* * *
Ranshel rolled his eyes in thought, then let out a long, heavy breath.
He made his decision—and followed.
Crawling through the narrow passage, he eventually emerged into a cave wide enough to stand in.
Unlike the forest, there were hardly any places to hide, so Ranshel chose to keep his distance and track the remnants Petro left behind.
He followed the footprints in the dirt, listening intently for any sound ahead.
Even the smallest noise echoed loudly in the cave.
Ranshel muted every possible sound his body might make, moving with utmost caution.
Eventually, at the end of the cave, another narrow tunnel appeared—one that required crawling again.
Just as he started through it, faint noises began to reach his ears.
Voices. Laughter. People talking.
Someone was definitely nearby.
‘What is this place?’
Now that the background noise masked his own breathing, he didn’t need to regulate it as strictly—but the anxiety had increased tenfold.
He continued tracking Petro’s path with heightened vigilance.
At last, a ladder appeared before him. He didn’t want to climb it—really didn’t—but Petro’s footprints led that way, so he had no choice.
It wasn’t just one ladder.
Every time he climbed, another would appear.
And another.
Climbing, and climbing again… Ranshel started wondering what kind of place could possibly be this high up, and clenched his fingers tightly.
‘No way… No matter how reckless he is, surely not…’
He wanted to deny it—but the signs were too obvious.
Ranshel climbed the final ladder, his face contorted in a grimace.
At the top, a wooden hatch blocked the way.
This was the last ladder.
Petro was up there—and what lay beyond that door was…
Grinding his teeth, Ranshel pulled a piece of cloth from his pocket.
He wrapped it around his nose and mouth, tying it tightly behind his head.
Then, he pushed up the hatch and climbed all the way up.
A cloud of white smoke billowed out from the opening.
Ranshel tightened the cloth around his face and slipped fully into the space beyond.
The entire room was filled with white smoke.
So thick he couldn’t see an inch ahead, like a fog-drenched morning.
It felt like stepping into a dream.
However, even without seeing, Ranshel knew exactly where he was and could clearly sense how everything around him was arranged.
Of course—this was Zavad’s room, the one he had visited countless times.
How could someone like Ranshel, whose senses were so finely tuned, not recognize it?
Just then, a voice—like a scream—rang out.
“Get away from me!”
Ranshel instantly dropped low to the ground, his body flattening.
Then, he quickly moved toward the familiar voice.
Pushing through the white smoke that filled the space, he approached the figure beyond it.
As he got closer, the smoke began to part, and the shape that had been obscured became clearer.
“I said don’t come any closer!”
Zavad, inhaling the white smoke, was wildly flailing his arms at empty air.
‘So it was that powder after all.’
Ranshel had already figured out what that white powder was.
He’d heard about it from the delivery boy, Simon, when he received the scopolamine.
In powder form, it did nothing.
But once heated, it melted and released a thick, heavy smoke.
And when that smoke was inhaled—it caused hallucinations.
Petro had been carrying around that hallucinogen. What else could he have used it for?
The young master, possessed by evil spirits, seeing things that weren’t there.
A shattered vase. Pebbles scattered on the floor.
The gardener who orchestrated the whole thing just to spread the rumor that Zavad had gone mad.
So all of this—Petro’s plan—had already been underway long before the day Ranshel first met Zavad.
Ranshel pressed a cloth to his mouth and scanned the room quickly with his eyes.
There had to be one more person here.
Someone had gone up the ladder before him, hadn’t they?
“Don’t come! Stay away from me!”
As Zavad screamed, hands flailing at the empty air, Ranshel concentrated on listening for another set of footsteps.
“…!”
A very faint sound reached him—and then, beyond the smoke behind Zavad, another figure appeared.
The smoke drifted aside.
The person’s hands, wrapped in metal wire, extended toward Zavad, who was shouting at thin air.
The wire looped around Zavad’s neck.
“Ghhk—!”
The scream cut off.
Ranshel’s pupils shook violently.
‘Why?’
Zavad wasn’t supposed to die here.
That was the first thought that crossed his mind—but he didn’t have time to dwell on it.
He moved instantly.
Pushing off the ground like a spring, he launched his body.
“Urgh!”
Ranshel threw his full weight into Zavad, knocking him away.
Petro, who had been pressing tightly against Zavad from behind, lost his balance along with him.
Even if he was still young, Ranshel carried enough weight for two.
Petro couldn’t regain his footing and fell completely backward.
He instinctively stretched his hands out to break his fall, loosening the wire that had been choking Zavad.
Thud!
Before Petro could collect himself, Ranshel was already scrambling up.
He grabbed the limp Zavad and rolled them both into a corner, away from danger.
The white smoke still surrounded them.
Ranshel judged that in this limited visibility, he held the advantage.
If Petro stood up and made any sound, Ranshel would hear it right away.
“……”
Holding Zavad tightly, Ranshel stayed tense—until something felt wrong.
They were pressed together, completely.
And yet, there was no sound coming from Zavad.
How could someone who had just been choked be this silent?
Alarmed, Ranshel brought a trembling hand to Zavad’s lips.
‘He’s not breathing.’
He laid Zavad down and pressed his ear against his chest.
Nothing. His heart had stopped.
The only thing he could hear was his own ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of his pulse.
There was no choice.
Ranshel laced his fingers together and began pressing down hard on Zavad’s chest.
‘How many times do I need to do this?’
Twenty times? Thirty?
His thoughts were a mess.
His gasping breaths rang loud in his ears.
But Ranshel didn’t have to count.
Thwack!
Before he could even register it, his body jerked.
Something slammed into him and he collapsed forward over Zavad’s body.
Hot liquid trickled from his head where he’d been struck.
Blood streamed down the bridge of his nose, coating his eyelids, his mouth, and the corners of his lips.
‘How?’
Even in his dazed, shocked state, Ranshel strained to listen for Petro’s footsteps.
His rigorous training had ingrained itself so deeply that his body reacted instinctively.
If there had been any sound, he would’ve moved.
He forced his head up.
The smoke had cleared a little, and through the hazy outlines, he saw a hand—gripping a long, curved sickle.
‘Ah.’
Ranshel understood.
Petro hadn’t moved closer—he’d stayed in place and swung his long-handled sickle from a distance.
If Ranshel had stayed still, the thick smoke would have obscured him from Petro’s sight.
A wild swing could’ve been avoided easily.
But while performing CPR, Ranshel had been moving up and down, disturbing the smoke, exposing his silhouette.
He couldn’t see Petro—but Petro could see him.
And with one precise swing, Petro had landed a direct hit to Ranshel’s head.
‘Move.’
Blood poured like a waterfall. Ranshel couldn’t even guess what condition his head was in. At the very least, he knew the blade had pierced his scalp. His body wouldn’t respond. It wouldn’t move.
‘Move…’
Zavad, now soaked in Ranshel’s blood, lay beneath him—motionless.
Ranshel’s cheek pressed against his chest, but still, not a single sound could be heard.
‘Move, Zavad.’
Please. He begged.
But the only movement he saw through his blurry, tear-and-blood-stained vision—wasn’t Zavad.
“…Gh, ugh.”
* * *
