Chapter 35 - The Rival (2)
Chapter 35 - The Rival (2)
Late at night in the Herthe family mansion.
With even the servants retired for the night, the residence was plunged into darkness—save for one room where a faint lamplight still seeped through.
Beltane Herthe, the youngest and only son of the Herthe family.
Seated in his study chair, he idly twirled a small black crystal between his fingers, examining it under the lamplight.
“…Just an ordinary magic core from a fallen monster. Though being from a Blood Orc means its mana capacity is decently large…”
Why had his younger sister suddenly demanded this magic core?
Though the exact reason eluded him, it undoubtedly involved that new butler Parmela had recently taken in.
From what Beltane had gathered, some strange undercurrents were flowing between the Crown Prince, Parmela, and this butler—three people who shouldn’t have any connection.
Perhaps that peculiar constitution, said to manifest only in the family’s women, had finally awakened.
His brilliant mind pieced together the limited information into a grand picture almost instantly.
“That’s why I insisted on delivering it personally—to assess Parmela’s condition myself…”
His fingers tightened around the core, as if intending to crush it.
“…Should I just destroy it? Why should I do that woman any favors?”
But it was merely a fleeting thought. He set the core back on the desk.
Slumping into his chair, he sank into contemplation.
Parmela Herthe—his second eldest sister, currently considered by high society as the closest candidate to become family head.
“That brainless wench?”
Beltane sneered.
A woman who’d merely been blessed with beauty, noble bearing, and talent for the Black Flame Art.
Others praised her solely for her looks, haughty elegance, and overwhelming military exploits against demons using the Black Flame Art.
But Beltane, having lived under the same roof with her for sixteen years, knew her true nature.
Strategy, cold rationality, leadership, ambition… She lacked every quality required of a family head, merely drifting along on the tides of others urging “You should become the next head.”
A delusional shut-in who spent her days buried in romance novels leading the Herthes?
“Preposterous.”
Beltane spat the words.
And what of Beltane himself?
A prodigious intellect that had him devouring advanced academic tomes instead of children’s textbooks by age twelve, leadership that led border guards to victory against neighboring nations, cold rationality that wouldn’t flinch at family deaths (or so he believed),
And above all—the burning ambition for power simmering in his chest.
Wasn’t it obvious he was more suited to lead the Herthes than his sword-obsessed eldest sister or his hollow-shelled second sister?
The gods had denied him a robust physique or talent for the Black Flame Art.
Even past his sixteenth birthday, his face retained childish softness.
His slender frame stood half a head shorter than even Parmela.
Worse, while Beltane had mastered every branch of magic—elemental, spiritual, spatial—he completely lacked aptitude for the one that mattered: the family’s secret art of Black Flame.
These two fatal flaws ensured that whenever nobles discussed Herthe succession, Beltane’s name only surfaced after his sisters’, if at all.
Unfair. Irrational.
For years, Beltane had swallowed these grievances—today was no different.
“—Indeed. The scale of your envy… I understand perfectly now.”
“!”
Beltane whirled toward the voice, ready to fire a mana bullet,
But the vines lashing from the intruder’s hands bound him faster.
“Ghk!”
“My apologies for the discomfort, but silencing incantations requires such measures.”
The grotesque sight of thick branches forcing into Beltane’s mouth.
“Allow me to become the kindling that makes your envy blaze brighter…”
The elderly gentleman in green tweed stroked Beltane’s chin with impeccably genteel smile.
Class A’s routine appeared unchanged.
Students moved between lectures while servants waited behind classrooms.
Both groups wore identical bored expressions—an unavoidable fate.
Yet within this monotony emerged a gossip-worthy anomaly:
Me. Theodor.
Only three people knew what truly occurred during swordsmanship class—me, the Crown Prince, and Esmera.
Naturally, we’d kept silent, so rumors filled the void.
Witnesses had seen the Crown Prince challenge a servant to spar, unleash his aura in rage, and get subdued.
From plausible beginnings, the tale mutated absurdly:
“That commoner butler toyed with the Crown Prince single-handedly before slapping him down with ‘Know your place, weakling!’”
My gaze remained fixed on the professor’s chalkboard as usual,
But I didn’t need to look around to feel servants’ stares prickling my skin.
Previously indifferent, they now openly gawked or approached during separation periods:
“You’re that butler, right? What really happened?”
“…My apologies. My lady has forbidden discussion of the incident.”
I consistently deflected with Parmela’s orders.
Even lunch in the cafeteria couldn’t escape scrutiny.
Attention had shifted from Lady Parmela to me.
Post-lunch, Parmela always took tea on the terrace—sometimes joined by admirers.
Today, two young noblewomen trailing Parmela joined us.
Normally, they’d shower Parmela with flattery and adoring gazes…
“Lady Parmela, about your butler standing behind you…”
Today’s target wasn’t Parmela.
“Oh? Does our Theodor interest you?”
Parmela’s smile remained flawlessly elegant, but I sensed the shift.
“W-well, we don’t believe all rumors, but curiosity gets the better of us!”
“I saw it clearly! Sir Theodor leaped into the Crown Prince’s mana storm and dispersed it with bizarre movements! Even gave His Highness… ‘advice.’”
Their chattering eyes held curiosity toward me…
“If it’s not too forward, might we speak with him directly, Lady Parmela?”
“…and something like admiration.
A commoner butler who subdued the heavenly Crown Prince—their fascination was understandable.
“My apologies, but a commoner intruding on noble tea would breach decorum.”
Parmela’s sugary smile could freeze hell over.
The noblewomen paled, fidgeting under the sudden chill while Parmela sipped tea serenely.
“Ask me instead. I’ll answer.”
“Ah…! His background, perhaps…?”
“The son of a common adventurer connected to House Herthe. Hired at his father’s request…”
Parmela spun the fabricated backstory while shooting me a glare brimming with icy jealousy.
‘What exactly am I supposed to do here…?’
“Milady, it’s time.”
The head maid’s arrival concluded the tense tea.
“Ladies, I must excuse myself for an appointment.”
Parmela departed with perfect curtsy, the head maid and I in tow.
The fifteen-minute walk from cafeteria to gates passed in suffocating silence.
Parmela radiated ‘I’m furious’ through a plastered smile, the head maid maintained stone-faced silence, leaving me stranded in miserable middle.
[Warning. Entity with mana signature resembling Vertus detected nearby.]
“What?”
“?”
“Ah, apologies. Just… talking to myself.”
I brushed off their puzzled looks while querying the system internally.
‘Seriously?’
-For better or worse, yes. A fallen deity of my caliber is near.
I scanned surroundings warily, but neither sight nor mana sense detected anything.
“Lord Beltane’s carriage approaches.”
Following Elina’s gaze, I spotted a boy alighting from a carriage at the academy gates.
-That’s the one.
Unlike Parmela, his golden hair lacked reddish hues. Small and cute, yet somehow reminiscent of her.
“Sister, it’s been too long.”
Beltane’s gentle smile painted the picture of a perfect young noble—if one ignored the uncanny unease it evoked.
“Thank you, Saintess! You saved us!”
“The honor is mine. I merely fulfilled my duty.”
Saintess Auriel Radain smiled benevolently at the bowing village chief.