiting for this declaration, the nobles rose from their seats in unison.

Even the Countess of Luvrak, covered in spilled wine, followed her husband without a word of protest, retreating to the annex.

A moment later, through the departing crowd, Silia appeared.

“Ah, Father! Esil is missing—?”

Unaware of what had happened, Silia’s eyes widened in shock when she saw Roselle’s injured hand.

She hurried over, first noticing Esil standing behind him, which seemed to reassure her.

Then, she turned her attention back to her father’s injured hand, her concern evident.

“Y-your hand! Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Silia.”

“B-but…?”

“Take him inside. Have a servant prepare new clothes and a bath,” Esil instructed.

“Ah, yes, yes.”

Hearing her father’s wrathful voice for the first time, Silia couldn’t ask further. She simply held Esil’s hand and headed inside the mansion.

Roselle was left alone.

As the situation settled, he turned around and saw Brikal lying on the platform, sprawled out and snoring.

Roselle felt a surge of disgust at the pitiful sight but swallowed it down.

Brikal wouldn’t know.

He wouldn’t realize that, in front of the kingdom’s most prestigious nobles gathered here, he had just been overpowered.

The fool couldn’t foresee that this small shift would eventually tighten a noose around his neck.

Duvel and an attendant hurriedly carried Brikal to his bedroom, while Roselle, wearing a bitter expression, grabbed a bottle of wine left on the table and walked off somewhere.

Tatatatatak.

“Roden! Roden! Wake up! Roden!”

Damian followed behind Gellion, desperately calling Roden’s name. But the unconscious Roden didn’t open his eyes.

After about a minute of Gellion running and sweating, they arrived at the infirmary.

He hurriedly laid Roden on a bed.

“Roden! Wake up! Roden!”

Gellion cared deeply for Roden.

Roden, who had entered the household as an orphan, diligently fulfilled his duties and had even become a close friend to Lady Silia.

That’s why Gellion had personally chosen Roden as an attendant, wanting him to gain more experience.

Tears shimmered faintly in Gellion’s aging eyes.

He felt sorry.

He felt guilty.

If only he hadn’t chosen Roden for this role, this wouldn’t have happened. The guilt weighed heavily on his chest.

“Move aside! Did you say he was struck on the head with a wine bottle?”

The infirmary doctor rushed in, channeling mana into his hands.

Using the mana to diagnose Roden, he carefully examined him from head to toe.

“How is he? Is he alright?”

But the doctor tilted his head in confusion and withdrew the mana.

His diagnostic skill was of royal caliber, capable of instantly detecting the location and severity of internal injuries.

Strangely, no internal or external injuries were detected.

“…Are you sure he was hit on the head with a glass bottle?”

“Of course! I saw it clearly with my own two eyes!”

“Strange…”

“What is it? What’s the problem?”

“No, it’s nothing.”

The infirmary doctor firmly shook his head.

“…He’s just sleeping.”

“What? That can’t be!”

“Roden is in a sleep state. Look, if the bottle shattered, there should be external injuries, but there aren’t any. And the blood doesn’t appear to be his. Furthermore, there’s no internal damage. If his skull was weak, there should at least be a crack, but he’s completely fine. Instead, it seems there was a mana infusion. I detect traces of faint mana.”

“W-what…?”

Gellion’s trembling eyes slowly regained stability as he finally saw it—Roden breathing softly in his sleep.

And now, Gellion recalled how Roselle had placed his hand on Roden’s shoulder just before striking him with the bottle.

Thud.

Gellion’s legs gave way, and he sat down on the floor, letting out a hollow laugh.

He couldn’t believe it.

It felt surreal, as if he were dreaming.

What in the world had just happened?

“Hah, hahahaha… Truly… this is the first time I’ve seen a lord like him. How far does his brilliance extend?”

Gellion shook his head in disbelief.

How could someone display such wit in that situation?

And when had he mastered mana manipulation, something no one had ever seen him use before?

“Hahaha, truly remarkable… Almost awe-inspiring.”

Duke Roselle—Gellion felt he might never witness the limits of this man in his lifetime.

Gellion turned to the infirmary doctor.

“When Roden wakes, make sure he does not leave the infirmary. He must not be seen.”

“Why?”

“…Because it’s the lord’s wish. Hahaha.”

Gellion couldn’t stop laughing for a while.