Just Like the Worst Pain Right Before a Cold Subsides (1)
The firing test had been a resounding success. Dozens of straw dummies stood at a distance of thirty meters ahead, bristling with countless arrows embedded in them. And that was after just two shots. Yet even a rough count suggested over fifty arrows lodged in the straw alone. What was more, arrows were scattered haphazardly into the nearby dirt as well.
Rosel approached with a satisfied smile. Up close, the projectiles stuck in the straw and ground looked less like arrows and more like thick iron spikes. They lacked fletching or broadheads, merely slender rods of forged steel sharpened to deadly points—iron needles, essentially. And those needles had buried themselves deep into the armored dummies with devastating force.
"Every time we run a test, I'm left breathless by your ingenuity, my lord," Duraton said, offering praise to his liege, Rosel. For a man who had wandered the continent's battlefields, this siege weapon was nothing short of miraculous.
What Rosel had dubbed the High-Expansion Round resembled an arrow in overall shape. The difference lay in its body: not a slender shaft, but a thick wooden cylinder forty centimeters in diameter. Inside were packed over thirty iron needles, with gunpowder loaded into the tail fin. The process was simple—light the adjustable fuse based on desired range, then fire from a massive ballista. At the target distance, the powder exploded, spraying the needles in all directions.
More suited to defense than assault, it was a fiendish weapon perfect for mowing down charging hordes, capable of inflicting hundreds or even thousands of casualties in a single volley.
Rosel had designed it himself, and the workshops were already gearing up for mass production.
Gellion's eyes widened, his mouth agape in disbelief. He'd never seen such a merciless device—nor imagined he ever would.
"Satisfactory. We can begin production," Rosel said. "Well done, Sir Duraton."
Duraton beamed with pride as he shook his lord's hand.
Rosel turned to Gellion. "Head Steward, please work with Sir Duraton to secure the materials needed for mass production."
"Y-yes, of course... But, my lord."
"Yes?"
This weapon possessed killing power akin to outright slaughter. Rosel's territory faced no threats, no wars—yet here was his lord not only developing such a destructive tool but preparing to produce it en masse, as if bracing for conflict.
"We're not at war. Why mass-produce a weapon like this?"
"For territorial defense. Threats don't announce themselves in advance, do they?"
"Th-that's true, but..."
Gellion struggled to accept the answer. Yet Rosel's resolve was ironclad. His investments in the territorial guard already surpassed the capital's, with stockpiles to match. Still, he focused ever more on firepower.
This wasn't to impress King Brikal's impending visit, nor to strike at rival factions. Rosel was cautious; he knew saving Isel required the royal family's downfall. But the time wasn't ripe. It was premature.
Isel's salvation had to happen in one decisive stroke. A half-hearted attempt would doom not just his territory, but Silia, his retainers, and the people.
Thus, Rosel layered caution upon caution. This weapon was merely preparation for expansion.
In a few days, he'd reveal the eraser's development to the king—and use pencil and eraser production as pretext to claim a branch workshop west of the capital. The site analysis for persuasion was complete.
The High-Expansion Round was but a step toward establishing a second Rosel Territory. Building it would demand many laborers, after all.
And soon, the Demon King's remnant coalition—destined to become stragglers—would march on his lands. Scouts had already reported their gathering forces.
The betrayers who toppled the hero included three noble houses from her own party, plus the royals and their cronies. Baring his fangs too soon would be folly. For merciless revenge, preparations had to be thorough.
History would call it a revolution, but what he plotted was rebellion. To win that gamble, he needed everyone but the enemy on his side. Mountains of work remained—but it would begin now.
And all things had their order. Brikal and Saintess Yuria had spun the conspiracy, but crushing the three wretched collaborators came first. Uproot them from the bottom, leaving no chance for regrowth.
"Let's head back, Gellion."
With the satisfying demonstration complete, Rosel turned toward the mansion. The gathering winds of war pushed at his back.
—Hahaha! Did you really think I cherished you?
—W-what...?
—Fool. After all you've seen, you still trusted me? Pathetic.
—M-Master...?
—Yes, I am your master. So strip already—what are you waiting for?
—You're not like this...!
—What? Did you think I spent five hundred gold to buy you for child's play? Tsk tsk. That's why you're so easily deceived. Now undress.
—N-no!
—Insolent slave! I've been patient enough—time you spread your legs of your own accord!
—M-Master, please... don't...!!
—Hey! Hold still! I've shown mercy enough to a traitor's wretch—my duty as master is done! Today, I'll teach you respect!!
—Kyaaak! H-help! Someone, please save me!!
