1. Patron Anais (7)
1. Patron Anais (7)
The sudden appearance of someone wholly unexpected.
Anais was stunned, of course—and Pierre was so shocked he could barely move.
A stark black suit against skin so pale it was almost white, hair a blinding gold.
Moonlight lent the man's features a strange, bewitching magnetism.
The easy smile, so utterly out of place in the tense scene, only deepened that aura.
Anais could not look away, as though he had ensnared her.
Was she dreaming?
Was the agony of oxygen deprivation making her hallucinate?
Just moments ago, she had been ready to surrender everything.
But now she raised her head with desperate effort.
He was there.
The man she had obsessed over—
She bit her lip.
Don't cry.
Not yet.
Nothing's been proven.
Don't let yourself hope.
Don't let yourself hope in people.
You saw it yourself, didn't you?
How the person you trusted most twisted into a monster.
It was Uncle.
Uncle Pierre, who cherished you like his own daughter.
That same uncle tried to murder you.
What kind of "irresistible offer" could possibly—
Why did you betray me, Uncle?
Why are you trying to kill me?
Was everything false from the very beginning?
Did you never once think of me as family?
He'll be the same.
He's only thinking about how to use you.
Look!
He's smiling.
You're in this much pain—and that man is smiling.
He's enjoying your suffering.
Her mind a churning snarl of thoughts, Anais felt her awareness begin to dim.
"Wh-who the hell are you to—urk!"
Pierre, who had been shuffling backward, caught his heel on a table and jerked to a halt.
He's overwhelming me? In sheer presence?
Pierre swallowed. The man radiated something unmistakably dangerous.
The stranger swept a glance over Anais's condition, then turned to Pierre with a greeting.
"We met briefly earlier, I believe? My name is Frank Wonderstein. I lead a wandering circus troupe."
A voice far too bright for the circumstances—as though they had simply bumped into each other in the garden during an evening stroll.
The tension collapsed so abruptly that Pierre's legs nearly gave out beneath him.
What is this? What does he know?
Wait—a wandering circus troupe—
"The one who was in prison this morning...?"
"Ah. I broke out."
Wonderstein answered as shamelessly as if he'd been asked what he'd had for lunch. But his next words startled Pierre even more.
"We received word that you were after the Viscountess's life. You meant to sabotage the machine and pass it off as an accident, didn't you?"
He laid Pierre's secret bare with perfect calm.
A normal man would have lost his nerve entirely.
Instead, Pierre's mind snapped into razor focus. The threat sharpened him. It was a reflex he'd honed surviving crisis after crisis over decades.
He rapidly took the other man's measure.
A wandering circus magician.
Was that whole quarrel with Anais an act too?
No—that much is real. She looks shaken too. More importantly, he didn't bring the butler or anyone else.
How did he find out? Divination? Clairvoyance? Precognition?
A magician could manage it. Artists and acrobats do sometimes manifest strange powers—Inspira and the like.
But that's as far as it goes.
The situation still favors me.
"I see."
Pierre shifted his hips with studied casualness—a motion meant to hide his hand slipping into his pocket.
"That's right."
Inside the pocket was the weapon he had purchased not long ago. A heavy weight of metal met his grip.
The Colviper S32, a revolver packing the latest technology of the Delos Republic.
He carried it for self-defense, a last resort. It wouldn't do much against a knight in armor or a mage with a barrier up, but for a surprise attack, it was more than enough.
"Are you... are you all right?"
A magician's trick?
A girl who looked no older than her mid-teens was approaching Anais.
A girl my own daughter's age.
He hesitated. Only for an instant—less than a second.
Pierre wrenched the revolver free and shouted.
"Guaaards!"
All he had to do was kill Anais. The cause of death would change from an accident to a robbery-murder—so be it.
The story would be simple. These insolent frauds had conned their way to the Viscountess, then broken out of prison, forced their way into her room, threatened her, and tried to steal her valuables. When Pierre had rushed to defend her, they'd seized his gun and killed her with it.
Soldiers would come running at the sound of gunfire. His desperate shouts calling them in would only strengthen the appearance of innocence.
The scenario was hastily assembled—but credible.
In some ways, it was better than his original plan. The underworld technicians had boasted they'd leave zero trace, but Pierre was no fool who believed such assurances blindly. He'd clean things up himself afterward, but there was always a chance Anais's death would be exposed as murder rather than accident.
With this, there was no problem. These two would take all the blame.
Of course, they'd protest—claim he was the one who'd tried to kill her.
But without hard evidence, whom would the household believe? An escaped wandering magician, or the sworn brother of the late Viscount?
Pierre pulled the trigger.
Bang! Bang-bang! Bang-bang-bang-!
Pierre was no idiot who fired once and paused to see if the target was dead. His shooting instructor had taught him well.
Always fire twice.
He was even more thorough than that. He emptied all six chambers.
