* * *

The first thing I saw upon opening the door was a room thick with suffocating smoke.

I covered my nose with my sleeve and stepped inside.

The smoke was so dense that I could hardly make out the objects in front of me.

Coughing, I searched for the window and noticed a pile of cigars stacked high on the table.

“Now that I think about it, they did mention the husband was a heavy smoker.”

I finally found the window and threw it open.

As the trapped white smoke slowly escaped, the room’s interior came into view.

My body froze the moment I saw the man sprawled across the bed.

‘So this is the true face of the Empire’s hidden hero.’

His entire body was grotesquely disfigured from burns, and his eyes had turned a ghostly white.

The only part of him he seemed capable of moving voluntarily was his right hand, clutching a cigar.

The man, who had been gazing past me, extended his hand toward the bed’s call cord, as if to pull it any second.

“Wait a moment!”

I called out urgently, stopping him, and quickly scanned the room.

My eyes fell on a plaque of appreciation hanging on the wall.

Judging by the holy emblem engraved on it, it seemed to be an award personally given by the Archbishop Revulin.

In gratitude, to Commander Osman.

My mind raced. I spoke calmly, adding a touch of formality.

“I’m a student at the Academy, currently enrolled in military studies. Would you mind having a brief chat with me?”

“…”

“I’m supposed to give a presentation on the life of a hero for my class.”

I let the words hang and watched Osman’s reaction.

After a long silence, Osman finally spoke.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard someone else’s voice.”

“A long time, you say?”

“Yes. Ever since I became estranged from my wife, I haven’t spoken to anyone.”

Suddenly, a new possibility crossed my mind.

I pulled out a nearby chair and sat down.

Osman fumbled around the table as if searching for something.

I picked up a cigar that had fallen to the floor and handed it to him.

“Here, let me light that for you.”

“That would be appreciated.”

Osman drew deeply from the cigar, the pungent smoke so strong that it made me cough.

It seemed this habit was his only solace in an otherwise monotonous existence.

Looking at Osman’s state, more ghastly than any corpse, I found it hard to speak.

Osman gave a wry smile.

“Why so silent? Are you shocked by how different I look from the rumors?”

“No, it’s not that…”

“Even if it is, I don’t mind. I’m already a dead man walking, with countless people aiming for my life.”

A dead man walking?

I couldn’t make sense of his words.

Osman then erupted into a fit of coughs, eventually spitting up blood.

Alarmed, I jumped to find a cloth to help.

“Here, please spit into this.”

I held the cloth to Osman’s mouth, and dark crimson blood stained the fabric.

His talk about awaiting death must have referred to this terminal lung disease.

This man, once a hero, was now broken inside and out.

Feeling a pang of relief that Jerome hadn’t seen this sight, I forced myself to speak cheerfully.

“By the way, I saw your wife downstairs. How did you two first meet?”

I had asked after seeing the wedding ring on Osman’s left hand.

His somber expression softened momentarily.

“I proposed first. Anyone would’ve fallen for that stunning golden hair and those turquoise eyes.”

“…”

“Though, ever since my body became like this, our marriage grew distant. Before I die, I wish I could see those beautiful eyes just one more time.”

It was a tragic story, but I could understand the feelings of Lady Quaintrell to some extent.

It must have been unbearably painful for her to see the man she once loved in such agony.

That was probably why she asked me to deliver his meals in her place.

As I listened, I slowly raised my head.

“Hold on, what did you just say?”

“That I proposed first…”

“No, after that. You said her eyes were turquoise, right?”

Osman nodded, looking puzzled.

I racked my memory, recalling Lady Quaintrell’s features.

If I remembered correctly, her eyes were…

‘A deep hazel brown.’

The realization jolted me.

I’d finally understood the unease I’d felt since entering this mansion.

Just as I decided to leave immediately, someone clamped a cloth over my mouth and nose from behind.

Shocked, I inhaled and felt a powdery substance enter my lungs.

Collapsing to the floor, I coughed violently, and someone spoke to me.

“I’m sorry, but I have to do this…”

Through my fading vision, I saw Lady Quaintrell reaching out to me.

I tried desperately to stay conscious, but my mind finally gave out, and darkness swallowed me whole.

✽ ✽ ✽

“Ugh…”

I groaned, clutching my splitting headache.

Warm sunlight streamed through my still-closed eyelids.

It seemed the rain had stopped.

I licked my parched lips, tasting the dryness.

