Chapter 44
Chapter 44
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 44
Chapter Title: The Fairy's Vendetta
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Excluding the Celestial and Demon races—which even humans rarely ever glimpse—what's the most beautiful race in this other world?
Most readers would probably answer:
"Elves."
In the world of this novel, countless races beyond humans inhabit every corner of the continent.
The reason they're rarely seen is that, unlike humans who form massive nations, they live in small-to-medium groups like villages or tribes.
Among them, elves call themselves the descendants of the Celestials, idolizing them and boldly claiming that, barring the Celestials themselves, they are the continent's finest race.
Not entirely wrong, to be fair.
For while most races possess basic mana manipulation, elves boast exceptional innate talent in wielding it.
'But they've got a fatal flaw.
Talented folks who can't get along, always snarling at each other—wasting that gift on constant factionalism.'
Their history of infighting was pure comedic fantasy from the start.
Whether to spread fruit jam on bread—the elves' staple food—or not.
Yes, no joke.
It began with jam on bread.
What started as half-hearted banter spiraled into debates over the superiority of jam-eaters or the negative impact of jam on the forest, and all sorts of bizarre nonsense.
To humans, it looked like, "What a ridiculous fuss."
But to elves, it must've been a grave matter.
In the end, jam-spreaders split from non-spreaders, each going their own way.
Even funnier? Endless further splits over trivialities.
What kind of jam? What to pair with bread if no jam?
Readers even speculated, "Is the author venting about tangsuyuk sauce wars—poured versus dipped—after getting grief over it?"
'Still, given elven traits, it's not incomprehensible.'
Their arrogant belief in superiority, lifespans far longer than other races leading to unchanging generations, the fierce conflicts that spawn, and their rigid class system once set in stone.
Elven society had fossilized from sheer rigidity.
Naturally hypersensitive to change, they rejected any break from tradition.
'Endlessly splintering until they became the frail weaklings humans raid at will—despite scorning them.
Idiots.
Just eat the damn food, poured or dipped.'
Helen Haines before him was one such member of a splintered elven tribe.
By elven standards, still a girl then, she'd gone hunting at the forest edge and gotten captured by humans.
Officially, non-human slavery was banned—but only "officially."
Loopholes abounded; smuggling through back channels was routine.
Thus, Helen was sold into a noble house as a slave.
She'd rather have died, but even that was denied her, plunging her life into deeper misery.
That noble defiled her in every perverse way imaginable.
She still couldn't forget him muttering, "I'll make you beg to be ravished," with a lecherous grin.
Losing her purity, dragged to his bed nightly as his plaything.
Her enduring spirit finally crumbled; she wished only to die.
Then abruptly, the noble house cast her out.
He was marrying, deeming her an unneeded toy to discard.
'They even debated killing her, she said.
That noble cackled:'
No one would believe a word from the likes of her anyway.
Dismiss it as ravings from a deranged elf.
With no evidence, who'd dare suspect him or his house?
Piecing together her shattered body and soul, Helen barely made it back to her village.
But the home she expected to welcome her brought despair anew.
"How dare a human-tainted wench crawl back?"
'Descendants of the Celestials?
Bullshit.
Even Satan would weep, you elves.'
From that moment, burying every shattered piece deep within.
Helen erased all emotion from herself.
And charged forward, eyes fixed ahead.
Revenge. For revenge.
To kill that loathsome noble.
"...What did you say, Young Lord?"
Yet now, asked to yield her revenge target.
For a split second, Helen wanted to shove everything aside, grab the man before her by the throat, and tear into him.
But separately, her eyes remained deeply sunken.
As if utterly disinterested, oblivious to his words.
Yet this man seated across from her was utterly unlike anyone she'd met before.
He had to be.
Hiding anything before someone who'd come knowing it all would be sheer folly.
"The head of the Kashugar Count family: Sefer."
". . ."
"Having dealt with Nudia's external foe, now targeting internals."
Sion tapped the table with his index finger, a faint smile playing on his lips as he continued.
"I figured you might be after him first."
"Do you grasp what your words imply?"
"The walls encircling the palace—some crumble tonight.
With a crash!
Knights and mages assemble, but infiltrators exploit the breach via insiders.
They assault the nobles.
Kill, injure, ignore—whatever.
Humans will tear into each other anyway.
Once the kingdom fractures, the purge becomes trivial.
That must be the gist of this uprising."
Helen’s fingertips trembled faintly as Sion finished.
Identical, without a single discrepancy, to what the radical elves had told her.
As if they were recounting it anew—word for word.
". . . Are you mocking me as some mere merchant?"
"What do you gain?
Sefer's death, naturally.
