* * *
“If you were the fourth son, maybe I’d do it myself. But you’re just the eighth. Know your place.”
“I’m the ninth, actually. Why so generous?”
“You’re the eighth now. James died yesterday.”
“Oh, bummer.”
Ranshel gave his condolences—for the brother he didn’t know, whose face he never saw, but whose rank he at least knew.
Technically, they weren’t even real brothers—just adopted into the same family by name.
Still, someone had died.
The least he could do was offer his respects.
Though honestly, even with Ranshel’s memories, he felt nothing for the guy.
It felt about as distant as hearing a neighbor from the next town over had passed away.
‘What kind of messed-up character setting is this, anyway?’
He swallowed a sigh and rolled his eyes.
There was a lot to think about.
From the moment he woke up in Ranshel’s body, nothing had been simple.
Even if he had avoided Zavad’s revenge scenario and managed to survive somehow, he wouldn’t have lasted long.
No surname, only the name Ranshel.
A villainous servant infiltrating the Pomel’s estate with a meticulous plan and an arsenal of tools.
Or, in other terms, the ninth adopted child of an assassin clan.
‘Ah, right. I’m the eighth now.’
Of course, the number wasn’t about age or the order of adoption. It was strictly a ranking based on skill.
The family he grew up in was more like an institution—a place that raised talent for assassin guilds, with murder as the core profession.
They didn’t even bother with names to avoid information leaks.
Outsiders simply referred to them as the “Nameless.”
So, in short, the eighth-ranked son of the Nameless family had been planted as a servant to Zavad.
Does that mean Ranshel was sent to assassinate Zavad?
Not entirely wrong—but there was a catch.
He had been given a different order from the start.
‘Indefinite standby order.’
Ranshel had been stationed at the Duke’s estate to stay near Zavad as long as possible, waiting endlessly for the right moment.
Because someone like Zavad, with imperial blood, couldn’t be killed without consequences.
That’s why he had been so certain.
There was no way Zavad’s own attendants had tried to kill him.
Even Ranshel, a trained assassin, hadn’t been permitted to lay a hand on him—so who else could possibly try?
Ranshel had no choice but to wait.
Until the Imperial family completely disowned Zavad, and the Duke’s house threw him away for good.
Only then could he strike.
‘Though somehow this whole thing twisted into me tormenting Zavad instead…’
Maybe he’d just wanted to speed things up?
Maybe the in-game Ranshel had wanted to erase Zavad’s usefulness entirely.
Anything to clear that damned standby order sooner.
And to finally carry out that one wish he had clung to in life.
But now, none of that mattered.
The Ranshel from the game was gone, leaving behind only his memories.
Probably for good.
Now, Eunseong couldn’t afford to honor Ranshel’s in-game wishes.
He had to squeeze every advantage he could from the character’s memories and traits—because he had to get back to his sister.
“What is it I need to take with me?”
The deliveryman—Simon, the third son of the Nameless—held out his hand.
Ranshel handed him a cloth pouch filled with fine white powder.
“Can you find out what this powder is?”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
“No, I mean, what do you use it for?”
“Oh, that? I don’t know either. That’s why I’m asking you.”
Simon looked at him like he’d finally lost it, but Ranshel shamelessly pressed on.
“I need it to carry out the Lord’s command. You’re here to help me, aren’t you?”
Well, mostly to kill him if he messed up—but still, Simon’s role also included assisting Ranshel in maintaining his cover near Zavad.
In the Nameless, the Lord’s orders were absolute.
Even with clear annoyance, Simon stuffed the powder into his bag.
“Can’t believe I’m letting a disposable blade get cocky. I’ll overlook it this once.”
“Aw, c’mon. Be nice next time too.”
Simon clicked his tongue as he fastened his bag, casting a razor-sharp glare.
“Enough games. Any longer and things will start looking suspicious. You don’t need anything else, right?”
“Nope, I’m good.”
Ranshel nodded vigorously.
He didn’t need Simon anymore—not as a person, anyway.
“I don’t need you now. You can go. Seriously. Just leave. The guards are watching.”
“…This feels kinda weird.”
Simon shot him a displeased look, but didn’t waste any more time.
He pulled his cart and left.
Ranshel slipped back through the castle gates and quickly hid behind a tree.
“Thank you for everything. We’ll see you next week.”
A servant was escorting a physician to the gate. Judging from the servant’s formal tone, the physician wasn’t someone of low status—maybe not a noble, but certainly respected.
‘That aside… if the physician’s here, that means…’
Ranshel, deep in thought, quietly made his way along the back path toward the kitchen, avoiding notice.
“Has the young master’s dinner been prepared?”
“Ah, he’s not supposed to eat on days he sees the physician.”
Ranshel almost cursed aloud, but held it in. Not just a light meal—now they were fasting him? He wasn’t getting an endoscopy, so why were they starving the poor guy?
“He can drink tea, right?”
“Yes, one cup should be fine.”
“Then I’ll bring him some.”
“Ah, but you’re not allowed into his room today.”
“I was just going to leave it at the door anyway. I figured if I at least act like I care, there won’t be trouble later.”
“Well… the second young master is a bit strange, after all…”
The maid nodded as if she understood. Ranshel summoned his social mask, responding with a smile as he carefully placed the teacup and teapot onto the tray.
Then, taking advantage of the moment when the maid wasn’t looking, he added two large pieces of bread and covered it all.
Climbing the stairs on trembling legs, Ranshel clutched the tray tightly so it wouldn’t tip over, letting out a ragged breath.
His stamina scraping the floor like this was all thanks to his assassin trait.
Flowers Bloom Even in the Ice Castle was famous not only for its romance routes with conquest characters, but also for its detailed minigames scattered throughout the plot.
This trait was one of those gameplay elements, and the conquest characters each came with settings tailored to their roles.
If you looked at it in terms of game stats, Ranshel had a total of 10 points, all dumped into assassination-related skills, with only 1 point left over for stamina.
Honestly, wasn’t that a bit too pitiful?
“Young Master, I’m coming in now.”
How was he supposed to come up with an excuse to make him eat this time?
As Ranshel mulled over it, he opened the door.
Spouting words like some kind of demon every time was honestly exhausting.
‘If only the kid were just a bit older…’
Placing the tray on the table, Ranshel gave a bitter smile.
He was far too young. If he were even just past twenty, Ranshel wouldn’t have held back.
But whenever he saw children, it felt like his heart wasn’t entirely his own.
Maybe it was because he’d practically raised his younger sister himself from the time she was little.
Still, no amount of personal discomfort would change the situation.
Ranshel glanced around the quiet room and, out of habit, opened the storage cabinet.
“…Young Master?”
* * *