‘I feel as heavy as waterlogged cotton.’

I sighed and tried to sit up, pausing in confusion.

The last thing I remembered was inhaling a strange powder and losing consciousness.

Yet now, I was lying on a soft bed.

As I puzzled over this, I froze at the sound of a voice coming from outside the room.

It was Lady Quaintrell.

“He’s here, the guest is in this room…”

Bang!

The door flew open, revealing a group of guards who looked at me with ashen faces.

The tension in the air was palpable, and I instinctively stiffened.

Pushing through the guards, Jerome’s eyes widened with shock.

He strode over and gripped my shoulders.

“Jeanne, why did you do this?”

I was speechless, taken aback by the sorrow on Jerome’s face. He sighed and shook my shoulders.

“Killing people… You know this isn’t right… okay?”

“What are you even talking about…”

“Have you been killing other men like this all along?”

I was about to protest when a guard’s tense voice echoed through the room.

“We’ve found the poison vial used in the crime!”

My head turned slowly.

One of the guards, who had been rummaging through my robe, held up a suspicious-looking poison bottle.

Behind him, I finally noticed Lady Quaintrell watching me with a blank expression.

“Lady Jeanne.”

“…”

“You are under arrest for serial murder.”

The head guard, a menacing figure, shoved Jerome aside.

Jerome stepped back, looking utterly defeated and wiping at imaginary tears with a handkerchief.

One of the guards bound my wrists and forced me to my feet.

As the situation sank in, I shook my head vehemently.

“Who said I committed serial murders? I’ve done no such thing!”

“We’ll question you about the details later. Take them away.”

Jerome made a choked sound, like he was suppressing tears.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was crying.

But having been around him long enough, I knew.

He wasn’t crying.

He was barely holding back his rage, and as I lunged at him, the guards restrained me.

Jerome’s fox-like eyes curved into crescent moons.

“Pfft.”

Even as I was being dragged away, I couldn’t tear my gaze from Jerome.

If my eyes weren’t mistaken…

That beautiful bastard was definitely trying not to laugh.

✽ ✽ ✽

The Temple accused the young lady of the Ephilia Ducal House of being a suspect in a string of serial murders.

Everything seemed to point conclusively to Jeanne as the perpetrator: the murder weapon, descriptions of the suspect’s appearance, and even her capture at the crime scene.

Despite some questioning the evidence’s precision, the general sentiment in the empire, which harbored a long-standing hatred of the Sacre people, had already condemned Jeanne before any trial took place.

Revulin, noticing public opinion aligning with his plan, commented:

“Whether Jeanne is the real culprit or not doesn’t matter. What matters is that she’s a filthy Sacre. This incident will probably silence anyone who still dares to claim Jeanne as the Saintess of Maya.”

Revulin, holding a whip, brushed his sweat-drenched hair back.

A trembling Sacre girl, her body covered in lash marks, lay quivering at his feet. Luke, in a detached tone, asked:

“Do you intend to execute Lady Jeanne?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t waste such a fine commodity.”

Revulin laughed as he grabbed the hair of the Sacre girl who had been trying to crawl away.

His lips twisted with delight.

Luke clenched his fists at Revulin’s next words.

“Yes, it might be fun to pretend she’s dead, lock her up, and turn her into a concubine. The wilder ones are the most satisfying to tame.”

The whip slashed through the air and struck the blood-soaked Sacre girl, who lay dying at Revulin’s feet.

Luke watched her without any emotion, memories of his past in that same position flooding his mind.

After the Aileen tribe was scattered due to civil war, Luke was sold to the capital, where he was raised like livestock in pigsties littered with corpses and waste.

By sheer luck, he caught the attention of a master and was adopted into another noble family.

However, the children who weren’t as fortunate remained slaves to the empire.

That experience taught Luke one harsh truth:

‘The future of the Aileen children depends on every choice I make. Revulin might only be targeting the Sacre for now, but who knows when he’ll turn his hand toward the Aileen again?’

Luke considered himself a disposable chess piece, a word that captured his reality perfectly.

Rubbing his tired face, he walked away quickly.

‘I must obey the Temple’s orders.’

Luke approached Carlisle’s bedroom and knocked, ready to remind him not to be late for tomorrow’s imperial gathering.

Carlisle often feigned illness, and Luke had to ensure he attended important events.

Entering, he frowned at the scene before him.

“You promised me you wouldn’t do this again until you ascended the throne.”

* * *