* * *
It had been a week of relentless, biting wind.
The only time the two of them had raised their voices face-to-face was that first day.
Since then, they went about their tasks, exchanging only the most necessary words.
That was easy enough for Ranshel—sweeping the floors, wiping them clean, finishing his assigned chores.
But Zavad… just stood there, staring blankly out the window. He had no duties, no freedom.
He didn’t refuse meals.
When Ranshel laid out a tray on the table, Zavad would pick up the fork and knife right away.
But he didn’t enjoy anything.
He didn’t taste the food or savor its aroma.
He chewed mechanically, emptied the nearest plate, then dropped his utensils like it meant nothing.
He seemed completely devoid of will.
The face that had once been filled with a yearning for something—something Ranshel couldn’t quite grasp—was now shrouded in a lifeless gray.
“…I should’ve at least heard what kind of help he needed.”
That thought lingered in Ranshel’s mind, but he shook his head and kept sweeping.
Zavad had tossed aside his pride and begged.
If Ranshel had heard him out, he probably wouldn’t have been able to say no.
But there was no reason to go soft-hearted now.
Ranshel had come to accept it, at least somewhat.
No matter how firm his resolve, he couldn’t change who he was at the core.
He took no pleasure in making a fragile boy suffer.
Forcing himself to act against his nature had only created a rift between his words and actions, and eventually, Zavad had seen through it.
So the best course was to think less, care less.
Maybe it would’ve been better not to talk to him at all, just like Gary had suggested from the start.
He wouldn’t have gained contribution points, sure—but at least he wouldn’t have exposed so much of himself.
Regret couldn’t change the past. All he could do now was focus on what lay ahead.
Even the day before the physician arrived, Ranshel stuck to his duties.
As soon as the inspection was over and the chime rang, he stepped out of the room.
‘…He never had any visible wounds.’
There weren’t any visible scabs or bruises when he changed clothes.
So this time, at least, he wouldn’t have to suffer through a high fever from being soaked in a monster’s blood.
‘Don’t worry about it. This isn’t the time to be concerned about Zavad.’
Ranshel slowly made his way down the stairs, clenching his fist tightly.
Right now, he still didn’t have a clear understanding of the criteria for increasing event contribution.
Ranshel’s contribution rate hadn’t budged since it hit 3% during the last conflict.
If Zavad’s negative feelings alone had an effect, then surely it would’ve gone up a little more by now.
There was definitely another factor influencing the score—but he couldn’t grasp what it was yet.
Which meant, for now, the more urgent task was making sure no other villain managed to increase their contribution.
And by “other villain,” it was obvious who that meant.
“How are you feeling today, sir?”
“Perfectly fine, of course! What do you take me for?”
The gardener, Petro, gave a snort of laughter.
“I won’t be collapsing like last week, that’s for sure.”
“That’s a relief. But just in case, please have some water first.”
Moments later, Ranshel was dragging the unconscious Petro to a corner of the flowerbed.
Petro kept mumbling something with his eyes closed.
“I brought plenty of Skopol with me today. Let’s make sure we finish it this time.”
Skopol was short for synthesized Scopolia.
When the petals and roots of this plant were mashed into juice and mixed with various ingredients in the right proportions, it produced a highly useful effect.
Only the pharmacists of Nameless knew the precise measurements and method to prepare it, so Ranshel couldn’t make the drug himself.
But when it came to using the drug—he was already an expert.
“Open your eyes.”
This time, under the intensified truth serum effect of the Skopol, Petro was far more cooperative.
His wrinkled eyelids trembled, and when his eyes opened, their pupils were glassy and unfocused.
“What kind of flower is this?”
Ranshel pulled a bookmark from his pocket and held it up.
It was made from a dried flower.
“…Primula.”
“Yes, you know it well.”
Suppressing a sigh, Ranshel glanced at the floating window beside him.
[Item Encyclopedia]
(Primula Bookmark)
A bookmark made from the last remaining flower.
Just like fitting shards of a broken vase back into place, the pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together.
“The ‘lady’ you mentioned last time—is that referring to Young Master’s mother, Charlotte Veliche?”
“Who else could the lady of this house be?”
“But there’s a new one now.”
“That woman… doesn’t deserve to be called lady.”
Even under the drug’s influence, Petro’s voice dripped with disgust.
Ranshel tilted his head slightly.
“Why not? She legally married into the Pomel family as a second wife.”
“That woman… she doesn’t love this house. Not once has she even looked at the garden’s flowers…”
Ranshel looked down at the bookmark in his hand, lost in thought.
The woman he was referring to must be Laruca Drowe—Zavad’s stepmother and the newly arrived second wife of the Pomel family.
The mistress of the house who ordered the servants to torment Zavad.
From what Ranshel knew, she was a textbook villain.
But he still didn’t know what her event contribution was, or what kind of title she held.
“The family tree’s looking pretty twisted.”
It seemed this gardener had served Charlotte more loyally than Laruca.
So then why torment Zavad?
That was something Ranshel would need to dig into.
He waved the bookmark in front of Petro’s eyes.
“This primula—was it a gift from you to the lady?”
“…No. That was…”
Petro’s brow furrowed.
“That was something… my son grew. He gave it to the lady.”
His son?
Ranshel blinked, caught off guard by the sudden appearance of an unexpected third party.
“Then both father and son had affection for the lady. So why, then, are you doing such awful things to her son, Young Master Zavad?”
“…”
“Why spread rumors that he’s insane, break the vases in his room, put worms in his food? Why would you do any of that?!”
Petro’s lips trembled. His voice came out shaking.
“They said… if he were called insane… no matter how precious the bloodline… he’d be abandoned…”
‘They said? So someone told him this? Someone was behind it?’
Ranshel listened intently, trying to squeeze out any clue he could.
“I didn’t mean to kill him… That wouldn’t have been enough.”
Petro’s voice sank lower, darker.
Ranshel tightened his grip on the bookmark in his hand.
“Yes… If I were to kill him… I should’ve done it with my own hands…”
Tears welled up in Petro’s unfocused eyes.
Ranshel panicked.
He couldn’t let him cry—not now.
Emotional spikes would interfere with the neurotransmitters, and the Skopol’s effect would disappear in an instant.
“Wait—don’t come to your senses yet. I still have so much I need to know.”
But despite Ranshel’s desperate plea, Petro’s dull eyes slowly began to regain focus.
The vision in one eye, already weak, stayed cloudy—but the other was starting to return to its original clarity.
“…Wha… what’s going on?”
* * *
