Moths to the Flame (4)
Inside a spacious chamber within Baron Raden's estate.
Several men huddled together, their expressions grim as they spoke in hushed, urgent tones. Amid the inconclusive debate, one of them let out a low, ragged breath.
"Are we really doing this, Captain? Everything's been going so smoothly up till now."
The man addressed as captain was Lude, a dashing figure with a rugged, well-built physique and swept-back brown hair. A vein pulsed along his brow as his eyes narrowed into a crooked, predatory crescent.
"Fuck, you think I wanted to rush this? But because of those two nameless bastards who showed up out of nowhere, the tower I spent years building is on the verge of collapsing."
"Just how bad is it? Bad enough that even you can't control it?"
"None of you dumb shits can see it, but I can. Suspicion is starting to crawl up from the depths of that bitch's mind. The moment she comes to her senses, years of planning go down the drain."
Lude ground his teeth with a sharp, grating sound. For years, he had stayed at the Baron's side, observing her more closely than anyone else alive. By now, he could read her thoughts from a mere flick of her finger or the slant of her gaze.
"Shallow, gullible bitch."
Vulgar insults poured from his mouth—the very mouth that usually played the cultured suitor—fueled by sheer fury at how fate was throwing a wrench into his nearly completed masterpiece.
"If I'd only had a little more time, I could've firmly secured my place in high society... Tsk."
He clicked his tongue in bitter frustration.
Lude had originally been the leader of an ordinary mercenary band: a vagabond drifting through conflict zones to earn coin, using his handsome face to charm women into his bed for a night before moving on. When he first took a contract with Baron Raden, he had harbored no grand ambitions. His mindset had been strictly transactional—work strictly for the coin provided.
It was only after roughly six months of idling in the barony that inspiration struck.
Having used and discarded countless women with his looks, he was quick to spot the truth: this woman, seemingly haughty and far wealthier than most high-ranking nobles, was actually crippled by abysmal self-esteem. What was more, despite her desperate efforts to hide it, he clearly saw through her stolen glances—she harbored genuine romantic feelings for him.
He had known right then that it was the opportunity of a lifetime.
A woman who had amassed unfathomable riches, yet refused to indulge in a single luxury for her home. A woman whose identity was far closer to a merchant's than an aristocrat's. A woman who looked a titleless commoner straight in the eye as an equal. The seat beside her was not beyond the reach of a mere mercenary.
The scheme had crystallized in an instant.
He invested years into curating an impeccable reputation, meticulously manufacturing trust. He staged coincidences to cross paths with the Baron, dangling subtle, tantalizing affection just out of reach. In time, he even drew out her deepest lament: that despite her age, remaining unwed had made her the target of vicious gossip throughout high society.
She had confided that most suitors who approached her were younger sons sniffing after the barony's fortune. The few decent men shied away, burdened by the thought of marrying into her house as a matrilocal son-in-law. And worse yet, plenty of useless scoundrels were simply intimidated by a capable woman. Strangled by those circumstances, she had never experienced a proper relationship, let alone marriage.
Lude had wanted to swallow her whole right then, but it was too early. He had to keep her on the hook, playing hot and cold until she was the one desperately clinging to him. He was a commoner mercenary and she was a noble; that psychological leverage was the only way to overturn the power dynamic between them.
Steadily, insidiously, he seeped into her daily life until she could scarcely imagine a routine without him. On the fragile self-esteem of a woman whose only talent was multiplying wealth, he stamped his footprints—grinding them in so deeply they could never be washed away.
And when that cycle repeated enough times, the Baron eventually entrusted household affairs to him—duties traditionally handled by the mistress of the house.
No matter how she tried to hide it, her intent was transparent. This was her final test before considering a proposal, the last cornerstone of the tower he had so painstakingly built. That was why he had ordered his subordinates to keep the manor under strict control. If the Baron's affection leaked out and made her a laughingstock, she might retreat into her shell. He had instructed them to turn away anyone who wasn't critical to her business.
And yet, this pathetic mess was the result.
"Ugh, fuck... my ankle's completely shattered. I can't even stand, Captain! I swear those bastards pulled some kind of trick—"
"Shut your trap before I slit your throat myself."
"Urgh..."
The idiot didn't even understand how he had been taken down, spewing pathetic excuses instead. Stupid bastard. He's probably just too ashamed to admit he got beaten half to death.
To think he had kept a worthless dog around who couldn't even manage a gatekeeper's job. Every fiber of Lude's being urged him to bury a dagger in the man's neck right now.
"Haa..."
A weary, venomous sigh slipped from his lips, causing the mercenaries gathered in the room to shudder in fear. Before the Baron, he played the gentle, attentive gentleman, but if asked who among them was the most ruthless, every man would cast his vote for Lude.
In the suffocating silence, one mercenary summoned the courage to speak.
"Captain, can we really handle the fallout? If the Baron completely loses her mind..."
"No, she won't. I know that woman better than anyone."
A person who put on airs of dignity while caring more about public perception than life itself. A woman so crippled by insecurity, so terrified of being looked down upon, that she couldn't even voice a minor grievance. Yes—even if taken by force, she would never dare speak of it. Like any sheltered maiden, she would view being violated as an unspeakable disgrace and bury it in silence. And how much worse would it be for a woman who held a noble title?
High society was a cesspool teeming with predators eager to tear a victim to shreds. They would whisper that she made a fortune only to be thoroughly humiliated, or that despite all her airs of grandeur, a woman was just a woman in the end. Even her fellow noblewomen would drive their venomous tongues into her and pour salt on the wound.
