* * *
With hands trembling beyond control, Euston crumpled the bloodstained letter.
Something so filthy—tainted with his dying breath—he could never leave it for Arhan.
Fumbling to the side, he reached for a fresh sheet.
Then, he wiped the blood from his hands on the sheets.
He picked up the pen again and began rewriting the letter.
The same sentence at first—but then he stopped, gritting his teeth, silently chastising himself.
To ask someone to mourn for a man like me… isn’t that too much?
It was a selfish wish to begin with.
Arhan would never grieve for the one who killed his Guide.
And besides, Euston didn’t want to see sorrow in those kind blue eyes—not ever again.
So, he erased that selfish desire, and instead, filled the space with new words.
“If I may dare to hope—please, may you live a happy life.”
He stared at the short sentence, scrawled in an unsteady hand, before finally closing his eyes and letting his head fall.
This was enough. Yes, this would do.
He didn’t need to ask for mourning, for tears.
Not even to say he loved him.
All of that would’ve been far too much to ask.
So, for his final truth, this was enough.
He felt something warm slide down his cheek.
Blood or tears—he couldn’t tell.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, and found his vision now so clouded he couldn’t see even an inch ahead.
His sight was gone now, too.
A faint laugh escaped him.
Then, a sudden sharp pain pierced through his chest, sending him into another coughing fit—this time, blood gushed out.
The pain was so fierce, so violent, it felt as though his chest was being ripped apart.
He couldn’t even scream, only writhe in agony.
How long had he been convulsing like that?
Eventually, Euston lost his balance and fell from the bed with a loud crash.
“Ugh… ahh…”
His whole body throbbed.
The pain was unbearable—his mind spun in and out of consciousness.
Still, through that torment, Euston groped at the floor until he found the papers he’d dropped.
The crumpled first draft.
Then, the second letter, written with care.
As relief washed over him at having retrieved the letters, he felt someone’s strong arms gently lift him up.
Warm and solid—he was pulled into a broad chest, his shoulders carefully embraced.
Something about that gentle motion brought tears to his eyes.
Without knowing why, he burrowed into that familiar warmth.
The other’s body tensed for a moment.
Though he couldn’t see or hear anymore, Euston was sure: it must be his loyal aide, Shannon.
“Shannon…”
He’d asked Shannon to bring the children earlier.
He must have returned with Elden and Elaine—only to find Euston in this wretched state.
That thought alone made Euston realize he had to send the children away.
No child should witness their uncle like this—drenched in blood, dying.
“Shannon… Elden, and Elaine… send them… back to their room… cough, khhk…!”
Every word sprayed more blood. His pronunciation was so garbled it was hardly understandable, but Shannon would know. He always knew.
With trembling fingers, Euston held out the crumpled letter.
The hands that received it flinched—but they were warm.
“This one… cough burn it…”
Then, he handed over the letter he’d rewritten—the one laid open, its contents plainly visible.
Maybe that’s why the hand that took it this time did so slowly, with hesitation.
It almost felt like that hand was trembling as much as his own.
“Give it… to him. To the Duke of Evernell…”
The arms holding him twitched once more.
Shannon despised Arhan almost as much as Arhan despised Euston.
So his reaction wasn’t surprising.
Normally, Euston would’ve told Shannon not to blame him too harshly.
But not now.
This moment—it was the end. Euston could feel it in his bones.
“Take care of Elden and Elaine… of Rosendale… please, Shannon.”
With a trembling voice, Euston entrusted his nephews and his family to Shannon.
If his final wish had been for Arhan, then his last request was for his nephews and their lineage.
Because he knew just how cruel and heartless that would feel to Shannon, Euston slowly reached out and gently cupped the face of the one holding him in their arms.
“…I’m sorry.”
The one holding Euston trembled all over and clasped their hands over his.
Feeling the warmth through their joined skin, Euston managed a faint smile.
A single tear slid down from his swollen eyes, and he quietly closed them.
At last, his frail, lifeless hand dropped to the floor with a soft thud.
The slight rise and fall of his chest came to a halt, and the strained breaths that barely clung to life faded away.
The person embracing Euston shook him gently, as if in disbelief.
But the lifeless body only slumped further, devoid of strength.
The eyes that once burned as brightly as a crimson sun would never again see the light of the world.
That was the end of Euston Rosendale.
Even now, the memory of his own death was painfully vivid.
And because of that, Euston couldn’t bring himself to believe in his reality when he opened his eyes again.
At first, he thought it was just a dream.
After all, he had clearly died—and yet here he was, awake in the body of some nameless orphan from a commoner’s background.
How could he believe he was alive when he remembered dying so clearly?
In every way, this new body had nothing in common with “Euston Rosendale.”
Where Euston had been tall, broad-shouldered, and sharp-featured with a cold air, “Euston Rael” was a slender, fresh-faced young man with a gentle and refined aura.
Each time he looked in the mirror and saw not the dark hair and ominous red eyes he once had, but soft platinum blonde hair and light violet eyes, Euston was overwhelmed by an indescribable sense of disconnect.
Even now, a year later, that feeling hadn’t faded.
After slowly coming to terms with the situation, the very first thing Euston did was go to his own funeral.
Despite his notoriety, he had still been a Duke of the Empire, and so “Euston Rosendale’s” funeral had been grand and solemn.
Watching his own funeral procession with his own eyes brought with it an indescribable emotion.
‘…Watching the coffin that holds your own corpse. What a feeling that is.’
That day, Euston had no choice but to accept reality.
He had clearly been resurrected from death.
And he was no longer the Duke of Rosendale, but merely a nameless commoner.
He still didn’t know exactly what had happened, even a year later.
He vaguely remembered historical accounts of Aretes—people with resurrection-related powers—and assumed this must be something similar.
“Euston Rosendale” had been an exceptional Guide, but it wasn’t unheard of for a Guide to also be an Arete.
It was rare—maybe one in a century—but not impossible.
‘If it really was that kind of ability, then it’s no wonder I never noticed while I was alive…’
The realization that an unknown power might have resurrected him filled him with a sense of hollow despair.
To him, life had never been a blessing—it was more like a punishment stained with suffering.
An unasked-for resurrection only meant reliving that punishment from the beginning.
Of course, he had people he loved.
People he cherished with all his heart, even if they never once turned to look at him, not even at the very end.
That painful love brought both sorrow and agony.
But even those tragic loves that left him full of regret and longing couldn’t give him a reason to live again.
If anything, they were the reason he had to endure life—because they robbed him of the courage to escape through death.
‘Should I have returned to Rosendale right away…?’
* * *
