Chapter 12: Courting Death

  Pedestrians lined the street, pausing to watch and murmur in admiration at the knight on the white horse. Young women whispered among themselves, their eyes shining with the exact look men most longed to see—adoration, infatuation, and longing.

  The horse was a rare treasure, and the man upon it even rarer. His silver knight’s armor did not look like something he wore; it seemed a natural extension of his aura—radiating majesty simply because it clung to his frame. His golden hair gleamed so brightly it gave the illusion of sunlight clinging to him, willing to become part of him. His sword-like eyebrows, straight nose, and handsome yet thoroughly masculine features were bathed in sunlight; the light reflecting off his armor and hair tricked onlookers into thinking the glow came from the man himself.

  Naturally, such a man had a status to match. A few passersby who knew his identity whispered among themselves: this was Erney Clovis, eldest son of the Grand Duke of Erney, captain of the Royal Paladin Order, and son-in-law to Duke Mrak. At this, some young women immediately began daydreaming that their mothers had once shared a secret intimacy with Lord Mrak.

  Clovis paid no mind to the admiring crowd. To him, these foolish commoners were no different from ants—their awe at his greatness was only natural, not worth a second thought.

  And he was irritable. In fact, he had been irritable for over a month—and now he was forced to waste time dawdling here. If he could, he would draw his sword on the spot and slaughter every lowly peasant blocking the carriage procession, clearing the way in an instant.

  That soldier had actually escaped the capital—and might even be hiding somewhere within it still. The thought had robbed him of sleep for a month. Every time he imagined that lowly cur cowering in a dark hole, laughing to himself for outwitting a knight, reveling in Clovis’ worry and frustration, he was consumed by a violent rage. He swore that when he caught the soldier, he would flay every sensitive part of his body bit by bit, as carefully as trimming his nails—making him howl like a dog in a pool of blood for three days and three nights, licking Clovis’ boots frantically, begging to be killed.

  The only good news was that the soldier had not yet leaked the information. Perhaps the fool did not even understand the true significance of what he knew—doomed to take the secret to his grave, hidden in the shadows forever. The orcs in the west were also making unexpected progress; in another six months, everything would be ready. But that soldier was still a wild card—possibly dampened and useless, or perhaps waiting to resurface one day, destroying the delicate balance of their plans beyond repair.

  Today, his injured fiancée was finally being brought back. He had no choice but to set aside his work, go outside the city to meet her, and escort her back to the duke’s mansion. Wasting time on such trivialities disgusted him.

  He hated wasting time with a passion. Time was precious; every minute should be used efficiently, every moment should yield gain, every second should serve his pursuit of greater power and higher status. To live was to strive, strive, and strive again—this was his creed, and he prided himself on it, looking down on the lowly masses who lived day to day like insects. Thus, anything that violated this creed filled him with utter loathing.

  And he knew she hated seeing him too. Her dislike was not overt; it was a cold, dismissive indifference. This attitude infuriated Clovis. He was used to being worshipped, revered, feared—he even tolerated hatred or disgust, for those emotions at least proved he was an unignorable force. But he would never tolerate being ignored, never allow anyone to look at him as they would a cockroach scurrying along a wall.

  Only one person in the world looked at him that way. If it were anyone else, he would have crushed them without mercy, teaching them the cost of underestimating him. But this person was his fiancée—the woman who would share his life, carrying that cold gaze with her forever. And now he had to waste countless hours protecting her.

  It was utterly repulsive. He would have refused if he could.

  But he could not. Sometimes, appearances were all that mattered—they were the very point of the exercise. The daughter of Duke Mrak was injured; given the duke’s ties to the Erney family, and as the eldest son of Grand Duke Erney and her fiancé, Clovis must race outside the city to meet her, then escort her back to the mansion with utmost care. Since everyone expected this, he had no choice but to play the part.

  He had met her. The two of them shared an unspoken understanding—neither glanced at the other, nor exchanged a single word. Instead, the moment they met, she had used her weak voice to ask urgently after her sister: where was the young man who had reported to the duke’s mansion a month earlier? In her eyes, that soldier was a hundred times more important than her fiancé. This enraged Clovis further—not out of jealousy, for his fiancée (or any woman, for that matter) was merely a tool to him. No, her attitude implied that, in some way, he was inferior to that soldier.

  He did not care how—only that a lowly peasant might surpass him in any aspect was unacceptable. I am the strongest, the most perfect, the most powerful, the best. This idea had long been rooted in his mind, a source of his pride. He was an extraordinarily proud man—and thus, easily annoyed, easily angered.

  Perhaps that damned soldier would take this chance to approach her. If so, Clovis could cut off the cur’s limbs one by one in front of her, letting her see exactly who was the one not to be ignored. He clung to this thought, trying to lend some meaning to this tedious errand that soured his mood. But he knew it was just wishful thinking. That soldier was not foolish enough to walk into a trap.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Brother-in-law, did you see how those girls were looking at you?” Chris was gazing at Clovis with the very look she had described, her voice excited.

  “Hmm.” Clovis was lost in his own thoughts.

  “Don’t be so cold all the time,” Chris pressed, her gaze growing more intense. This girl was his fiancée’s younger sister—seventeen years old, with features similar to her sister’s but even more beautiful, one of the most sought-after beauties in the capital. Her personality was typical of a noble girl: frivolous and senseless.

  Like most youngest daughters, she was doted on by her father. After her birth, the duke had little time left to educate his children. Raised in the same environment as other noble heirs, she had grown into much the same person. Not long ago, she had even begged to study ancient texts at the Magic Academy—but it was clearly just a ploy to add a veneer of nobility to herself, with no real purpose.

  Clovis sometimes wondered why the duke had not married her to him instead. Such a naive, shallow girl would be easy to control—he could handle her with his eyes closed. It would have been far more convenient for both the duke and himself.