—Hahaha! I'm king here! As my sex slave, spread for your master!!
—M-Master! Please... please...!
Riiip! Riiiip!
—The sound of this fabric tearing is exquisite, hahaha! Worth every coin I spent dressing you up! Now show me those plump tits!
Riiiip!
—Kyaaak! Kyaaaaak!
"Kyaaaaak!!"
In the frostbitten hush of night, when all should have been deep in exhausted slumber, a piercing scream shattered the silence. It came from Isel.
"Haa... haa... haa..."
Drenched in cold sweat, Isel trembled as chills wracked her body, her back pressed against the stone wall.
Gasping, she scanned her surroundings with terror-wide eyes. But silence reigned; only Mila the parrot fluttered in startled agitation within her cage.
"Haa... haa... haa..."
It had been a horrific nightmare. The master in her dream was brutally savage, mercilessly cruel. His laughter mocking her alongside them, his eyes filled with contempt, his lips sneering at her betrayal—all had twisted into theirs.
She knew it was illusion born of her wounds. Yet the dream-master felt terrifyingly real: ripping her clothes with brute force, his greedy gaze devouring her flesh like a stranger's.
"Haa... haa... Why... why that dream..."
Born of distrust and fear toward nobles. The shock of betrayal had layered defenses so thick they tore open her healing scars anew. Wounds that knit only to rip wider hurt all the more.
"Haa... haa..."
Her pounding heart refused to calm. She'd thought it mending, but no—it was delusion. Or like a cold's final agony before breaking.
Yes, that must be it. Yet shadows in every corner seemed to harbor Biela, Daltan, Gleon—sneering. Hallucinations. Phantoms blocking recovery.
She dismissed them, but the darkness fueled her dread. Hugging her knees, she buried her face.
"G-go... all of you, away..."
Then, heavy knocks rattled the door.
—Isel! Are you all right?!
Rosel had raced over at her scream. The mansion's L-shaped layout carried sound straight to his bedroom; he'd bolted without even tying his nightrobe properly.
—Isel! Answer me!
Bang bang bang!
Without his key in his haste, he pounded relentlessly. The door shook as if to splinter, rekindling primal terror in Isel's eyes.
—Isel! Wait—just a moment! I'll fetch the key!
Yet somehow, she envisioned the door bursting open to a lust-mad master with crimson eyes. She knew better, but the dread gripped her. Each bang hammered her heart; finally, she clamped her ears and screamed.
"St-stop! Please... please! All of you, go away! Leave me alone!!"
Prophetic dream? Her cry echoed the nightmare's verbatim.
Bang... bang...
Rosel halted. Her voice from beyond trembled with fear. His worry was genuine, but unwanted concern could breed resentment, so he stood frozen.
As long as she's unharmed...
Just a nightmare, surely. He'd hoped she was improving, but those deep scars demanded far more effort.
He'd prepared for this. Composing himself calmly, Rosel leaned against her door.
"...I'll be out here. Call if you need anything."
—...
No reply, but he didn't fret. He trusted her. This was mere recovery pains. Even if she scorned his devotion forever, he'd never abandon her. Such backlash was trivial.
Only his inability to share her pain truly hurt.
Thus, Rosel waited endlessly, slumped against the door.
[Master...]
[Master...]
"Hup?!"
A buzzing like drowning ears jolted Rosel awake. Thud! His head smacked the door.
Rubbing the throbbing pain, he glanced around.
What... did I doze off?
Drool slicked his lips and nightrobe; no denying it. Days of poor sleep had caught up—even a duke nodding off on the floor.
He wiped his mouth hastily and called through the door.
"A-are you calm now?"
—...Sorry. Because of me...
How much time had passed? Fortunately, Isel seemed settled, though her voice still quivered faintly.
"No need for apologies. Feeling better?"
—Y-yes... I had a nightmare... I'm sorry...
"If you're truly sorry, tell me. What nightmare was bad enough to wake your master at this hour?"
He spoke commandingly on purpose. Knowing her dream could guide her healing. Dreams reflected the psyche: good ones hopes, bad ones anxieties. Remove the source, and improvement followed.
For Isel, he needed to hear it.
—D-do I have to...?
"I've waited this long for my slave—what do I gain if not some insight before I leave?"
—Ah... well...
"Speak freely. Pretend it's therapy. I lack credentials, but who knows? It might aid your healing."
—It's just...
"Hey, opportunities like this don't come nightly. Out with it."
He pressed like a beggar. Silence stretched tediously, then Isel spoke.
—T-truth is, M-Master... you were ripping my clothes, trying to... r-rape me... It was so... terrifying...