* * *
The tone was nothing like the voice that had shouted at him earlier, telling him to stay away as if banishing fear.
It was so different that it didn’t even sound like the same person.
“Huh? What did you just…”
Ranshel responded a beat late, so startled that he bit his tongue at the end of his sentence.
“Name.”
“My name?”
Zavad furrowed a brow and tilted his head slightly.
Ranshel thought he knew what that expression meant.
‘Who else would I be talking to here?’
Clearing his throat, Ranshel finally answered.
“…Ranshel.”
Ranshel.
The well-shaped lips murmured the name, making it sound strangely unfamiliar.
Somehow, hearing it on Zavad’s tongue gave it a certain dignity, despite it being a name with no noble lineage.
‘They say even a rotten fish is still a fish… Guess nobles are nobles no matter what.’
Had he been reciting psalms in this dark, sunless room?
Even though he likely didn’t know much, his pronunciation made Ranshel’s own name sound completely different.
“Disgusting.”
Huh. Even when he said that, it sounded like poetry.
Ranshel was impressed.
“If you’re done, back off. You stink.”
“……”
Wait a second.
“A mere commoner, acting so far above his station…”
Hold on—?
Ranshel felt like calling a timeout, like a referee in the middle of a match.
His head was throbbing as if he had just taken a foul ball to the back of the skull.
‘What the hell…’
Zavad had kept his mouth shut until now, so this was completely unexpected.
Honestly, given his environment, Ranshel had assumed he would have grown up feeling utterly defeated, with no self-esteem to speak of.
But the boy in front of him was of noble blood, raised in a crystal cage—a member of the ruling class.
And he was fully aware of his own status.
Most people had no choice but to stand in the mud and look up at him from far below.
A dark, dusty room.
To Ranshel, it symbolized the Pomel family’s cruelty in abandoning Zavad, and he wasn’t wrong.
But beneath that, there was another truth—a boy who had never once drawn back a curtain with his own hands, someone thoroughly aristocratic in his habits.
A noble who despised and looked down on commoners.
So how had he, who had been by Zavad’s side all this time, failed to realize this?
‘Because he wasn’t like this in the game!’
The Zavad he knew was practically a different person.
In the game, he was the heart-fluttering object of affection, and the heroine was the daughter of a count, so his attitude had been entirely different.
—Do not look at me with such kind eyes. I am a wretched man who would sell his soul to the devil for revenge.
—Can you believe it? That I, who once waited only for the day I could tear their flesh and break their bones, now desire only your love…?
Ranshel could still vividly recall those intense lines spoken to the heroine, Frey Berciel.
And yet, from his own perspective, all of it was nothing but an illusion.
‘There was a reason Frey was written as a noble.’
Ranshel let out a long sigh and spoke.
“I’m not done treating you yet. Are you planning to walk around without bandages until your hand gets torn up?”
“If you’re going to do it, then hurry up. You claim you’re working for money, but you can’t even do your job properly.”
…Was it that obvious that he was a beginner?
Ranshel forced himself to keep a neutral expression as he worked, making sure the bandage was wrapped securely until a doctor could visit.
“It’s done. Try not to aggravate it.”
Zavad shot Ranshel a glare with his already sharp eyes, then smacked his hand away.
“Yeah, yeah. Just leave me alone already.”
Then, once again, he curled up, wrapping his arms around his legs.
He looked completely at home in that position.
Ranshel had always pitied him, but knowing he had likely been cursing him as a filthy commoner this whole time made it a little easier to stomach.
‘Actually, this is better.’
Since maintaining a good relationship wasn’t an option anyway, it was probably for the best.
If anything, it made things simpler—he had already been disgusted with his own hypocrisy.
Zavad was a noble through and through, born into aristocracy and steeped in its traditions.
Meanwhile, Ranshel was just a rude servant who spoke to him without a filter.
That was the perfect dynamic for them.
Ranshel opened the tray’s cover.
The meal had long gone cold.
The steak plate had congealed grease, the soup was cold, and the salad had dried out.
“…At least eat before you sleep. I need to clean up the dishes.”
Ranshel was inwardly shocked but deliberately maintained a composed expression.
Zavad, staring down at the cold plate, looked completely unfazed.
A meal devoid of warmth seemed nothing more than a familiar sight to him.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You skipped breakfast too? I’m already starving.”
“Then you eat it.”
Zavad tossed the fork in front of him toward Ranshel as if he were discarding it.
For a moment, Ranshel was tempted, but he forced his face into a firm expression and smiled coolly.
“I don’t have time for that. I have to finish the tasks you dumped on me, young master. If you get hungry later, eat it yourself.”
Ranshel turned away and walked toward the storage cabinet.
He pulled out a broom and dustpan and headed to the area where shards of glass were scattered.
Even as he worked, the image of the food lingered in his mind.
What did it matter if it was cold?
It wasn’t that he lamented not being able to eat it fresh, at its peak flavor—it was that to him, this was a feast he’d likely never see again.
‘Would they even serve meat at the servants’ table?’
Even if they did, it wouldn’t be in such large portions.
At best, it would be sliced paper-thin, like rice paper.
That kind of meat was more akin to ham than real meat—meant to be placed on bread rather than eaten on its own.
But even that would be a luxury.
Ranshel was all too familiar with commoners’ life.
If he wanted to taste juicy, flavorful meat, it would only happen if there was a grand feast at the castle.
‘Probably only for the first young master’s birthday.’
No matter how noble he was by birth, the second young master here was nothing more than an outcast to the head of the family.
Unless there were external guests, Zavad wouldn’t even have a seat at family gatherings.
That was why the servants knew so little about him.
They only cared about someone if there were scraps to be gained.
As it was, they were too busy managing the castle to pay attention to an heir with no real influence.
To them, he was nothing more than the subject of ridiculous gossip—stories of him being possessed by an evil spirit, nothing more than idle chatter.
At least, there was no horror event today, which was a relief.
With that worry set aside, Ranshel focused on his first duty= cleaning.
He gathered the broken glass into an empty sack, swept meticulously to ensure not even the tiniest shard remained, and then dampened a dry cloth with water to wipe down the floor.
Cleaning was second nature to him.
This wasn’t even particularly dirty—just a bit of dust that had built up in an unused room.
The only issue was that the space was far too large for a single person to manage.
As he diligently worked, lying flat on the floor to reach beneath the cabinet, Ranshel’s fingers brushed against something hard.
He pulled it out—a small, white stone, about the size of a thumb.
‘What’s this?’
He stared at the smooth, round stone for a moment before slipping it into his pocket and continuing his work.
By the time he finished scrubbing the entire floor, sweat was beading on his forehead.
It wasn’t particularly strenuous, but his stamina was another matter.
* * *