  A commotion suddenly erupted from the carriage procession behind them. “Someone tried to climb onto the young lady’s carriage, sir. We’ve detained him,” a guard reported.

  The news jolted Clovis—reminding him of his earlier fantasy. A sudden premonition of great luck surged within him. He spurred his horse forward.

  Several soldiers were holding a man draped in a tattered cloak. He was hunched over, seemingly lame, and his cloak looked as if it had not been washed in centuries. One glance was enough to imagine him skulking in a dark cellar, doing unspeakable work.

  Clovis studied him closely—and suddenly noticed how well the cloak fit. It concealed every part of the man’s body perfectly; even standing face-to-face, it was impossible to see his face, or even make out his build clearly.

  Clovis dismounted, his eyes boring into the face hidden in the cloak’s shadows—as if he could pierce through the darkness and dissect every detail with his gaze.

  He stepped toward the man slowly, each step deliberate and steady—as if confronting a ghost that had barely materialized from the cracks of time, liable to vanish into thin air at the slightest mistake.

  His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. He gave the order, each word sharp and clear: “Pull back his hood.” At this distance, he was certain no one could escape him.

  The soldiers pulled back the hood. They reacted first—jumping back in shock.

  It was a face that belonged in darkness, not the light of day. Its features looked as if they had been melted in boiling water, then haphazardly molded back together; or like a clumsy potter, dissatisfied with his work, had mashed his fingers into an already ugly face. Purple-red tumors covered it, glistening with oil, swollen as if ready to burst and spew hot pus. “It’s Old Sandro’s hunchbacked assistant!” one of the guards immediately recognized him.

  Clovis scanned the face from top to bottom, twice. He found no trace of the features he expected—only a wave of disgust. He turned to the guard who had spoken, his eyes blazing with such anger and revulsion that even the dumbest ox could sense it. “You know him?”

  The guard trembled, hurrying to explain: “Not personally, sir—but everyone knows him! He’s the assistant to Old Sandro, the one who handles corpses out west of the city!” A murmur of agreement rose from the onlookers. Someone shouted: “Hunchback! Did you think that was a corpse cart? Bow and apologize, quick!”

  Was this just a random stranger? A coincidence? Even if he killed the man by mistake, it would not matter—he could not afford to let any possibility slip. Veins bulged on the back of Clovis’ hand as he tightened his grip on the sword hilt.

  But he glanced again at that unbearable face—and finally released his grip. A man so ugly, doing such filthy work… his blood must be as dirty and stinking as gutter water. What if it stained his clothes? What if it splattered on his face? The thought made him feel sick. He turned and mounted his horse, ordering: “Drive him away.”

  “Scram!” The guard, afraid of soiling his boots, did not dare kick the man—only lifted his foot in a threatening gesture and hissed like he was chasing a dog. The crowd burst into laughter.

  “That man was so terrifying,” Chris said, clinging to Clovis’ arm and feigning fear as she watched the figure pull his cloak back over his head and hobble away into the crowd, hunched over.

  “Who was that?” a weak voice called from inside the carriage. Chris replied: “Nothing, just a madman.”

  By dusk, in the large house, Old Sandro was removing the livers from two corpses, comparing them, then slicing them into small pieces and soaking them in vials of liquid. Ethan stood beside him, handing him tools as needed.

  A stray cat jumped through the window, meowing at Sandro. He casually cut off a piece of what he was holding and tossed it to the cat.

  “What if someone’s cervical vertebrae are cracked?” Ethan asked.

  “Throw them away,” Sandro replied without looking up.

  Ethan struggled to rephrase: “Not a corpse. I mean… what if a living person’s cervical vertebrae are injured or cracked? How do you treat that?”

  Sandro picked up a small hammer from the table and smashed one of the corpse’s cervical vertebrae with a dull thud. “Try putting it back together yourself,” he said. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he fixed Ethan with a stare. “You still owe me three years and two months of work.”

  “I know,” Ethan replied.

  “Then think about my three years and two months of work,” Sandro emphasized the word “my” heavily. “Don’t go courting death. I heard you were very brave today. But do you know your limp was terrible? Not convincing at all.”

  “How can I make it more convincing?” Ethan asked humbly. Next time, he had to talk to her.

  Sandro held up the small hammer again. “Lift your foot.”

  At the same time, inside the duke’s mansion, Duke Mrak sat beside his daughter’s bed, telling her a made-up story. He had not done this in over a decade, but now, returning to the role, he was as skilled as ever.

  “And he just left like that?” Sophia’s eyes were filled with disappointment.

  Duke Mrak’s eyes also held disappointment. “Yes. Such a fine young man—I would have loved to keep him here. But he was determined to go, and I couldn’t stop him.”

  Chris, listening nearby and daydreaming about the story her sister had told, sighed wistfully: “Traveling alone through the most dangerous marsh on the continent, fighting an orc, saving a girl… it’s just like the tales bards sing! He must be so handsome, with long hair covering one eye… and maybe he’s a prince from some small kingdom!” She grew excited just imagining it.

  “Did he say anything?” Sophia asked, her eyes now filled with hopeful disappointment.

  Duke Mrak’s gaze softened into the warmth, tolerance, and understanding of a loving father. “He told you to rest well—and to never go to such dangerous places again. He said he’d come back to see you if he got the chance.”

  “The information that young man brought was invaluable,” the duke continued, his voice growing slower and more solemn—sober and earnest beyond mere sincerity. “But it’s a military secret. We can’t share it with anyone, or all his efforts will be for nothing. So you mustn’t tell a soul about anything he said to you, or what happened to you in the marsh. Promise me you’ll remember that—don’t let his hard work go to waste. Do you understand?”