Rodan the Count had a headache.
There were countless reasons for this pain, but the immediate trigger for his throbbing head was:
“Dear! We need to get this sorted out! How could that man not be expelled after touching our child?! We must take this up with the knight order!”
His wife, who had spoiled their youngest son rotten, was shouting angrily for the knight to be punished.
Raised as the daughter of a wealthy marquis, she spoke foolishly, seemingly unaware of the political intricacies surrounding them. Did she really not understand what it meant to challenge the knight order—or even pick a fight with the White Lion?
…He married her solely for her beauty, but he should have listened when his late mother tried to stop him.
However, the whiny complaints from his wife were something he had learned to endure to some extent.
He could always smooth things over later, after all.
But there were more pressing issues at hand.
“There’s no direct threat to his life. The knightly race is naturally resilient. However, it will take at least a year for him to recover. That is, unless we get some fresh blood from a troll, which is 80% pure.”
The slow recovery of the vice commander, who was supposed to lead the territorial knight order after retiring, was also a problem.
The Paullet family of knights—the ones renowned for their skills.
Day after day, free knights and mercenaries challenged them, all vying for reputation and glory. Accepting those challenges was a point of pride for them.
Yet, of all times, one of the important knights from that territory ended up incapacitated. And to make matters worse, he was the champion of the region.
It was only natural that the Count felt a weight in his stomach.
‘Where am I supposed to get fresh troll blood?’
Though it’s said that having 80% pure blood could speed up recovery, securing such a resource was another matter entirely.
Trolls rarely ventured out of the deep forests, and even if they managed to hunt one, the blood would either coagulate or turn murky immediately upon death, leaving them with barely 30% purity.
If he wanted to get 80% pure blood, he’d need to have an aura user on hand.
In other words, it meant a hard-to-acquire resource.
‘My head is throbbing, just throbbing.’
This alone was enough to give him a headache, but…
“My lord, if you wish, I will bring you the head of that scoundrel right now!”
“Father! I’ll take care of it myself!”
“…Why on earth are you two getting worked up like this?”
The knights meant to defend their territory and the eldest son who was supposed to carry on the lineage were both furious, ready to draw swords at a moment’s notice.
Seeing this, the Count felt dizzy.
‘Do they really lack any understanding?’
He could understand that his wife, who was clueless about knighthood and politics, would act this way, but these boys were supposed to be the ones guarding their lineage—no, the very ones meant to protect the Pandragon family!
Had they forgotten that the Paullet family were royalists too?
If they truly didn’t grasp the meaning of taking on the White Lion, he would be right in taking their heads off right now.
They could ruin the family.
‘…It’s my fault.’
Had the three-year war with Britain not ended, he wouldn’t have distanced himself from family matters, and now this mistake hit him hard.
That he was surrounded by such foolishness was a sign he had failed to manage his children and household properly.
He should have wielded more authority.
Had he done so, they wouldn’t have gotten this bold.
‘Where do I even begin to fix this?’
The Count’s worries deepened.
…At that moment.
“You seem deep in thought, Count.”
“…….”
“Haha, governing a noble family is no easy task, I understand.”
“……”
“Why are you not responding? Am I that unpleasant to see, old man?”
“……”
─Rodan the Count could barely breathe.
No, he couldn’t respond at all, his limbs trembling uncontrollably.
How long had that man been standing there, lurking in the shadow of the bright moon?
An old butler, who outwardly seemed incredibly gentle.
Yet Rodan would not be deceived.
He wouldn’t fall for that soft voice.
Nor would he be fooled by that benign face.
He could never forget the calamities caused by ‘that old man.’
With a quivering voice, he dared to utter the name.
“Ah, Duke Albert…”
“Haha, it is truly an honor that the Count remembers such an old man as myself.”
“…Duke Albert! We, we have done nothing wrong. Our family has no intention of opposing the royal family!”
He pleaded desperately, excuses pouring forth without reason.
Rodan was terrified of him.
Was it because he was one of the three aura users in the kingdom?
No.
Though his power was indeed formidable, that wasn’t why he was so frightened.
