Rendler, the head butler of the Raphelion family, was a long-time retainer and loyal subject who could be said to have experienced the family’s rise and fall alongside them.
Entering as a page at 22, he became a butler at 26 and, at the young age of 36, held the position of head butler, assisting the head of the household. His role was so significant that nothing in the Raphelion estate could proceed without him.
Therefore, it was only natural for him to keep an eye on the growth of Elden Raphelion, the sole heir of the family.
While the busy lord often had to leave the mansion, Rendler took on Elden’s noble education and was the one managing the fallout whenever trouble arose.
After all, the lady of the house was too frail to discipline the wildly unruly Elden.
With an absent father who was often away on official duties and a sickly mother bedridden with illness, it was no wonder he struggled to fill that immense void, yet Rendler cared for Elden diligently.
He believed it was his duty, responsibility, and merely a part of the job for someone living off the family’s fortune.
Of course, guiding a child so painfully different and unrelated by blood was nearly impossible. Nevertheless, Rendler spared no effort.
However, as the years passed, those efforts began to fade, and by the time Elden enrolled in the Royal Academy, they had evaporated entirely.
In associating himself with shady company, Elden allowed the wicked intentions he had been suppressing to take flight.
He faced academic warnings and had been embroiled in bloody disputes with his classmates on more than one occasion.
Despite this, Rendler never once blamed him.
After all, Elden graduated at the top of his class, and Rendler felt a swell of pride.
Elden’s flickering malice was an unpreventable phenomenon; a compelling principle and part of the natural order.
It was only then that Rendler accepted the hard truth: an ingrained fate can only walk the path it knows.
“You’ve worked hard, Young Master. Congratulations on graduating at the top of your class.”
Three years later, when Elden returned to the family, he was utterly lost in a haze of pleasure and indulgence.
Alcohol and women.
Rather than bearing the glory of valedictorian, he returned filled only with a male’s primal instincts.
Instead of honor, he handed over nothing but empty bottles to Rendler.
Instead of bringing honor back, he stumbled off the carriage accompanied by intoxicated women.
“HA HA HA-! You lewd girls! Is the taste of money that good? I’ll toss a gold coin to the one who barks like a dog. Catch it with your mouth, and it’s yours! HA HA HA!”
In place of an esteemed valedictorian, the garden of the Raphelion estate resounded with the cries of inebriated women and the rustle of scattered money.
Three years spent at the academy.
Although it was a short time, he had awakened his deplorable instincts and, shortly after returning to the city, began to collect a variety of infamous nicknames like “Rascal,” “Drunken Noble,” and “Black-Haired Beast.”
He busily dealt with the fallout of endless incidents, yet Rendler never reproached his young master.
It was merely the course of events playing out.
Choosing to go with the flow instead of resisting it, he silently continued working for the Raphelion family until Elden, at the age of 22, faced a momentous crisis.
The head of the household died in an accident, and the lady passed away from illness.
The future looked bleak.
The only member of the household uninterested in its affairs was suddenly burdened with enormous responsibility, causing Rendler’s worry to deepen progressively.
And it didn’t take long for his fears to become reality.
Business partners, doubting Elden’s capabilities, began to sever ties, and due to unpaid debts, the family had to sell off one business after another.
The family was falling apart.
The glory of the Raphelion family faded, and Rendler advised the remaining staff to prepare themselves mentally.
Once the few remaining businesses were sold, that would leave nowhere to collect funds, marking the mansion and land as the final resort; the downfall of the once-great family seemed inevitable.
However…
“Rendler.”
One day, Elden, who had sobered from a long spell of indulgence, called for Rendler and unexpectedly made a request.
“I heard the Third Northern Duchess is hosting a betrothal contest. Make sure to submit my application.”
“…Excuse me?”
“I believe I told you not to make me repeat myself.”
“Oh, yes, yes. Understood.”
It was incomprehensible.
This was a man who enjoyed chaos over marriage. A man who treated women merely as tools to satisfy his instincts decided to enter a betrothal contest for a woman.
Moreover, he knew fully well how the name Elden Raphelion resonated with society.
It would be nothing short of miraculous if he could even manage to make it past the preliminary rounds.
Rendler submitted the application, but when Elden was chosen as a final candidate, he suspected this was more prearranged trickery than a miracle.
Strange events often concealed hidden reasons.
Perhaps that was why.
“Forfeit? Ho ho, you’ve made quite the wise decision. Lord Elden.”
The words declaring his withdrawal from the contest revealed the genuine relief within Rendler.
As he had said, winning was already unattainable.
Coming home instead of enduring another uncomfortable day in the Grand Duke’s castle was a wise choice indeed.
