Chapter 213: Be Patient, Master (3)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 213: Be Patient, Master (3)
A voice spoke, sounding as if this was no longer even surprising.
“Brissen again.”
At that quiet murmur, Raul, the chamberlain standing beside him, bowed his head, perfectly conveying his shared sentiment with King Lemain.
This happened shortly after Calian had finished his outburst and Franz had concluded his own theatrics, with the two having reached a rough truce.
Lemain had entered Senyu Hall in high spirits, buoyed by the pleasant conversation he’d had with Franz on his way from Arpia Palace. But as he looked down upon the assembled nobles, his good mood instantly vanished, and his eyes soured with displeasure.
He had just been briefed on what had transpired in Senyu Hall during his brief delay.
Strictly speaking, Evan was at fault nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand, while Demirea was perhaps at fault once. However, even if Evan was the primary offender, Demirea’s single transgression was severe. The real concern was what scheme Evan might concoct using this incident as a pretext.
Scanning the nobles one by one, Lemain’s gaze came to rest on Demirea. His low voice followed.
“Young Duchess Siegfried.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Demirea answered calmly, proving that while she was the spitting image of her father, Suleiman, she hadn't inherited even a mustard seed’s worth of his personality.
After staring for a moment at Demirea, who stood unflustered among the gossiping nobles, Lemain spoke.
“I heard that despite your status as the heir to a ducal house—one who ought to set an example—you directed killing intent toward another noble.”
Demirea remained silent, offering no excuses. Nearby, Evan cast a sly glance around the room, carefully schooling his features to hide his satisfaction at having caught her in a clear weakness. In short, he was trying very hard not to look pleased.
Whether it was his joyful mood or his perpetually dense brain, Evan failed to notice that Lemain had lumped everyone present—including Evan himself—under the generic term “nobles,” excluding only the ducal family. Only Serenti would know for sure.
Lemain, who had actually been staring at Evan for longer than he had at Demirea, turned back to her and continued.
“You must ensure I do not hear of such an incident again.”
And with that single sentence, Lemain fell silent. The heir of a ducal house had threatened a marquis, yet the King had dismissed it by simply telling her not to do it again. Evan, who was anything but pleased with this outcome, turned his head to hide the twitching of his brow.
“Yes, Your Highness. I shall do so.”
Demirea, as if she had expected this exact reaction, bowed her head and answered with an unperturbed expression. She didn’t even say, “I will be careful,” but merely, “I shall do so.”
Where else in the world could one find such a blatantly biased ruling and such a shameless response?
“Your Highness,” Evan called out, taking care to keep the displeasure from his face.
Just two years ago, he would never have addressed Lemain in such a submissive tone. In fact, the Lemain of two years ago wouldn't have been capable of orchestrating such a situation in the first place.
But dwelling on the past wouldn’t turn back time. Shaking off the useless nostalgia, Evan met Lemain’s gaze and spoke.
“As Your Highness said, it is a clear transgression for the heir of a ducal house, who should serve as a model for all nobles, to commit such an insolent act within the royal palace. I believe there must be a fitting punishment.”
Lemain did not answer immediately.
He stared at Evan for a long moment with his characteristically deep blue eyes before repeating his words, as if tasting them.
“A fitting punishment.”
Hearing that, Demirea quietly lowered her gaze.
If a man like Evan were capable of discerning who was at fault, this incident would never have happened. Yet Demirea didn't bother with pointless reactions like looking annoyed, pitying him, or glaring with renewed anger. She kept her mouth shut, offering not a single word about who had started the fight. There was nothing to be gained by speaking up.
After observing the stark contrast between Demirea’s and Evan’s reactions, Lemain spoke again.
“As the Marquis says, the Young Duchess is the heir to a ducal house. Therefore, her wrongdoing must be seen as the wrongdoing of Siegfried.”
In a silence so profound that not even a breath could be heard, every noble stared at Lemain’s lips as the King delivered his next words.
“If the Young Duchess is guilty, it is only right to hold the head of the house, the Duke, accountable. Would stripping the current Duke of Siegfried of his title—on the grounds of neglecting his duty by leaving his heir unattended in the capital—be a fitting punishment for this wrongdoing?”
Stripping the Duke of his title?