With the kingdom's chaos accelerating, they'll think, 'The head's death just fuels the factional strife!'"
"Young Lord Sion Klauzen."
"But listen.
Helen Haines.
Daughter of the forest.
If I were you, I wouldn't settle for such a tepid revenge."
BAM!
Helen shot to her feet the instant Sion stopped speaking.
Slamming the table—it split in two with a sickening crack under the force.
"Whoa, fiery one."
Sion didn't flinch.
Elves are strong; even half-breeds outmatch most humans.
But not a single ordinary human sat beside him now.
"Move a finger, and I'll take your head."
Risika had already drawn her sword the moment Helen rose.
Lily sat still but was primed to unleash magic at the slightest hostility.
Lucia tensed, mana at the ready; Kim Yu-hyun's hand rested on his sword hilt.
Helen wouldn't last a second—three deaths over before she acted.
"Helen.
I'm here for a deal, not a brawl."
". . ."
"So sit, everyone.
Risika, sheath it.
Rest of you, relax and take seats."
Sion grinned slyly, eyeing the ruined table and muttering, "Such fine solid wood, what a shame."
But Helen remained standing, glaring daggers with icy eyes.
Risika, barely hiding her irritation, nearly drew again but halted at Sion's check, resheathing.
Sion eyed the ethereal elven woman a moment, sighed softly, and spoke.
"Waste of a noble, irredeemable punk.
A wastrel dooming his house."
". . .?"
"Once, they called me that.
Rumor had it I chased skirts daily, whored and gambled my house's wealth away.
I moped a bit, sure, but not that bad.
Still.
I loved those titles, those rumors.
Know why?
No matter what I did, no one suspected a thing."
Helen stared at the young man, demanding explanation.
"Rooting out kingdom-troublers in secret?
Playing benevolent noble and house head up front while digging into filthy deeds behind the scenes?
Not hard for me."
"That means . . ."
"No denials, Helen.
I've predicted this place as a radical elf hideout for years—and hold the evidence."
Pure bluff, of course.
Not prediction—truth—and no evidence.
"I know what you want, too.
Death for that craven noble who gave you hell, then refused to even dirty his hands at the end."
"How . . . how could you know . . . ?"
Panic flickered briefly in Helen's eyes, then vanished.
A secret vowed to silence forever—how did this man know?
"Sit first.
Craning my neck hurts."
Joke to defuse? Final warning?
Unclear, but instinct told Helen to obey—or regret it.
"I never pried into your secrets.
Truth.
Just investigating Kashugar corruption, one woman vanished abruptly—around your appearance."
"That's just . . ."
"A prediction?"
Helen shut her mouth at Sion's retort.
Those eyes brimmed with certainty.
The gaze of one clutching ironclad proof no words could refute.
"Mark this, Helen.
I don't 'understand' your past, pain, that horrific life."
She bristled at the admission.
Bias as a fellow human?
Or gratitude for surviving when most elven slaves died?
No.
What followed shattered expectations.
"Naturally.
No one empathizes with another's suffering as deeply as they felt it.
My pain always trumps yours.
'Understanding' or 'sympathizing'? That's for the guilty.
Least, that's me."
". . ."
Unexpected, her eyes widened slightly in surprise.
But Sion's tale was just beginning.
"Nor do I intend to stop your revenge.
Some idiots claim forgiving is peak revenge, no sweet vengeance exists—just hollow void.
I'd smash their skulls.
True revenge is sweet, cathartic, exhilarating.
That drivel's excuses from cowards lacking guts or power."
". . ."
"So, your revenge.
Taking that man's life.
That's no true 'revenge.'"
"Then."
Helen, silent till now, spoke.
Eyes once dead and emotionless now blazed fiercely.
"Then, you.
What do you call revenge to say that?
For the one who stole everything from me.
Do you believe some retribution beyond death exists?"
"Obvious.
Why kill?
Don't—just strip him bare."
". . .What?"
"He took all you had?
Take his: power, wealth, honor, family—everything.
Even his right to die: hold it, shake it, cackle as you inflict hellish torment beyond imagining.
That's true revenge, no?"
Helen, mid-retort, froze and clamped her mouth.
A decade honing that vengeful blade.
But meeting the man's madly gleaming eyes, instinct screamed:
Sion Klauzen, war hero—was utterly insane.
"Final offer, Helen Haines.
Deal.
I'll deliver catharsis beyond any revenge—but promise me one thing."
He claimed no understanding.
Yet gazing at Sion—who grasped her more than kin, savagely cursing her foe—Helen replied unwittingly.
". . .What do you want?"
Sion grinned.
"How about advancing tonight's uprising? Just a bit."