Honestly, handing over such a young master to the Duchess seemed embarrassing.
Well, it was embarrassing presenting him anywhere in the world.
Rendler thought it pitiful that the Third Duchess chose such a character as the final candidate, so this turn of events felt like a blessing.
“Then, I’ll prepare the carriage.”
“……You’re not asking why?”
“Why would I ever question your decision, My Lord? As you said, there’s no need to cling to a lost cause. Ho ho ho.”
Rendler left with a radiant smile, and Elden, feeling oddly peculiar, took a sip of his drink.
His first taste since traversing into this world was…
“…Bitter.”
Bitter.
Very bitter.
Winterfell, at the northernmost reaches of the continent, truly lived up to its name, with winter reigning all year round.
The expansive lands lay blanketed in thick snow, blue coniferous forests draped in white, and white foxes digging in the snow-capped mountains.
Even the area known as the Land of Bitter Cold experienced rainfall in May.
Icicles hanging from rooftops transformed into droplets, falling onto the frozen earth below.
As the season of renewal approached, Logan Winterfell, the Sovereign of the North, found himself buried under a mountain of paperwork.
Frozen things provoke no issues.
It’s the things that thaw out that do.
Moreover, May marked a time of renewal, with a long-standing tradition of celebration known as the Grand Ducal Betrothal Competition—a grand event for the Northern Region.
Meaning, it was a May wherein even short naps seemed too leisurely for anyone wishing to deal with the affairs of the North.
Additionally, this betrothal contest buzzed with excitement due to the previously reclusive Third Duchess being the main attraction.
“…What? A withdrawal?”
Naturally, the news of a “Final Candidate’s Withdrawal” caused chaos amid his already packed schedule.
Gelwood, his aide, instinctively bowed as Logan’s azure eyes, reminiscent of the fierce dragon of the battlefield, glittered with unyielding fervor.
“Yes, Your Grace. Candidate Elden Raphelion has declared his withdrawal.”
“And the reason?”
“He claimed he was too lacking.”
“Lacking? After passing numerous tests over two weeks to reach the final step, he withdraws now, stating he is unqualified?”
“Yes.”
Unable to grasp the reason behind the withdrawal, Logan leaned back, crossing his arms.
His arms, which had once wielded a fierce halberd across the northern battlefields, exuded unwavering strength and valor.
“There must be another reason.”
“I have attempted to probe the situation but found nothing concrete.”
“Were there no odd signs?”
“…….”
Odd signs? They were vague, but they did exist.
However, Gelwood hesitated to report them as they were uncertain and unverified. So, he cautiously mentioned something that had caught his attention.
“Well, they’re not exactly odd signs, but….”
“Speak freely.”
“He seems to have changed a bit.”
What more could one say?
He appeared to have changed.
But even with just those words, Logan showed interest, standing up and approaching the window.
Gelwood, personally selected as the central aide by Logan, possessed exceptional insight and had never been wrong.
If he claimed something changed, then it absolutely must have.
Logan’s gaze was pulled toward the snowy terrain, dotted with traces of winter that had yet to melt away.
“For example?”
“His voice, once as harsh as a blizzard, has turned calm. His gaze, once piercing, has softened. And his invincible spirit seems to have melted away much like the Northern territories in May.”
“……..Hmm, the Iron-Blooded Hellion has transformed into the Northern Regions of May.”
Logan murmured while surveying the winter landscape.
Comparing Elden to the thawing Northern regions of May presented an intriguing topic indeed for the Snow King of the North.
Even if it held some leaps in logic…
Gelwood’s insight was unmatched.
Why else would kings from other nations covet him as an advisor?
Of course, one remark wouldn’t instantly change Logan’s perception of Elden. Yet, for him to strive so patiently only to be the first ever to withdraw from such a prestigious contest piqued the curiosity of this retired veteran.
Logan turned his attention back to Gelwood.
“I understand that individual meetings with final candidates are strictly forbidden before the commencement of the cohabitation phase. However, special circumstances allow for exceptional rules. Arrange a meeting with him.”
“Understood. There is a gathering of candidates this evening, so I’ll schedule it afterward.”
As Gelwood left, Logan stood alone gazing out the window.
He was fully aware of Elden Raphelion.
No, he was thoroughly aware of all the final candidates.
After all, they each shared a common characteristic.
While stroking his white beard, Logan quietly mused.
“Elden Raphelion… what a peculiar fellow.”
A man who climbed so high, only to step down so easily.
Whether due to external pressure or a genuine epiphany, he remained unpredictable, precisely as public sentiment suggested.
With a bitter smile, Logan returned to his desk and began signing through the mountain of overdue documents.