Lemain’s words were as shocking as the announcement of Freya’s memorial. The eyes of every noble present bulged. Evan was no exception.
A noble title was inherited only upon death. The sole exception was when a title was stripped by royal decree due to a crime. In such a case, if there was a legitimate heir, the title was forcibly passed down to them.
Of course, that was what the law books said.
But this was a duke.
He was a man of equal standing to the princes. There was no precedent for stripping a duke of his title. For that matter, there was no precedent for any noble receiving such a punishment simply because their heir had unleashed some killing intent during a petty squabble.
Nevertheless, not a single person dared to look at Lemain as if he had lost his mind.
After a brief pause, as if to give them time to process, Lemain spoke again.
“While I do not appreciate you being unable to resolve a petty squabble on your own and insisting on seeking punishment from me, I understand the Marquis’s sense of grievance. Therefore, as you wish, I shall hand down a punishment to the Duke of Siegfried.”
Evan’s mind spun.
If Lemain’s absurd declaration was genuine, and if by some miracle he actually followed through, the succession would immediately pass to Demirea.
This was a scheme. Lemain was using this incident as an excuse to hand real power over to Calian.
Lemain…!
Suleiman, who was of little help to either Lemain or Calian, would seize the opportunity to surrender his title and spend the rest of his days traveling across Kairis with Serie. Once he tired of that, he would retire peacefully, swinging his sword somewhere in the south. Meanwhile, Demirea, who had developed a taste for politics, would become the actual Duchess and be handed over to Calian. That was the plan.
It was a transparent attempt to place legitimacy in one of Calian’s hands and an impenetrable shield in the other, seating him on a proper throne—one completely different from Lemain’s own.
Evan, who had intended to use this incident to oppose Freya’s memorial, now found himself caught in a trap. He spoke as if nothing had happened.
“No, Your Highness. We shall resolve this amicably among ourselves.”
It was now clear that no matter what Demirea did to him in the future, Evan could never again ask Lemain to punish her. Because no matter her crime, Lemain would undoubtedly threaten to strip Suleiman of his title. In fact, from now on, Evan would have to actively oppose any punishment directed at Demirea.
Lemain’s deep blue eyes gazed at Evan once more.
In that moment, Evan knew that until the day he died, he would never forget those eyes, which shone with a sharpness he never thought possible from the man he remembered from that irreversible past.
“Very well. It is fortunate that you wish to handle it yourselves.”
Without another word, Lemain turned away from Evan and gave a brief nod to Raul, the chamberlain.
At last, the meeting began.
* * *
Smart bastards are annoying.
Sensitive bastards are a pain.
Dealing with someone who is both smart and sensitive is the absolute worst. It was bad enough realizing my older brother was exactly that kind of person, but watching him suddenly barge in and try to play the protective older brother is truly depressing. It’s depressing, frustrating, absurd, and on top of all that…
“No.”
It requires patience.
A lot of it.
“Why?”
“I already told you. I’ll do it.”
He had already said it three times.
At the birthday banquet, he had endured because of Evan. At Wilhelm Hall, he had endured because of Arsen. Today, he had endured because of that grass-head. He had endured so much today—to the point where he felt proud of himself. I’m all grown up now. I’m a real adult, so it should be fine for me to drink alcohol, he thought. He had endured incredibly well.
And now this light-green carrier pigeon—no, he hated being called that—was demanding the ring so he could speak with Secritia.
He had clearly told this fellow, who resembled a fresh potato sprout, that he would speak to them directly. Having said it three times, there was no way someone with a brain that sharp didn't understand. There was no way he didn't get why Calian refused. He also knew damn well that Calian couldn't lie, so it wasn't as if he was doing this because he didn't trust Calian's promise not to hide anything.
“So, just tell me what you want to say, and I’ll pass it along.”
He had decided to just let him play the older brother. It was ironic, really. The one who started calling Calian by his name, who helped him shake off his guilt toward the original Calian, and who showed him where he should stand and who he should be… was this guy. For that, Calian was genuinely grateful.
It felt as if Franz had pulled him out of the ice where he’d been trapped, lost with nowhere to go. Yes, he decided to be truly, sincerely grateful.
But that was that, and this was this.
