Chapter 42

The crowd hurled food at Viretta and Iola—not heavy or sharp objects, but fried meat and half-eaten bread flew through the air, showering them both.

Dodging the airborne edibles, Viretta pointed an accusatory finger at the audience.

“What do you take me for? A traitor? Fools! Do you think I’d ever betray the Count?”

“Traitor! You’ve already brought him down twice!”

“That was a coincidence! The Count just happens to catch a cold from morning dew!”

“Miss Viretta?”

The Count, who had indeed been floored by Viretta’s antics twice before, looked on with teary eyes at her merciless rebuttal.

But neither the tears of a grown nobleman nor the justified outrage of his citizens could rattle Viretta’s resolve.

“I’m the Count’s representative! Of course I’m on his side. If you don’t like it, bring money!”

“Oh~! As irritating as Miss Viretta’s words are, she’s right! Everyone, please refrain from throwing food in the courtroom!”

The commentator, who had struggled to find an opening to intervene, finally shouted while clutching his trusty wooden funnel.

Yet the crowd’s uproar didn’t subside.

After three months of torment under the Count, the thought of him securing custody of his daughter and even reconciling with his wife was unbearable to them.

“This has to be a joke! What are we supposed to do if he gets a happy ending?”

“Look at her! A true daughter of Medleidge! Just as vicious as her father!”

“Stop this! Don’t invade the courtroom! Counsel, please, you can’t hit the citizens! And you, the mage—don’t use magic in here—aaahhh!”

Screams erupted from the gallery in rapid succession.

Thirty minutes later.

Bruised and battered, the unruly crowd cowered as they offered sheepish smiles. An elderly village chief, his cheek scorched black, bowed repeatedly.

“Th-thank you so much. You’ve saved us, truly.”

The mob that stormed the courtroom had been beaten by Iola and struck by Moslin’s lightning, leaving them in a pitiful state.

Though Iola showed no mercy, Moslin had taken it even further, reveling in the chaos. Perhaps she thought she could always flee to the Twilight Mercenaries if things went south, as she displayed no restraint.

The only one quietly nursing his wounds in the corner was Ranken, clutching his aching stomach.

“I deeply apologize for my intrusion earlier. In hindsight, it’s better that the Count regained his senses,” he muttered, adding under his breath, “though it’s a shame we didn’t see his downfall…”

Despite their lingering bitterness, the villagers begrudgingly admitted that things had turned out for the best.

If the Count had lost the trial, who knew what madness might have followed?

Now, with Elena and Lucy returning, the Count seemed reinvigorated, and everything was resolved neatly.

Taxes would be collected again, soldiers would patrol the territory, and the local church could operate properly.

Realizing this, the battered villagers bowed repeatedly to Viretta and Iola, who had saved the estate from ruin.

“We don’t know how to repay you. We’d love to offer you something, but we don’t have much to give…”

“Oh, don’t worry. We’ve already arranged for the Count to reward us. I wouldn’t dream of bleeding you dry when you’re already struggling.”

“But still…”

“Besides, we’ve secured road usage rights, a painting depicting our heroic deeds, and a butcher who’ll join us on our dragon-hunting expedition.”

Though spoken casually, the rewards for a single day’s trial were immense, bordering on outright extortion.

“Oh, how wise of you!”

The villagers, thrilled at hearing about the Count’s loss, nodded enthusiastically.

The Count’s misfortune was their delight.

The villagers regarded Viretta, who had managed to incapacitate the Count twice and wring every drop of benefit from him, with eyes full of admiration.

“Miss Viretta truly is a daughter of Medleidge! Ruthless!”

“A natural talent for exploiting opportunities!”

“Cross her, and you won’t even have bones left to pick!”

The praise was perhaps the most backhanded Viretta had ever received.

Avoiding their admiring gazes, she muttered, “L-let’s set aside such clichéd compliments. The Count is a gentleman and our savior.”

Yet, to the misfortune-hoping villagers, the Count remained frustratingly unconcerned about his losses.

