Chapter 19: One Word Can Incur a Thousand Debts (1)

Temidro Duvel became the kingdom’s greatest Sword Saint at the age of 26.

A commoner by birth, he achieved this solely through pure physical “skill,” proving his worth by winning the [Royal Martial Tournament], hosted by the 21st King, Dragon Vy Hurion.

At the age of 27, he became Hurion’s royal guard knight.

Only the most skilled in the kingdom could earn the right to protect the king, and despite his humble origins, Duvel secured this honor.

What made his accomplishment even more remarkable was that it was achieved without any magical assistance, relying solely on raw “strength.”

As a result, Duvel became a symbol of admiration for countless commoners and those unable to wield magic within the kingdom.

The sheer force he displayed inspired many, giving them dreams and hope.

Among those inspired was Roden.

At the age of 28, the Demon King and his monsters reappeared.

With swordsmanship unparalleled within the kingdom, no one doubted that Duvel would be the one to save the kingdom.

“Heroes are born of destiny.”

However, defeating the Demon King required not just skill but a divinely bestowed “destiny.”

Thus, Duvel was not chosen by the goddess.

Though disappointed, Duvel did not resist.

The prophecy of the Saintess was regarded as equivalent to the will of the goddess, something that could not be overturned.

Grateful for the chance to serve as Emilia’s “swordsmanship mentor,” Duvel dedicated himself wholeheartedly for two months.

As expected of someone chosen by the goddess, Emilia underwent rapid growth during that period.

While training and spending time together, Duvel and Emilia had many conversations, leading him to believe that the Saintess’s prophecy of Emilia’s rebellion as a Hero was unfounded.

The Emilia Duvel knew was a pure, adventurous woman with no lust for power.

But the prophecy of the Saintess was absolute, and Duvel eventually had to confront Emilia himself.

The feeling of having to defeat a disciple he had personally trained was indescribably devastating.

Even so, he pointed his sword at Emilia’s neck.

It was his “destiny,” after all.

Now, Duvel stood looking down at Brikal, who was sprawled out and snoring on a luxurious bed.

His gaze was one of contempt.

He stared down with disappointment at the man who had attempted disgraceful acts even during the birthday party of the daughter of Duke Rosel, who had led the kingdom’s revival.

‘…Lord Hurion.’

Duvel silently called out to the late King Hurion, now resting at the goddess’s side.

If not for the dying words left behind by Hurion, Duvel would have long since abandoned Brikal.

But because of the single plea, “Please protect Brikal no matter what,” Duvel had sworn to stay by the side of this pathetic and indulgent king.

He had made a vow.

To the dying Hurion,

He swore to protect that mission until the day his life ended.

Of course, back then, Brikal was still young and not the man he had become.

He had been kind, much like his father, but now he was showing the complete opposite behavior.

Brikal sent all the potential threats, the power brokers, into distant exiles, and only kept those who flattered him close.

Naturally, those who supported his tyranny were the only ones left, and his despotic rule grew more intense by the day.

Among these flatterers was, of course, Duke Rosel.

Duke Rosel, a commoner like himself, had achieved great feats.

He was the one who led the frontier kingdom to its prosperity and, through flattery and bribery, became Brikal’s closest confidant.

Today, for the first time, he had caught the king’s wrist in his grasp.

“…Duke Rosel is the first to lay hands on the king’s body.”

Although he had spoken of the king’s hand as being noble, the only sober person in the garden, Duvel, could see through it.

He saw Rosel’s eyes.

“But… when did Duke Rosel start wielding magic?”

Indeed, Rosel had always displayed “weakness.”

Yet, just a moment ago, magic had clearly manifested at the tip of his fingers.

It must have been invisible to the drunken, blurry-eyed people, but Duvel had clearly seen it.

Everything about Duke Rosel—the look in his eyes, the atmosphere—was different.

“Hmm…”

Duvel, momentarily lost in thought as he gazed down at Brikal, then made his way somewhere.

At that moment, Duke Rosel was standing alone on the rooftop of the mansion.

Leaning his arm against the iron railing, he was deep in thought when someone approached, breaking his contemplation.

“The night view is quite nice,”

The one approaching with a grotesque smile was none other than Sregon.

His face was flushed red from the alcohol he had consumed, making him look pitiful.

Rosel glanced at him with an expressionless face, then turned his head away.

Despite the cold response, Sregon ignored it and moved next to Rosel, leaning against the iron railing.

“That was truly astonishing just now.”

“To crush the head of your young attendant like that. Heh heh.”

The corners of Rosel’s eyes twitched, his disgust palpable.

The repulsive laughter pierced his eardrums, and he felt as if he wanted to rip out his eardrums and wash them clean.

“Our tribe wouldn’t even go that far. Heh heh heh. It’s good to see you again today. Truly respectable, Duke.”

Sregon, who had no surname, was not human.

Born of a union between an orc and a human, he was a half-breed.

With the orc’s brutal nature and the human’s cunning intelligence, he had caught Brikal’s eye five years ago and was appointed as the torturer in the dungeon.

