* * *
Even as confusion set in, Ranshel carefully placed the tray on the table and glanced around.
Maybe, just maybe, Zavad was actually sleeping in his bed this time.
But of course, the blankets were empty.
“…Young master?”
Half expecting it at this point, Ranshel opened the storage cabinet.
Sure enough, Zavad was inside.
No, this wasn’t “sure enough.”
This wasn’t okay.
He wasn’t a damn cat—why did he keep cramming himself into this cramped, dusty space, sitting there hunched up beside the cleaning supplies?
A sense of foreboding washed over Ranshel, so similar to what he had felt earlier.
“Young master?”
This time, Zavad lifted his head without Ranshel having to touch him.
His lips were still pressed into a tight line, his glare sharp and hostile, but Ranshel didn’t care about that right now.
There was something more important.
“You’re not playing with glass again, are you?”
“……”
Would a shard come flying at him again?
Ranshel braced himself, but thankfully, Zavad’s hands were empty.
He knew because Zavad showed him.
Uncurling the hand Ranshel had previously wrapped in cloth, Zavad held it up for him to see.
Then, as if to say, ‘Satisfied now?’ he raised an eyebrow and jerked his head away.
“……!”
Ranshel was a little moved.
It was the same feeling as when a stray cat, always hissing and bolting whenever he passed by, cautiously approached his feet for the first time.
“Young master….”
“……”
“You have two hands, you know. Show me the other one, too.”
But an insolent servant’s duty had to continue.
He wasn’t trying to win Zavad over—he wanted to be hated.
Zavad shot him a furious glare before sluggishly shifting and crawling out of the storage cabinet.
Then, he headed straight for the chair in the corner.
Just like before.
If he wasn’t inside the cabinet, he was in that chair.
It must have become a habit.
Once again, he curled up, hugging his knees.
That can’t be good for his spine.
Ranshel swept his gaze over him quickly, thinking he should get him a stuffed toy or something to hold instead.
‘At least he doesn’t seem to have any new injuries.’
Sighing in relief, Ranshel started pulling open every drawer in the room.
Feathered fans decorated with exotic bird plumes, a flute made from ox horn, gilded decorative candles—useless trinkets spilled out one after another.
He wanted to throw it all away.
His expression soured as he took in the sheer amount of impractical, overpriced junk cluttering the place.
It wasn’t like he could sell this at a market stall, so what was the point?
What bothered him the most was the fact that the room was filled with extravagant treasures, yet the person actually living in it was treated as insignificant.
These valuables were tributes meant for a noble with imperial blood.
Not for Zavad.
Everything here was lavish but completely impractical—further proof that he was being treated as something less than human.
Grumbling under his breath, Ranshel stormed out and jogged up and down the stairs.
When he returned, he was holding a small box.
He had shaken Gerry down for it—basic medical supplies.
The nobles might not care, but the castle servants couldn’t run to a physician every time they got hurt.
There were too many people for that.
Stocking up on first aid kits was only common sense.
“The physician’s coming tomorrow, so let’s patch it up now. That way, I’m not responsible for anything else, got it?”
Ranshel placed the box beside the table.
Zavad, still curled up, peeked at him from beneath his arms, watching every move he made.
‘At least he has the energy to glare. That’s a relief.’
Ranshel chuckled and pulled out a roll of bandages.
Despite all the blood and mess earlier, the kid was still lively.
Guess that was just part of being young.
At least there was no risk of him suddenly collapsing.
He needed to stay alive and healthy, right up until the day he killed Ranshel.
“Let’s wrap this up and get you fed. I don’t want people saying I starved the young master.”
A kid his age should be starving by now.
Ranshel clicked his tongue, eyeing the covered tray still untouched on the table.
He needed to get this treatment over with quickly.
But what even were all these medicines?
Tilting his head, Ranshel inspected the glass bottles inside the box.
The labels were scribbled in some weird script he couldn’t read.
He had no way of knowing which one was disinfectant.
Eventually, he gave up and started uncorking the bottles one by one, sniffing them.
Rotten stench—skip.
Too sticky—next.
One by one, he sorted them out, and then—finally, he found it.
A sharp, stinging scent, strong enough to make his nose tingle.
It was unmistakably disinfectant.
‘Good thing I remembered this.’
Without his memory, he wouldn’t have been able to tell.
There wasn’t even any of that red antiseptic here.
Considering the game, it wasn’t something the player needed to know.
The protagonist was a noble—there was no reason for her to ever have to tend to wounds herself.
‘Then again, I shouldn’t be taking care of him this much either.’
In the game, Ranshel was called the villainous servant.
But now that he was actually Ranshel, the combination of ‘villain’ and ‘servant’ didn’t quite make sense.
Villains tormented Zavad.
Servants took care of him.
How had the Ranshel from the game managed to pull that off?
‘Did he run around like Gary, telling others not to bother him? I doubt that alone would be enough to contribute 80%.’
Since the target was Zavad, he had to land 80 hits using methods that affected the mind rather than the body.
Even a professional boxer would lose an arm if they threw 80 jabs—how the hell did he manage it?
If the game had been from Zavad’s perspective, he might have been able to see the process in more detail.
Unfortunately, within the game, Zavad’s tragic story was only revealed through brief conversations with the heroine and fleeting flashbacks.
Come to think of it, there was an additional side story that supposedly contained hidden details.
But that episode required payment, so he had never seen it played firsthand.
Either way, whatever was lacking had to be compensated with physical effort.
Since they were stuck together all day, there would be plenty of opportunities—for protection or for torment.
“Master, why exactly did that break?”
“……”
He casually pointed at the glass shards and asked again, but Zavad remained silent, showing no intention of answering.
It was only natural for him to be wary.
Shrugging, Ranshel soaked a cotton swab with medicine using tweezers.
“Open your hand. It’s going to sting a little, so don’t whine and just bear with it.”
Ranshel gently dabbed the soaked cotton over the torn skin, tapping lightly as if stroking a chick.
The glass hadn’t even been that clean.
What if he developed tetanus or some other infection?
There were ways to treat it at the temple, but the suffering before then would remain the same.
‘There better not be any issues…’
As he carefully maneuvered the tweezers, Ranshel suddenly found himself smirking bitterly.
Wasn’t he being disgustingly hypocritical?
He had vowed to carve a deep trauma into Zavad for his own goals.
He was willing to do anything to make Zavad suffer.
The reason he was treating Zavad so diligently wasn’t just concern for his wounds.
It was also because he couldn’t afford for his body to be in bad condition before the main event—his revenge—began.
He had already chosen to be trash, so he should be steeling himself even further.
And yet, here he was, secretly fretting over whether the guy was in pain.
‘What a damn hypocrite.’
Ranshel let out a self-deprecating laugh.
And then—
“…You.”
Ranshel’s hand froze.
“Name.”
A calm voice brushed against his ear.
* * *
