First Adoption (2)
“Hah, haah, hngh……”
Beatrice Edenberg. Fifteen years old. This girl's life had been incredibly dramatic.
Until she turned ten, she'd lived without a care in a noble family, pampered and privileged. But the moment she hit that age, the infamous Blood Death Disease struck…… and from there, it was a sheer drop into the abyss.
The Count of Edenberg wasn't a man deeply attached to his blood kin, and he had no desire to shoulder the astronomical costs of her treatment. Knowing full well the grim end that awaited those afflicted with her illness, he made a cold but calculated decision: cast her out.
And so Beatrice was expelled from the Edenberg household. A girl who'd spent her entire life in nobility was suddenly thrust onto the streets.
How could she possibly live a normal life like that? It wasn't long before she was wandering the slums and poor districts, reduced to just another nameless orphan.
Fortunately, Beatrice was a girl of exceptional intellect. She found ways to survive. First, she concealed her appearance. A noble lady's beauty was her greatest asset in high society, but in the back alleys, it was utterly useless. No—looking back on the lowlifes who'd leered at her with base lust, it was nothing but a hindrance.
Disguising herself wasn't hard. She donned ragged clothes discarded in the trash heaps—painful, but necessary—and smeared her body with dirt and grime, deliberately ruining herself. From count's daughter to street urchin in a single night. But that didn't mean she had to starve to death.
This great empire was enjoying unprecedented prosperity under His Majesty's reign, and welfare for the poor was accordingly top-notch. By bowing her head to the occasional priests from the church who patrolled the slums, she could secure enough food to last days.
That's how Beatrice had survived the past five years. It was miserable and heartbreaking, and she often longed for those warm days in the lord's castle. But she'd endured. She'd made it through. Even as stabbing pains wracked her heart now and then, with no cure for her chronic illness in sight.
“Hah, hngh……!”
……Of course, those five years weren't always smooth sailing.
She'd gotten caught in turf wars between orphan gangs, gone days without food when luck ran dry, and in the worst cases, nearly been dragged off by some grubby merchant who'd taken notice of her looks.
Yet she'd survived unscathed this long thanks to her survival instincts. The sharp sense to detect any threat to her safety. The gritted-teeth determination to flee and protect herself.
It was the same now. The sudden appearance of a man who knew her name exactly had sent her bolting away, gasping for breath.
A fifteen-year-old girl's legs had their limits, of course. But the silver lining was that this was her turf—she'd lived here for over three years.
Did… did I lose him?!
Homeground advantage, so to speak. Narrow alleys adults couldn't squeeze through, holes in walls like dog doors, trash piles perfect for hiding. She'd used every trick to shake him off and finally stopped in one spot.
This was a remote corner of the slums where hardly anyone came—a tiny clearing behind a crumbling shack, perfect for hiding.
Beatrice anxiously shook her exposed deep blue hair, the rags she'd dropped in her haste forgotten, as she scanned every direction. If he'd followed, where next? There weren't many places left to run.
“……Hngh, haah……”
She crouched under the shack, where even a light tap would shatter the rotten wood scraps. Catching her breath, she perked her ears for any sign of pursuit.
……And, a bit late, she started pondering the man who'd come for her.
How the hell… does he know my name…?
Beatrice Edenberg. It was her real name, the one she'd buried under the alias "Riche" to survive the slums—a name she could no longer use.
Her father, the Count of Edenberg, had declared a clean severance when he threw her out. He'd tossed her a few bills—decent for a commoner, maybe—and that was it. Even those were stolen by a pickpocket boy early on, since the delicately raised noble girl hadn't known how to guard her possessions.
One thing was clear: in five years of wandering, no one had ever recognized her true identity. Those who noticed her were only captivated by her looks.
“……Cough, cough.”
She didn't know how many more years this life-threatening illness would let her linger. But she'd never dreamed of hearing that nostalgic, sorrowful name again in whatever time she had left.
As always, Beatrice spat blood-tinged phlegm from the pain gnawing her heart and wiped it on her clothes with dead eyes.
A normal fifteen-year-old might panic at vomiting blood. But not her.
“……”
She was used to it by now. The daily hemoptysis wasn't the issue. What mattered was escaping this mysterious man whose motives she couldn't guess.
She'd looped through the slums to reach this hideout, but who knew? He might stubbornly comb the area and pop out any second—
“Aren't you tired? With that disease, even a short sprint must be agony.”
“……”
A chill ran down her spine. Beatrice froze at the whisper brushing her ear, not even making a peep.
How could she? She'd sensed no presence. No footsteps, no aura—not even the basic human signature her rudimentary mana sense should have picked up. For someone who could at least handle mana, it was utterly horrifying.
“……Hic, ngh!?”
After hyperventilating in place for a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut and bent her knees to bolt the opposite way as fast as she could.
But—
“Whoa there, easy now. I have no intention of playing tag anymore.”
“……!”
“Well, I wouldn't mind playing with my future daughter, but that's not set in stone yet, is it?”
What trick had he used? The man—dark-haired with unsettlingly narrow eyes—now stood blocking her path.
She hadn't sensed his movement. He'd been behind her just a second ago; even his voice had come from there.
“……Ah, aaah, ugh.”
Thud!
In the end, Beatrice had no choice but to give up.
No matter how you sliced it, he was a mana user. And far beyond a mere fifteen-year-old like her.
Knight? Mage? It didn't matter. The point was, there was no escape from this spot anymore.
What could she do? Sometimes, surrender was the only option.
Beatrice was a girl who'd learned that harsh truth long ago.
……Though she wished she hadn't.
“Hm. Looks like you're finally ready to talk. Good choice, Miss Beatrice Edenberg.”
“……”
The man flashed a smile that felt deeply ominous, and Beatrice couldn't bring herself to slap away the hand he offered.
She couldn't.
*****
“……? ……??”
Clink, clink—
Slowly, deliberately. Utensils were placed on the table at a pace that wouldn't startle or unsettle Beatrice.
Steaming-hot dishes, neatly arranged forks, spoons, and knives, even a cup of cocoa wafting sweet aroma.
Before she knew it, Beatrice had been brought to some mansion, seated at its dining table in a cute apron, blinking in confusion.
Her will hadn't factored in, naturally. It was utterly coercive……
But.
What… the hell is this?
It was nothing like what she'd feared when the man hauled her up. She'd braced for a filthy bed naked, or a cage for slave traders—something like that.
A meal? A lavish one, worlds apart from the scraps she crammed down in the alleys?
What was going on?
Beatrice stared at the stew before her with trembling eyes.
“……”
Gulp!
It looked delicious. The creamy broth promised warmth just by sight, studded with chunks of meat, potatoes, carrots—tasty morsels bobbing invitingly.
It reminded her of dinners back at the count's estate. Tears welled up unbidden.
“Eat slowly while we talk. Plenty to discuss, but a meal comes first. Make yourself at home.”
And the man across from her—
The black-haired, gray-eyed man who'd seated her, cooked this feast himself—
Unlike the lecherous creeps who'd approached her before, he urged her to eat with a gentle expression devoid of any lust.