What truly terrified him was…
“Rest assured, I’m not here for an inquisition. Has it been so long since my retirement? Hehe.”
It was the haunting memory of his ‘former’ life that fueled his fear.
Inquisition Officer John Ray Albert.
The bloodthirsty slayer who had annihilated ninety noble families!
And Rodan still vividly recollected.
How that old man had carried a cross on his back, skewering countless souls.
Yet here he was, chuckling like it was just a tale from the past.
“It’s just a story from days gone by. I’ve washed my hands of it all; there’s no need for the Count to worry. The past is merely the past, wouldn’t you agree?”
Nonsense!
“…The elders who remember those days piss themselves at the mere mention of your name, scratching their heads, bleeding from pure terror. Yet you say it’s only the past?!”
“That was youthful indiscretion. Everyone has their passion in youth, and mine was, after all, the teachings of the divine. Back then, it was my whole life. Now, I’m just a decrepit old man reduced to bones, nothing more.”
“……”
“Haha, smile, Count. This is a time to laugh! Haha! With such a lack of sense, how could you ever mingle with the youth?”
Albert reached out, his hand cupping Rodan’s face.
You could question whether a baron had the audacity to touch a count’s face, but no one would dare speak up in front of this old man.
Before they knew it, Albert was forcing a smile onto Rodan’s lips, his eyes glistening with moisture, as if tears were about to spill.
Each touch sent cold sweat over Rodan’s body, making him tremble as if in the grip of a chill.
And so, his lips formed a forced crescent shape.
“Ah, what a lovely smile.”
Albert slowly withdrew his hand, pleased with himself.
“…W-what brings you here?”
The count asked, trembling in fear.
He needed to know what wrong he had committed to ensure that old man wouldn’t appear before him again.
“Haha.”
Was this the correct response?
He felt gratified.
Such was the cunning judgment befitting the head of a noble family.
Thus, deciding to change his ‘original purpose,’ he said,
“Ah, it’s nothing major. I’ve come to pay a visit because I heard there’s a young person who has caught this old man’s attention, and that young person recently got involved with the Count’s family.”
“N-no way!”
“Count, you’re a splendid noble. Unlike those foolish aristocrats who think the world belongs to them or the lunatics of the neutral faction, you’re a member of the royalist faction who understands the political climate well. So, if you could, please ensure this old man does not pick up the cross. Could you perhaps help me with that?”
“……”
“Haha, I’ll take your silence as a yes.”
Swish.
In the next moment, just as he had suddenly appeared, he abruptly vanished.
“……”
Rodan fell silent.
He felt as if he were under a spell, yet he was reminded by the warmth remaining on his face and the forced upward curl of his lips that what he witnessed was not a ghost but reality.
And furthermore, the proof that he had indeed met with him was…
“……Blood?”
It was blood.
Fresh, still wet blood.
It wasn’t his own. But it wasn’t Albert’s either.
If one were to debate, this was clearly…
‘The blood of others.’
Chilling!
He realized a truth he didn’t want to know.
The old man must have been stained with blood before coming to him.
Not his own, but the blood of others…!
Rodan, realizing this, slowly lowered his head, his shoulders trembling shallowly.
He understood what might have happened if he hadn’t bowed first.
Something too terrifying to even utter…!
Boom!
“Darling, I’m saying it again: this matter needs to be addressed with the royal family immediately… Darling?”
“……”
“Sweetheart? W-what’s wrong with you? Darling…?”
“……”
“A-are you crying?”
The count choked up, and his wife looked perplexed.
She had never seen him cry in their entire marriage, not even once.
But how could she know?
How relieved he felt that he, no, that the whole family had returned from the brink of death.
How grateful he was to still be alive and breathing.
And so, the count cried, as his wife was left with no choice but to awkwardly approach and comfort him.
Then, the following morning,
News broke that over six newspapers and one major sponsor were engulfed in flames overnight, reduced to ashes, and the count silently took up a training sword to search for his son.
This was the conclusion to a ‘minor incident’ that had transpired one moonlit night.
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