Noble purity? What a joke. The highest reaches of the Empire were practically the gutter anyway. Which meant men from the bottom like them belonged right beside them.
"Things have gone too far off course to handle this like a gentleman. Tonight, I take the Baron and force her to sign the betrothal contract. Muster every man scattered across the estate and seal the manor immediately."
"Then what about the Baron's guests...?"
"Why are you even asking? We can't have useless rumors getting out."
Lude's command fell cold and merciless.
"Kill them. Quietly. Leave no trace."
That way, they could easily claim the guests had departed before dawn.
"..."
Gauging Lude's murderous glare, the subordinates released a carrier pigeon to rally their dispersed forces. Drawing their wicked blades, they moved out toward their respective posts to execute the order.
Step. Step.
The late-night corridor was unnaturally cool, belying the sweltering heat of the summer night. Even their muffled footsteps echoed as though they were treading through a hollow cavern, stirring a prickle of revulsion at the sound of their own approach.
The western wing of the manor. The guest room assigned by the Baron stood right before them. Inspecting their honed edges, they silently pressed their weight against the door.
Straining their hearing to the limit, they caught nothing. They had worried the target might be awake, but it seemed a baseless fear. Bloodlust stretched taut between them like a balloon inflated to the verge of bursting.
Masking their presence like seasoned assassins, they eased the door open.
The well-oiled hinges yielded in total silence. Within that cooperative dark, multiple blades caught the pale moonlight, gleaming like the fangs of wolves.
What kind of lunatic sleeps with a mask on?
Despite the gravity of their mission, the sight was downright farcical. Still, it worked in their favor. There was no need to look upon their victim's face, meaning they could drive the steel home without a shred of hesitation. Such were the thoughts of the man leading the strike.
His patience snapped.
Die...!
He plunged the blade downward, aiming straight for where the heart lay. A guaranteed kill. Even if the man woke, he would drown in his own blood and perish in agony. The electric thrill of a clean execution surged through his skull.
Just as he prepared to exhale a breath of relief—
Clack.
A fraction of an inch before it could pierce the fabric of his shirt, two fingers clamped down on the flat of the blade, stopping it dead.
The man who had looked so ridiculous a moment ago spoke:
"That was your last chance."
"Your last chance to return to your everyday lives."
As I quietly delivered their sentence, the man who had lunged at me stumbled backward, his face twisting in horror at something that defied all comprehension.
"I was hoping you would give up."
Embarrassingly enough, I had thought it was Serin at first. Knowing how obsessively curious she had been about my bare face, I had felt certain she would sneak in during the dead of night. That was why I went to sleep with the mask on, even in a private room. And when I sensed someone approaching, the thought of her disappointed pout had stirred a slight pang of guilt.
Perhaps I should consider myself fortunate—fortunate that this present situation didn't end with me playing a trick on her.
"Why must you go this far?"
I slipped out of bed with fluid ease and set my feet upon the floor.
Perhaps because the unexpected turn of events had paralyzed their thoughts, none of them moved to stop me. But the fuse was burning in utter silence. The bomb, packed with dense tension and fury, detonated in an instant.
"Fuck—kill him!!!"
The man at the front swung his sharp blade and charged. One directly ahead, four flanking left and right. Their murderous intent was formidable, but it stirred nothing within me.
Before the lead man's sword could even cleave my shoulder, I closed the distance and drove my elbow into his collarbone.
Crack!
"Kehhhk...!"
Pinned by my elbow, I drove him all the way against the wall. Meanwhile, the assassins' blades struck only empty floorboards.
While the others failed to hide their dismay, a flicker of hope shone in the eyes of the man gasping beneath me. He seemed to take solace in the fact that I hadn't killed him on the spot. The assassins behind him were the same; like comrades preparing to negotiate for a hostage, they kept their distance with drawn swords. In fact, the man with the shattered collarbone and his allies behind me were frantically exchanging silent looks.
For a fleeting moment, the thought crossed my mind to indulge that hope, but I quickly purged it from my thoughts. I gripped his chest and poured strength into my hand.
Crrrunch—snap!
A brutal scream of tearing pectoral muscles and snapping ribs dominated the room. I flicked away the stray veins tangled between my fingers, then cast my gaze upon his comrades, blood with the sharp tang of iron dripping onto the floorboards.
"Fuck... holy fuck..."
Their feet instinctively shuffled backward. When I took a step forward, they retreated half a step. Thus began the game of tag that could only end in one way.
Why?
I wonder why people who seek to kill others are so averse to death themselves. Did they never anticipate such an outcome? If so, do these men before me share the exact same mindset as my parents?
I don't know.
My mind feels as though shrouded in dense fog. Nothing to be done, then. My only choice is to kill them all.
Whoosh.
Poh billowed forth. Veiling its presence in midnight darkness, it donned the guise of shadows. While they hesitated, watching nervously, Poh coiled around their throats like nooses, awaiting the command of execution.
It was right as I began to slowly close my fist.
Crash! Shatter!
The window behind the assassins—crystal-clear, impeccably maintained glass—shattered entirely beneath an intruder.
In the very next breath, a silhouette suspended in midair brought color to my monochrome world.
"Riaaaaan!!!"
The artist was a new intruder, flying straight toward me as if aiming to throw herself into my arms.
It was Serin.