Count Rodon had a headache.

There were over dozens of reasons causing his distress, but the elements currently giving him the worst headache were—

"Dear! We need to address this! How could they touch our child and yet that man still isn't dismissed? You must demand the knight order to punish him!"

His wife, who had pampered their youngest son far too much, was screaming for the knight to be punished. Raised as a daughter of a wealthy marquis family, she had no understanding of politics and was spouting foolish words. Did she truly not understand what it meant to challenge the White Silver Lion or to confront the knight order?

...In hindsight, perhaps he should have listened to his late mother’s advice when she warned him against marrying for beauty alone.

But his wife’s nagging could be tuned out; he could deal with it later. The more pressing problems were—

"There will be no threat to his life. Knights have exceptionally strong vitality, after all. However, it will take at least a year for him to recover... unless you can obtain fresh troll blood with 80% purity."

The fact that the recovery of the vice-commander, who should soon be leading the estate’s knight order, was so slow was another major concern. The Paulette family was a family of knights, and it was a daily occurrence for freelance knights or mercenaries seeking fame to challenge them to duels. Accepting these challenges was a matter of pride for the family.

And now, one of the estate’s key knights had been incapacitated. Worse yet, it was the knight hailed as the champion of their territory.

It was only natural for Count Rodon to feel weighed down by frustration.

‘Troll blood? Where on earth am I supposed to find that?’

While it was said that 80% purity troll blood would speed up the recovery, obtaining such blood was nearly impossible. Trolls rarely emerged from the deep forests, and even if one successfully hunted a troll, its blood would coagulate or spoil immediately upon death, making it hard to collect even 30% pure blood.

To get 80% pure blood, one would need to enlist the help of an aura user.

In short, it was impossible.

‘My head hurts, it really hurts.’

These problems alone were enough to give him a splitting headache, but—

"Master, if you wish, I will bring you the man’s head immediately."
"Father! I will go myself!"
"...Why are you both acting like this?"

Even the knights, who were supposed to protect the estate, and his eldest son, who was meant to inherit the family title, were itching to draw their swords over this incident.

Looking at them, Count Rodon felt dizzy.

‘Do they not understand anything?’

His wife, ignorant of knightly or political matters, could be excused. But these two were supposed to protect the family, and by extension, Pandragon. Had they forgotten that the Paulette family was aligned with the royal faction?

If they truly didn’t grasp what it meant to provoke the White Silver Lion, it might be better to cut off their heads now.

They would surely bring ruin to the family.

‘...This is my fault.’

Ever since the end of the three-year war with Britain, he had neglected the affairs of the family, and now he was paying the price.

Surrounded by such disappointments, it was clear that he had failed to properly manage both his children and his estate. He should have ruled them with a firmer hand.

Had he done so, they wouldn’t be acting out like this.

‘Where do I even begin to fix this?’

The count’s worries deepened.

...At that moment—

"You seem deeply troubled, Count."

"..."

"Haha, well, managing a family isn’t an easy task. I understand your plight."

"..."

"Why aren’t you saying anything? Do you dislike this old man that much? It hurts my feelings."

"..."

—Count Rodon couldn’t even breathe properly, let alone respond.

No, he couldn’t muster any response at all, as his hands and feet trembled.

When had he arrived?

The old man slowly approached from the shadows, silhouetted against the bright moon. He looked like a kind old butler, with nothing intimidating about his appearance.

But Count Rodon wasn’t fooled.

He wouldn’t be deceived by that gentle voice.

He wouldn’t be deceived by that kindly face.

There was no way he could forget the tragedies this old man had caused.

With a trembling voice, Count Rodon dared to speak his name.

"A-Albert Duke..."

"Haha, I am honored that you remember an old man like me, Count."

"Albert Duke! W-We’ve done nothing wrong! Our family has no intention of opposing the royal family!"

He pleaded desperately, his excuses tumbling out one after another.

That was how terrified he was of this man.

Was it because the man was one of the kingdom’s only three aura users?

No.

While the man’s combat prowess was formidable, that wasn’t why Count Rodon was so afraid.

