Nothing but Madmen in the Family
The Argent Mansion was vast. Beyond the main building, there were separate east and west annexes, a massive warehouse for storing foodstuffs, and dedicated quarters for the servants. Add in the greenhouse and gardens, and it was enough to exhaust anyone trying to tour the whole place in a single day.
Even in this sprawling Argent estate, there was one place shrouded in utmost secrecy: the West Annex.
"Uncle, where are you headed?"
"The West Annex."
The east annex had always housed my workshop and guest rooms, drawing plenty of foot traffic. But the West Annex was so secretive that it was barely mentioned even in the original story—and I'd lived in this family for nearly twenty years without setting foot inside more than a handful of times. Those few memories dated back to when I was a little kid of six or seven.
Even then, something had felt off about it. Wasn't it strange? There was no ominous aura or anything lurking in the West Annex to justify it. Yet the family insiders almost never went there, as if an invisible barrier kept them out by force.
"Abel, have you ever been to the West Annex?"
"Uh... no, I haven't. There might've been a time, but not that I remember."
"I see."
As expected, Abel hadn't either. No surprise there.
"Why head to the West Annex now? What's so special about it...?"
"Something I need to check. You know how there's only one person who goes there regularly, right?"
To be precise, it wasn't just one. A handful of servants maintained the place. But among the family members themselves, only a single person came and went.
"You mean Father?"
"Exactly."
Edmund Argent. My brother and head of the Argent family.
It wasn't strange in itself. Edmund was the family head, after all. In any romance fantasy or the like, high-ranking nobles always had their private sanctuaries or cozy hideaways accessible only to them.
But one thing nagged at me.
The painting studio in the West Annex.
In the original story, the West Annex got just a single throwaway line in the author's notes: "There's a fantastic painting studio in the West Annex. The only regular visitor? The family head, maybe?" A playful tease, nothing more.
Edmund was indeed mentioned as having painted in the story—portraits, oils, the works. There was even talk that he might have more talent for art than swordsmanship. I'd watched him as a child.
But looking back, something didn't add up. Back then, the studio had been in the main building. I clearly remembered Edmund chatting happily with Viola there. No mistake about it.
So why build a new one in the West Annex? The main building would've been far more convenient for a hobby.
The timing of the move was suspicious too. If my memory served, it started not long after his first wife died. That's when Edmund began frequenting the West Annex.
Too perfect a coincidence to dismiss.
The author had slipped in that minor detail for a reason. Edmund's visits aligned exactly with Viola's death. Was it really just chance?
I didn't think so.
Just before leaving the main building, I paused and turned to Abel.
"Abel, we'll split up from here. I've got a job for you."
"A job?"
"I'll head to the West Annex alone. You stay in the main building and keep your father and stepmother occupied."
"W-wait, you're just barging in without permission? Father will have a fit if he finds out."
If only he'd throw a proper fit for once. It'd be a vast improvement over the rotten, dead-eyed zombie act of the past few years.
"Don't worry. Even if I'm caught, the sparks won't fly your way."
"That's not the issue... Hah, fine."
He had plenty more to say, but he sensed time was short and quickly slipped on his earring.
More reasonable than I'd expected.
"What about the servants, though? I can tip you off about Father, but the servants..."
"Forgot? I'm an Argent too. A little family authority crushes that easy."
"...If I may be bold, Uncle, you don't seem as mild-mannered as I thought."
About time he noticed. If I were truly mild, I wouldn't resort to strong-arm tactics.
"Then I'm counting on you. Fail, and it's all on you."
"What!? You just said no sparks would—"
"That's if you do your part. Later."
"Uncle!"
Slippery bastard, trying to weasel out. I hadn't forgiven him for what he did to Liriet yet, punk.
I sent the grumbling Abel on his way and headed out alone toward the West Annex.
As expected, it was eerily quiet. Quiet wasn't the word—silent, or perhaps empty.
You know that distinct "lived-in" air to inhabited spaces? Standing before the West Annex, I felt none of it. It was as cold as stepping into a cemetery.
Creeeak...
The door, poorly oiled, shrieked like a scream as I forced it open. The chill from outside intensified inside. If you didn't know people came here, you'd swear it was an abandoned ruin.
"Young master!? What brings you here...?"
Crossing the hallway, a somewhat unfamiliar maid spotted me and jumped in shock.
Damn, caught.
I'd hoped the sparse servant traffic meant it was clear today.
"Just some business. Don't mind me, get back to work."
