* * *
What could she possibly see from that far…
Ranshel swallowed blood-tinged spit and yanked the veil covering his opponent’s face.
The sweat-soaked veil peeled away from skin, revealing the bare face beneath.
“……”
Ranshel furrowed his brows deeply.
Of all people, it had to be someone familiar—someone he should not be meeting like this.
What appeared behind the veil was none other than Frey’s maid.
The exclusive maid who had once pushed Ranshel’s wheelchair.
“……Why on earth are you here…?”
He didn’t get to finish the sentence.
He raised the hand holding the stone.
Ka-ga-gak!
A spike appeared from under the maid’s skirt, grazing against the stone with a spine-chilling screech.
The next attack followed without pause.
Kaang! Kagak!
She jabbed quickly with the spike, and Ranshel blocked each strike precisely with the stone.
Now that he could use his legs, it was far easier to keep his balance.
He moved like he had just shaken off a heavy weight.
His feet tingled from sudden use after so long, but that was nothing compared to not being able to move at all.
Ranshel moved nimbly, almost like dancing.
Compared to how he’d nearly passed out moments ago, this was a vast improvement.
The problem was—
So was his opponent.
This wasn’t how someone freshly hit by an arrow should be moving.
Even after Ranshel had pounded the wound with a rock, she was still keeping up with his speed.
‘I think I could win if I push myself just a bit harder…’
But if there’s no need to overexert, then why do it?
Ranshel darted his eyes, observing her movements, and finally opened his mouth.
“You feel awfully familiar.”
“……”
“Like quarreling with a long-lost sibling.”
Ka-gak.
The spike’s thrust slowed.
Ranshel matched the shift and reduced his own speed.
She felt it too—but she wouldn’t stop attacking.
That’s how they were taught.
They never relaxed their grip until the opponent was neutralized.
Kill or be killed.
To stop in such a moment wasn’t a matter of bodily strength, but the result of disciplined, drilled-in obedience.
A tiny colosseum, where cheaply bought children were gathered, handed weapons, and made to stab one another.
Those who survived belonged to the assassin’s guild, assigned numbers and dispatched under new identities—posing as nameless noble children for various purposes.
Ranshel had been sent to the Pomel estate as the eighth son.
And this maid was, probably—
‘…The fifth, maybe?’
At the very least, she was definitely part of Nameless.
They’d trained in darkness, without ever seeing each other’s faces or hearing their voices, yet the arcs of their clashing blades were memorized in their bodies.
Ranshel had met this person long ago.
His body remembered.
But that didn’t mean he’d lower his weapon.
They’d been trained by scraping flesh from bone and had seen countless comrades die from mere slips.
The only thing that could stop them was the leader in the center of the colosseum—
Or a special code phrase implanted in the minds of the master’s “children,” meant to prevent accidental fratricide when encountering each other in the field.
Ranshel opened his mouth, and quickly whispered:
“Have you forgotten Father’s name?”
“……”
If she had forgotten, it meant she intended to break the master’s orders and kill her own brother.
The fight would continue.
But if she remembered—it meant she would preserve their siblinghood.
That she wouldn’t kill the brother who had survived that bloody hell with her.
Of course, it sounded noble, but in truth, it was just a policy to avoid wasting valuable assets cultivated by Nameless.
Either way, it worked—for now.
Frey’s maid ceased her attack.
Since Ranshel had only been defending with a single stone, all he had to do was lower his arm.
A silent ceasefire settled between them.
Drip. Drip.
Blood heavier than sweat dropped endlessly to the ground.
It was hard to say whose it was—both were bleeding profusely, though from different wounds.
“…Shall we introduce ourselves properly?”
“……”
“I’m Ranshel, the eighth son of the master.”
“…I’m Danie, the fifth.”
‘Oh, I was right.’
Ranshel grinned, but Danie’s face remained impassive.
With his head slightly tilted as he looked at Ranshel, he tucked the spike back beneath his skirt and added blandly:
“…A shame, meeting only to say goodbye, brother.”
What? It’s not over?
Ranshel internally groaned.
Could there not be one thing today that ended easily?
“You want to fight more?”
“…No. There’s no need for that now. We’ve confirmed each other’s identities.”
Danie muttered slowly as he ripped a strip from his skirt and pressed it against a wound.
Then, he gripped the arrow lodged in his abdomen.
“Wait, if you pull it out like that—!”
Before Ranshel could stop him, he yanked out the arrow in one smooth motion.
Clotted blood, hardened against the fabric, fell in globs.
But that was it.
Contrary to expectations of a blood geyser, not much more blood flowed out.
‘…That’s less blood than I expected.’
As Ranshel tilted his head in confusion, Danie, now pressing the cloth against the wound, began to speak.
“I was on my way back after servicing an item loaned to the Pomel family.”
“…Pardon?”
“The Vershel family offered help purely out of goodwill… but I was ambushed by the Pomel guards. The reason? Let’s just say it was the mistake of an inexperienced subordinate.”
‘What?’
Ranshel’s forehead scrunched up. Danie continued with zero change in expression.
“Servants of a noble are essentially the noble’s property. A Pomel property damaged one of Vershel’s. The Count will be outraged, and rightfully demand reparations from Pomel.”
Oh, is that how you’re playing it now?
Ranshel let out a short, incredulous laugh.
After following him at a distance just far enough to not get caught and still getting injured, he was now threatening Ranshel?
“You want to blackmail me?”
“…Our brothers should never be in the same place. We mustn’t interfere with each other’s missions.”
“So, you’re telling me to back off? That I’m in the way?”
“Seems you understand perfectly. Now, I’d like you to act accordingly.”
‘Can a day go this wrong…?’
Ranshel clutched his pounding head again and let out a long breath.
If Pomel were to become enemies with Vershel—
It would be a bad ending.
In the original game, if the heroine couldn’t forge peace between her love interest’s family and Vershel, even engagement—let alone marriage—was near impossible.
That was the whole point of the game—to balance diplomacy, not bleed and fight to the death.
But Ranshel wasn’t playing the heroine.
So here he was, back in the bloody cycle of kill-or-be-killed.
‘…Should I take Danie out here?’
He was already severely injured, so if it came to another round, Ranshel could win.
But after openly telling Frey his route, if something happened to her maid, Ranshel would be the prime suspect.
If he did do it, it had to be perfect.
No body. No trace.
Ranshel stared blankly at his torn palm.
Still slick with blood, he clenched his hand tightly.
* * *