The true reason he was terrified—

"I haven’t come for an inquisition, so rest easy. It’s been a long time since I retired, haha."

—was because of his past profession.

Inquisitor John Ray Albert.

The butcher who wiped out ninety families!

And Count Rodon would never forget how that old man carried a cross on his back as he impaled countless people upon it…!

But Albert smiled, as if all of that was merely a distant memory.

"That’s all in the past. I’ve long since washed my hands of it, so you have nothing to fear, Count. After all, the past is the past, isn’t it?"

Nonsense—!

"The elders who remember those days wet themselves at the mere mention of your name, scratching their heads in terror until they bleed! And you call that the past?!"

"Ah, those were just the passions of youth. Everyone has something they become obsessed with in their younger days, and for me, it was simply God’s teachings. Back then, it was my entire life. Now, though, I’m nothing more than an old man with nothing left but bones."

"..."

"Haha, come now, Count, you should be smiling at this point. This is where you’re supposed to laugh. Haha! How are you going to get along with the younger generation without any sense of humor?"

Albert reached out and touched Count Rodon’s face.

One might question whether it was acceptable for a baron to lay his hands on a count’s face, but no one would dare utter such a thing in the presence of this man.

Before anyone realized it, Albert was lifting the corners of Rodon’s mouth, forcibly forming a smile. Rodon’s eyes grew moist, almost as if tears were about to spill.

Every time Albert’s hand touched him, Rodon’s entire body broke out in cold sweat, trembling as if from the cold.

As his lips were forced into a strained half-moon smile—

"Hmm, that’s a good smile."

Albert nodded, satisfied, and finally withdrew his hand.

"...Why have you come here?"

Count Rodon, still trembling with fear, asked.

He needed to know what mistake he had made, what had prompted this man’s visit, so that it would never happen again.

"Haha."

That seemed to be the right question, as Albert smiled in approval.

It was a clever judgment, worthy of a head of the family.

Satisfied, Albert decided to alter his original purpose for coming and said—

"Oh, it’s nothing much. There’s a young man who’s caught this old man’s attention recently. I heard he had a bit of an encounter with your family, so I thought I’d drop by."

"Y-You can’t mean—!"

"Count, you’re an excellent noble. Unlike the fools who think the world belongs to them or the lunatics among the neutral faction, you belong to the royalist faction and understand the current political climate. So please, ensure that this old man never has to pick up his cross again. Can you do that?"

"..."

"Haha, I’ll take your silence as a yes."

Swoosh.

In the next moment—

As suddenly as he had appeared, he vanished without a trace.

"..."

Count Rodon remained frozen in place.

It was as if he had been possessed by a ghost, but as he felt the lingering warmth on his face and the forced smile on his lips, he realized that what he had just experienced was real, not a hallucination.

And there was further proof of this.

"…Blood?"

There was blood.

Fresh, still-wet blood.

It wasn’t his own, nor was it Albert’s.

If he had to guess, it was…

‘Someone else’s blood. Other people’s blood.’

Chill!

Rodon came to a horrifying realization.

That old man had already spilled blood before arriving here.

Not his blood, but someone else’s…!

As Rodon processed this, he slowly lowered his head and trembled slightly, his shoulders shaking.

He understood now what would have happened if he hadn’t bowed down first.

Something too terrifying to even speak of…!

Crash!

"Dear, I’m telling you again, we must report this to the royal family immediately—dear?!"

"..."

"D-Dear? Why… why are you like this? Dear…?"

"..."

"A-Are you crying?"

The count sobbed, and his wife was taken aback.

In all their years of marriage, she had never seen him cry.

But how could she possibly understand?

How could she comprehend how relieved he was to be alive—how relieved he was that his entire family was still breathing?

And so, the count wept, while his wife, bewildered, hesitantly moved to comfort him.

 

The next morning, news spread that over six newspapers and one merchant guild that had sponsored them had been reduced to ashes overnight.

Meanwhile, Count Rodon silently took up a wooden sword and went to find his son.

It was the conclusion of a “trivial incident” that had taken place under the moonlight.