How could he hand over the ring when he had no idea what that bastard would say to Chase?
“I get it, so…”
Franz, who had been leisurely watching Calian waver between rising anger and forced patience, took a sip of his strawberry tea, set the cup down, and continued with an air of complete composure.
“Hand it over.”
Ah.
O Serenti.
What sin did I commit in my past life to be entangled with a guy who looks like the unripe bottom of a strawberry, forced to practice patience every single day?
Or Master.
Did you perhaps lace the strawberry tea with a memory-loss drug? If you had something like that, you should have sent it to Secritia. Why waste it on a bastard like him, who you can’t even tell is a potato sprout or the bottom of a strawberry?
Suppressing his directionless frustration and rapidly rising anger once more, Calian looked at Franz with steady eyes. Having already called upon both Serenti and Alan in his mind, he adopted the serene mindset of an ascetic and answered calmly.
“If you tell me, I will convey it for you.”
“I said I’ll do it myself.”
Calian smiled brightly.
“Ah. Maybe I should have just gotten rid of you.”
It was a bit late for regrets, but he really should have just killed him earlier.
He should have killed both Arsen and this freshly sprouted bamboo shoot and run off to the south with his master to raise Raven and Lucy. He should have ignored whether the world ended tomorrow and bought ripe strawberries and strawberry ice cream for his lovely Hina—who was like spring sunshine, summer showers, autumn sunsets, and winter snow, so precious he worried she might fade away just by looking at her. He should have lived sucking on coconuts with Kyrie. He should have gone south to talk to cliffs, trees, or the crashing waves. A life like that would have been far less frustrating.
“Get rid of what?”
Franz’s eyes seemed to ask: What do you mean, ‘get rid of’? And you’re speaking informally to me again. Did you learn that insolence from Devlan? Where does that bastard live? I need to have a word with him about what he’s been teaching you. Seeing this look, Calian smiled beautifully once more and added,
“Oh, nothing. Just a little bamboo shoot.”
Franz, whose expression made it impossible to tell if he understood the insult, curled one side of his lip at his red-eyed younger brother.
“Lennon Brissen has come to the palace.”
Ah, damn it.
Who was that bastard? Who was the bastard worse than the guy who invented beer?
“…Who told you he came to the palace?”
“I don’t know.”
Looking at Franz, who had just extended Needlen’s life with those three words, Calian let out a deep, deep sigh.
He was being threatened again, with his own people as leverage.
Before Calian could even process why Lennon had come, why Evan had brought him out, or whether Arsen had truly gone near Gray because of the teleportation magic circle, Franz was demanding the ring.
I need to kill Evan quickly so he can’t pull this crap anymore, Calian resolved firmly. With a face full of self-loathing, he slipped the ring off and placed it on the table. Then, feeling his insides burning, he snatched the strawberry tea meant for Alan and gulped it down in one go.
“Don’t say anything strange.”
“I don’t have a habit of yapping. Unlike some people.”
Franz smirked as he watched Calian fall into deep contemplation over whether to get rid of Devlan first, Evan first, or the pea sitting right in front of him. Then he tapped the ring.
“Mana.”
He had considered learning magic just to get Lucy’s fur off his clothes, but for now, he couldn’t manipulate mana in the slightest. He needed Calian to connect it for him.
Defeated by the pea’s stubbornness once again, Calian let out a sigh that was becoming a habit and infused mana into the ring.
Assuming Franz had begun his conversation, Calian took the opportunity to look around.
The cozy office had become as familiar as his own room. Just being here made him feel more relaxed. He knew it was all thanks to Alan, who always put him first…
Who always put Calian first…
“Master?”
Calian murmured quietly, only then noticing a strange emptiness. He could no longer feel Alan’s presence, which had been just outside the office moments ago.
Normally, he would have assumed Alan had gone for a stroll, but today was different.
Only now recalling what his master had said right before he burst into the office, Calian let out an awkward laugh.
“No way.”
Surely he hadn’t already gone to some royal palace near a seaside town.
“…No, surely not.”
Muttering to himself, Calian briefly recalled what kind of person Alan was, then bolted upright from his seat.
He had to find his master, who, thanks to a certain pea going through a turbulent puberty, seemed to have gone for a brief stroll somewhere very, very far away.