I had thought that the Third Princess’ judgment was truly unfortunate, but it seems to have turned out well.
“Then I will prepare the carriage.”
“…You aren’t going to ask me why?”
“Why would I question your decision, My Lord? As you said, there’s no need to cling to a fight that’s unwinnable. Hohoho.”
Rendler left with a bright smile, and for some reason, Elden felt a bit strange as he took a sip of the drink in his glass.
The taste of the first thing he had consumed since his reincarnation was…
“…Bitter.”
It was bitter.
Very bitter.
Located at the northernmost part of the continent, the Northern Region of Winterfell truly lived up to its name, with winters lasting all year round.
Extensive lands were blanketed in thick snow, blue coniferous forests donned with white scarves, and white foxes rummaged through the snow-covered mountains.
Even the land known for its severe cold had begun to see rainfall by May.
Icicles hanging from rooftops turned into drops falling onto the frozen ground.
And when such a season arrived, Logan Winterfell, the lord of the Northern Region, found himself buried under a mountain of paperwork.
Frozen things don’t cause trouble.
It’s the things that thaw out that tend to cause issues.
Moreover, May was a time for celebrating the rebirth of life, marking a long-standing tradition, along with a grand festival known as the “[Grand Ducal Betrothal Competition].”
May was a month where even a short nap felt like too much time to spare if one wished to manage the affairs of the Northern Region and his household.
Particularly this betrothal competition had the entire Northern Region buzzing because the previously hidden Third Duchess was to be the main event.
“…What? A withdrawal?”
Thus, the news of a ‘final candidate withdrawal’ inevitably disrupted his already packed schedule.
As the azure eyes, reminiscent of a blue dragon in battle, displayed unwavering spirit, Gelwood, his aide, bowed his head automatically.
“Yes, Your Grace. Candidate Elden Raphelion has declared his withdrawal.”
“And what’s the reason?”
“He claimed he was lacking in qualifications.”
“Lacking? After facing numerous tests over two weeks to reach the final stage, he’s now discussing qualifications and forfeiting?”
“Yes.”
Unable to comprehend the declaration of withdrawal, Logan leaned back and crossed his arms.
His arms, having once wielded a massive halberd across northern battlefields, still showcased their enduring strength and glory.
“There must be another reason.”
“I tried to probe, but I couldn’t find anything specific.”
“Were there no unusual signs?”
“…”
Unusual signs, vague as they were, existed.
Yet Gelwood hesitated to report them, as they remained uncertain and unverified. He cautiously brought up a thought that had crossed his mind.
“Well, it’s not necessarily an odd sign, but…”
“Speak freely.”
“He seems to have changed a bit.”
That was the only way to describe it.
It appeared he had transformed.
However, just that alone piqued Logan’s interest as he got up and moved towards the window.
Gelwood, the central aide he had personally appointed, had an exceptional track record of insight.
With just a glance, he could penetrate the essence of a person, foresee outcomes several steps ahead, and unearth gold from mere dust.
If he claimed someone had changed, then they had.
Logan’s gaze fell upon the winter landscape formed by the snow that had yet to fully melt.
“For instance?”
“His voice, once as fierce as a snowstorm, has calmed down. The piercing glare that was once there has softened, and his once unyielding spirit seems to have melted, much like the Northern Region in May.”
“……Hmm, the Iron-Blooded Rake has turned into the Northern Region of May.”
Logan murmured as he scanned the snowy landscape.
The comparison to the thawing Northern Region in May awakened an interesting notion in the Snow King of the North.
Even if that expression was a bit of a stretch…
Gelwood’s insight was unmatched.
After all, kings of other nations would even covet him as a strategist.
Of course, no single remark would immediately sway Logan’s perspective of Elden. However, the fact that someone had struggled to reach the final candidacy only to become the first to ever withdraw in the competition’s history was enough to ignite the curiosity of the retired veteran.
Logan turned his gaze to Gelwood.
“I know individual meetings with final candidates are strictly forbidden before the residential phase begins, but exceptional circumstances call for exceptional rules. Set up a meeting for me.”
“Understood. There will be a gathering among the candidates in the evening, so I will arrange it for after that.”
After Gelwood left, Logan remained alone, staring out the window.
He was well-versed with Elden Raphelion.
No, he knew all the final candidates well.
After all, each shared one notable characteristic.
Logan stroked his white beard, whispering, “Elden Raphelion… what a peculiar fellow.”
A man who struggled to rise, only to effortlessly slide back down.
Whether it was due to external pressure or a genuine realization, it was clear he was unpredictable, just as public opinion stated.
With a bitter chuckle, Logan returned to his desk and began to sign off on the stack of documents.
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