This was the same man who had sulked for three months over losing custody. When it came to money, he was surprisingly unbothered and operated well beyond practical considerations.

Having regained Elena and Lucy, he desired nothing more.

To prove it, the Count lavished Viretta with valuable goods, exceeding their agreed rewards.

Watching the Count load her up with additional treasures, Viretta’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“A client—no, a patron—no, a benefactor! Ah, no word quite captures it! Such a kind and generous savior!”

“Call me whatever you want. I don’t care,” the Count replied indifferently.

“In that case, let’s simplify it. A kind savior… we’ll shorten it to ‘Hogu.’”

And thus, the term Hogu—a naïve benefactor—was coined, destined to endure for centuries.

But Viretta, at that moment, was blissfully unaware of the legacy she had created.

The Count personally packed and delivered the party’s belongings, living up to his newfound moniker as the ultimate Hogu.

“Miss Viretta, about the butcher—I couldn’t secure one easily. Preparing to dismantle a dragon is no simple task, and the journey is far, so volunteers are scarce.”

The Count rubbed his hands apologetically.

Viretta had requested road access, a commemorative painting, and a butcher to help with dragon hunting.

After reflecting on it, she’d realized they’d need someone skilled to handle the dragon’s remains. But even in a city this large, it seemed no butcher was willing to join their dangerous journey.

Viretta sighed, twisting a lock of her short hair.

“Well, brave souls like us are rare, after all.”

“Still, I managed to find someone. But… he might be a bit difficult.”

“A bit of difficulty is nothing charisma can’t solve. Once I show my sincerity, anyone will gladly accompany us.”

Behind her, Ranken muttered, “Yeah, sure…” under his breath, which Viretta promptly ignored.

“Of course! Miss Viretta is exceptionally persuasive. Anyone would be moved by her story,” Iola chimed in, ever supportive.

Despite the thin premise of a man wanting to write a dissertation on dragons and a woman who had talked herself into a corner, Iola believed in Viretta completely.

The conviction that touched Iola baffled Ranken, but Viretta nearly teared up with gratitude.

“Iola!”

“Miss Viretta!”

The two clasped hands in mutual admiration, leaving the Count nodding approvingly at what he perceived as a perfect match.

“Well, if you say so, let me introduce him. He’s a butcher-slave named Saffron.”

The Count gestured, and a man standing diagonally behind him stepped forward.

The young man tilted his head slightly, his long black hair falling over one eye, obscuring its color.

His sharp brows, narrow eyes, and unsmiling mouth gave him a gloomy, sinister appearance.

“He’s twenty-three, owes 40 silver coins for his freedom, and can butcher anything from sheep to cattle. He’s even dismantled a dragon once. His skills are excellent.”

If his abilities were so good, why had the Count hesitated to introduce him?

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Viretta Medleidge, the one who will guide your fate.”

Viretta soon found out.

Saffron smirked darkly and hunched his shoulders.

“Ah, my fate… indeed, my life is now in your hands.”

He bowed his head, avoiding her extended hand. Though his behavior feigned deference, every word dripped with insolence.

“You must be bold—a lunatic even—to take on a journey as dangerous as this. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Saffron, a lowly slave.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Saffron. The Count speaks highly of your skills.”

“Oh, does he? That’s just marketing to make me seem worth buying. As a mere slave, I have no special talents. Anyone with all their limbs intact could surpass me.”

“Traveling with us will bring you great glory, but it will be a difficult journey. Are you prepared?”

“What choice do I have? If a lady who can’t even fend for herself embarks on this trip, surely I have no excuse. At worst, I’ll die. Nothing worse than that, right?”

Every sentence was laced with quiet scorn, accompanied by faint chuckles and a shadowed smile.

Ranken instantly grasped Saffron’s essence.

This guy… what a pain.

Overflowing with passive aggression, self-deprecation, and an outright disdain for others, Saffron wielded his status as a slave like a weapon to belittle everyone else.

The butcher-slave introduced by the Count seemed like the polar opposite of Viretta in every way.