And as if it were his true calling, he lived indulging in the thrill of torturing and breaking countless humans, and Brikal adored him for it.

Whenever Brikal sent a weak-willed individual he disliked to the underground prison, they would return “reformed,” as if remade into proper people.

How could he not favor someone like Sregon?

Thus, despite his lowly origin as a half-human and his revolting appearance, Sregon became one of Brikal’s trusted confidants.

The one he had invested the most effort into breaking was Esil.

Gulp, gulp.

Sregon drank from the wine bottle he held, wiping the wine from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve before speaking again.

“Heh heh heh. But… it seems even the great Duke Rosel is lenient when it comes to that rebellious slave?”

Rosel had been trying his best to ignore Sregon, but at the mention of Esil, he could no longer remain silent.

“…What do you mean by that?”

“Heh, no one knows that slave better than I do.”

“Get to the point.”

“When I saw her earlier… it looked like her scars had disappeared. Naturally, it must have been your doing, Duke Rosel?”

Rosel flinched slightly but maintained a composed demeanor as he replied.

“Yes, it was.”

“Ah… how heartbreaking.”

“…What exactly do you mean?”

At his question, Sregon let out a long, dramatic sigh, as if genuinely saddened.

Then, he took another swig of wine.

“That slave was so stubborn. It took me exactly 65 days to break her in.”

As Sregon continued to speak disrespectfully about Esil, Rosel’s fist tightened, but he endured with remarkable restraint.

Sregon, like himself, was one of Brikal’s closest aides.

It wouldn’t do any good to act rashly against him.

However, even Rosel wasn’t sure how long he could hold back.

“That slave is my masterpiece, you see. But… Duke, you’ve gone and ruined my masterpiece, heh heh heh.”

“…I purchased the ownership of that so-called ‘masterpiece’ through a legitimate auction. What I do with it now is entirely my prerogative, is it not?”

“Oh, I don’t blame you, Duke. Heh heh. It’s just a bit disappointing, that’s all.”

Unable to bear looking at Sregon’s grotesque face any longer, Rosel straightened himself, releasing his arms from the railing.

If he stayed any longer, he might end up smashing that face to pieces.

“…Enjoy your drink and be on your way. I’ll be heading downstairs now.”

But just as Rosel was about to leave, his steps came to an abrupt halt.

It was because of Sregon’s words from behind him.

“Ah, now that I think of it, there’s one more thing I regret.”

“Heh heh heh, not getting a taste of that slave’s body. The saintess forbade sexual torture, and that was such a shame. So, Duke, how was it? The body of the continent’s most beautiful slave—was it satisfying? Heh heh heh.”

A thick vein bulged on Rosel’s temple, his patience finally at its limit.

It seemed that Sregon, who had crossed the line first, would soon experience not the “taste” he spoke of, but a fiery reckoning.

“Heh heh heh. Why don’t you just say it? Was the taste satisfying?”

Sregon had never made such remarks to Rosel before.

In fact, he had never engaged in such a long conversation with him.

Rosel had always been a subtle rival, his unyielding and stoic expression making it difficult to gauge his intentions.

But after the recent events, Sregon had become convinced.

He believed that Rosel was someone like himself.

Someone who shared his nature.

And so, Sregon was attempting to express a sort of “camaraderie” toward Rosel.

Of course, every word that spilled from his mouth only served to grate on Rosel’s nerves.

Rosel clenched his trembling fist and turned back toward Sregon.

He fixed a cold glare on the drunken man, who merely grinned foolishly in response.

“…There’s a proverb that goes, ‘One word can repay a thousand debts.’”

“What a garbage proverb that is,” Sregon laughed crudely.

“…That also means, conversely, one word can incur a thousand debts.”

At last, Sregon, who had been smirking, sensed the shift in Rosel’s mood and shut his mouth.

But it was already too late.

Rosel’s eyes gleamed with an unrelenting cold fury.

He extended a hand.

From that hand, black mana began to ignite like flames.

“…You can wield mana…?”

Sregon took a step back, alarmed by the sudden turn of events.

But the blazing black mana shot forward, coiling around Sregon like a predator constricting its prey.

“What is the meaning of this?! Duke Rosel!”

Rosel’s gaze showed no mercy.

With his left hand, he pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time.

Today was Cilia’s birthday.

He had hoped to avoid bloodshed on this day.

But, unfortunately, the hour hand had already passed the number twelve.

A new day had begun.

Rosel turned his piercing gaze back to Sregon.

He had always been a man of tolerance.

He treated others with generosity and open-mindedness, earning him the loyalty of many.

But he was not tolerant enough to spare a barking dog that dared to howl within a tiger’s den.

Such a dog had to have its neck twisted to be taught its place.

In the moonlight, Rosel’s black pupils gleamed with a chilling intent to kill.

“…Though I made you what you are, it seems your words have now incurred a thousand debts. That was your choice.”

“Gah! Wh-what are you doing…?”

“I’ll now collect on those debts.”