"N-no, you can't! We're cleaning right now—it's a mess. Come back later... Huh?"
Thud.
I cast a light sleep spell on the protesting maid, propping her slumped form against the wall.
Making me show off like that.
"Tch. Should've learned memory manipulation too."
This is why over-specializing sucks. I'd ask my master next time and pick up a couple spells.
Cleaning, huh? Or some other reason? Probably the latter.
Servants did handle chores when the family was absent, sure. But they never barred entry for "cleaning." Quite the opposite—they'd pause and invite you in.
This overreaction meant Edmund's influence... or something else.
"What could it be?"
Unable to contain my curiosity, my steps quickened. Thankfully, no more servants after that.
"Hmm, not here..."
Not knowing the studio's exact spot, I checked every door. Out of minimal conscience, I closed the ones I opened.
"...This it?"
Finally, on the top floor—third level—of the West Annex, at the end of the east corridor, I reached a room. The only one I hadn't checked. Had to be it.
Why so tense?
Clunk.
Locked? All the others had been open.
Practically screaming "suspicious room here."
"No choice."
Bam!
A burst of mana shattered the lock and handle, swinging the door wide. I spared the door itself—for the cleaners' sake.
"...!"
My pupils dilated at the sight before me.
My breath caught. No—time itself seemed to stop.
The modest studio, no bigger than a few paces across. Sunlight streamed through the window, yet everything inside had leached of color, as if time refused to touch this place.
But amid the desaturation, a few vivid elements pierced my eyes.
First, the woman's face in the portrait on the canvas.
"...Is that my sister-in-law?"
Pale lavender hair, frail demeanor, those blue eyes just like Liriet's. Even stuffy black dresses to ward off underestimation.
Matched my memory of Viola Argent perfectly.
Shifting my gaze, a red chair sat in the center. As if someone had just vacated it. Or like a reserved seat awaiting its occupant.
I knew that chair. It had occupied that spot since the old studio days in the main building.
And Viola had always sat there. Edmund would coax her in to paint her portrait.
Even in this paint-splattered mess, that chair alone gleamed spotless.
The jarring scene hit like a shockwave. As if Viola had been sitting there moments ago, while Edmund smirked and painted her.
"Skills have rusted bad."
Approaching the canvas of Viola, I studied it closely. No art expert, but it was obvious. Far below his old level.
Not unfinished or anything simple. Proportions off, details sloppy.
Back then, even magic-obsessed me had been awed.
A bitter pang hit as I scanned the room.
"...?"
Then a strange dissonance made me frown.
What? These paintings—all recent?
Dried paint, but still faintly tacky. Undeniable.
Yet they all looked...
"...Like old works?"
A landscape in the right frame depicted the Argent grounds. But the stable's position was wrong—right by the path to the West Annex.
Ours was near the east annex. Edmund had relocated it after Viola left, for some reason.
Why paint a scene from over ten years ago now? How?
It looked freshly observed.
"This one too, and this..."
All the others matched. One of Abel as a newborn in Viola's arms.
That one, hung straight after painting, still had wet paint smudging where it leaned.
"As expected, nothing."
No sign of Cassdia or Liriet anywhere.
Even if Cassdia was a shotgun-wedding mistake, even if Liriet got the cold shoulder in the story—this was too much.
Not favoritism. Their existences were erased.
As if memory froze exactly ten years back, the moment Viola died.
"...Memory?"
The thought sent chills racing from spine to brain, electrifying my nerves. It sparked, reforming into a recent exchange with Edmund after our reunion.
—So what brings you here today?
—Just wanted to see your face after so long, and meet the kids.
—The kids? Abel?
—No, not just Abel. There's another child, right?
How had Edmund reacted? Frowning, as if dredging up a vague recollection.
Yeah. I'd assumed he resented Liriet and disliked me visiting her. He seemed aware of her after.
Not unreasonable.
But if my hunch was right...
"Hm?"
Mid-thought, a peculiar paint pot rolled into view on the floor. A small glass vial, finger-sized. Trace liquid inside.
Paint? No, not in something like this. More like a medicine bottle.
Purplish, sticky fluid. Sniffing the rim: oddly sweet scent.
Seen something like this...
"...You mad bastard."
The curse slipped out unbidden as memory clicked.
So that's it. The puzzle assembled in my mind.
Father obsessed with sword and empire. Brother with love. Me with magic.
That old joke wasn't a joke.
I admit it. Edmund Argent—you're the maddest of us three.