He'd have to toss the revolver at the magician's feet afterward. Under no circumstances could it still be in his own hand. But then again—what if the man picked it up and shot him back? No. The cylinder had to be empty.
His swiftness in devising and executing a plan even amid chaos came from a merchant's practiced shrewdness. The judgment to fire every last round came from a merchant's meticulous thoroughness.
But there was one thing he had failed to anticipate.
That a mere wandering magician—
Thwack—thwack-thwack—
"Heh heh, that does sting a bit..."
—would throw himself in front of Anais to shield her.
"...Are you all right?"
A man who could smile even after taking six bullets.
Anais could not believe what she was seeing.
Why...?
A man she had dismissed as a common street swindler... a glib fraud...
He had taken every bullet with his bare body to save her.
Ah... the blood...
Dark red was seeping through his shirt in spreading blooms. Ruptured flesh and spattered blood were soaking his suit and the floor beneath him.
Six rounds. Even a knight would be in bad shape after taking that many shots unarmored.
Yet he had leaped in with no protection whatsoever. Without an instant's hesitation.
Why?
She had never once acted kindly toward him. She had mocked him, ignored him, called him a degenerate to his face, had him thrown into a cell.
And still, he had thrown himself forward to save her.
Bullets are fast. He had reacted almost on pure reflex.
There was no room for shallow calculation—no time to scheme for a scrap of her favor.
And even if there were, who would take a bullet in their bare flesh for that? A single misjudgment could mean death.
"Viscountess..."
He swayed unsteadily, looking as if he might collapse at any moment, but his eyes stayed fixed on hers.
"I'm relieved. You're unharmed..."
A smile rested on his lips.
Even at a glance, it was clearly forced. The pallor spreading across his face and the crimson soaking his shirt said everything.
He was enduring what had to be mortal agony—just to reassure her.
Idiot.
Throwing your life away for someone else...
Swallowing your own pain to smile for someone else...
It's idiotic.
Idiotic?
Do you really believe that?
Father always said so. Commerce is born from human selfishness. If the world were filled with altruism, commerce could never exist.
Anyone who sacrifices themselves for another is a fool.
Is that so?
Then that's your answer.
To that man, you aren't "another."
...What?
...No. No, that's impossible.
Look at me.
Look at me!
Metal tubes plugged into my body, a mask I can never take off, a wreck of a constitution—
Who could ever sincerely—for a woman like me—
Ahaha!
Why are you laughing?
You're right.
You can't share love with a woman like that.
...Right.
But tell me something.
What was he trying to do for you?
...Ah.
Ah.
A sigh escaped deep inside Anais's chest.
"Aagh!"
"Good work, Jjiksun!"
Pierre was writhing on the floor after a rat had lunged from nowhere and sunk its teeth into his finger.
Anais registered none of it. The uncle who had tried to murder her was no longer within her notice.
Every scrap of her awareness was fixed on the man holding her.
His smile, his voice, his trembling, the scent of his blood.
She was feeling everything.
'Are you all right?'
'Doesn't it hurt?'
'Why did you do that?'
She had so many things she wanted to say. So many things she wanted to ask.
But her breathing was nearly gone.
Holding on to consciousness alone was almost beyond her.
Even so—unlike before—
no tears came.
Instead, laughter welled up.
She could not believe it herself.
Even as she was dying,
she was laughing from pure joy.
Her lungs had stopped. No sound emerged.
Haha.
But this was unmistakably laughter.
She shouldn't be doing this. Not in front of a man who had just thrown his life away for her.
Ahaha.
She was too happy. The laughter would not stop.
I can be loved too... by someone... genuinely.
She had never let herself hope. She had been certain it would never happen.
Even the love she had believed in—what little she had as family—had been torn away and denied.
And now, at the very end...
from a direction she had never even considered...
Love had come to her.
I knew... I knew from the start...
Why her nerves had bristled the instant she saw him.
Why her heart had pounded whenever she heard his voice.
Why it had infuriated her that he existed beyond the walls of her world.
She had known.
That sculpted face,
that voice brimming with confidence,
that delighted smile.
...She had fallen for him at first sight.
All those vicious words she'd hurled—they had been born from fear. Fear that if she looked into his heart, she might find something other than what she wished for.
Why couldn't I just be honest?
Regret washed over her, too late. And so did joy—the joy of having, at long last, glimpsed his true heart.
The two feelings tangled together, distilled into tears, and slipped down her cheeks.
Thank you...
Only one thing remained that she wanted from him.
Seeing her—watching him, drenched in blood, while she smiled—
please, don't think she was a terrible woman.
Did her heart reach him?
He smiled back at her.
But the words from his mouth were no farewell.
"No time to ask permission. I'll begin the work immediately."
What?
What is he—
"Viscountess! Are you all right!"
The butler and the guards stormed into the room.
And there, before their eyes—
Wonderstein...
ripped open the Viscountess's clothes and placed his hand on her chest.