#17. The Way He Repays the Grace (3)
“Will you be Silia's friendly companion?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be Silia's sturdy shield?”
“Yes.”
“No matter what happens, can you trust Silia?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“No matter what happens, can you protect Silia?”
“Even if it costs my life.”
“Stalwart indeed. I entrust Silia to you.”
“You saved my dying life, my lord. I will repay that grace without fail.”
And so Roden did. On a winter day in November of Continental Year 1023, at just ten years old, he vowed with all his heart to serve his master truly and repay the debt of his life by offering it for his master's daughter.
It was an ill omen, but Roden counted himself fortunate that he'd called for Isel after Silia had gone to bed. She'd practiced so hard and stayed tense all day—she must have been exhausted.
Sleep soundly, Silia.
And so Roden stood motionless in the silent garden, praying only that Brikal's atrocities would end soon.
He scanned his surroundings. In this volatile situation, where sparks could fly at any moment, everyone's faces were grim. The noblewomen seemed especially worried about the “hero,” and Roden shared their concern for Isel.
Not for any other reason. Isel was Silia's idol. If she were hurt, Silia would be hurt too.
All he wanted was for this storm to pass quietly, but it showed no signs of calming.
“Can't you speak up louder?!”
Brikal bellowed, and Isel's shoulders shrank in terror. The king was carrying out his tyranny even at Silia's birthday party, acting as if this were his own bedroom. Rage boiled up in Roden.
He'd hoped today of all days would pass peacefully. Was that too much to ask? Did the king really crave chaos even in the home of his favored duke?
Part of him wanted to slit Brikal's throat right then and there.
At least Silia's not here... Roden tried to console himself, but he had no choice but to resign himself as Brikal rose and strode toward Isel.
He knew all too well: a drunken brute was like a fish in water, impossible to control.
In the end, facing this brutal reality, Roden turned his head away...
Ah... no, Silia... why...
In trying to avert his eyes from one horror, he glimpsed a worse one. Silia, who was supposed to be in bed, was emerging through the entrance doors. Even as the knight Madeleine hurried after her to guard the mansion, Silia approached the garden, clearly searching for Isel.
Why did you come out, Silia?
He cursed inwardly, but the fire was already raging beyond control. At this rate, Silia would witness her idol being brutally crushed.
The dilemma didn't last long. Continental Year 1023, November. The time had come to honor that vow. Childish as it had been back then, Roden had never forgotten it.
Among the myths his mother often told him, he loved one in particular: The Grateful Dog.
It was the tale of a farmer who fell asleep under a tree during harvest, lunch in hand. Fire broke out in his field, and his loyal dog soaked itself in the river, rolling its body through the flames again and again to extinguish them and save its master. In the end, the dog succumbed to its burns beside its owner, who awoke to wail in grief upon seeing it.
Roden had always begged his mother to retell that story of a dog that served its master with true devotion, fulfilling its duty even at the cost of life. How he had envied that dog.
And so Roden murmured, gazing at Silia approaching from afar.
“...Sorry for always nagging you, Silia.”
He didn't know what punishment awaited for what he was about to do, but his limbs would surely not remain intact. King Brikal's savagery was infamous even in the kingdom's farthest reaches. The king's “mood” became “someone's life”—death, or at minimum, mutilation.
He would never stand by Silia's side again.
But Roden acted boldly, just like the dog in the myth. Sacrificing his body to protect Silia's faith. Praying she wouldn't see her idol defiled.
Roden dumped his wine over the wife of Count Lubran—the loudest-voiced among the noblewomen, his chosen target.
“Kyaaah—!!”
As expected, her piercing scream halted the garden in its tracks.
“...You're quite drunk, Your Majesty.”
Rosel growled, gripping Brikal's wrist tightly as he stared him down. Brikal, belatedly registering the situation through his haze of intoxication, blinked blankly at Rosel.
“Rosel?”
Rosel wanted nothing more than to snap the wrist and sever the head, but with a way out now in sight, he held back.
His bodyguard knight Dubel approached from behind the dais.
“Your Majesty, are you all right?”
Dubel, hand on his sword hilt, ready to draw at any moment. But Brikal waved him off, and he retreated.
Rosel continued smoothly.
“This servant is of lowly blood. How could he sully Your Majesty's noble hand with it?”
He smiled ingratiatingly and bowed his head. As expected, Brikal burst into laughter.
“Hahaha! Indeed! Only you understand me. Very well, you do it then.”
But Brikal handed Rosel the wine bottle. Testing him. Probing the loyalty of his favored retainer, as he always did in his vile ways.
A flicker of dismay crossed Rosel's face. Drunk or not, Brikal clung to power through tyranny. He'd exploit any lapse relentlessly.
In the end, Rosel had no choice but to take the bottle. In this era of absolute monarchy, the king's word was law and truth—even a duke could not defy it.
Rosel looked down at Roden.
Roden looked up at Rosel.
In their crossed gazes, something passed between them.
“...I was wrong, my lord. I'll gladly accept my punishment.”
There wasn't even a tremor in Roden's small eyes. Rosel understood exactly what they conveyed.
Still holding the bottle, he surveyed the garden. The air, already chilled, had frozen solid.
It was time to end the party. And Rosel knew Brikal would rampage again if not given a grand finale.
So Rosel gripped the bottle's body firmly.
“...It won't hurt.”
Sadness tinged his resolute voice. But Roden looked up at him without a trace of sorrow—joyous, instead. That he could repay his life's debt this way. He only wished it would end before Silia arrived.
“I'm fine, my lord.”
“...Very well.”
Rosel had seen Silia approaching too. He grabbed Roden's shoulder with one hand and swung the bottle without hesitation.
Crack!
Shatter!
The bottle smashed perfectly against Roden's head, shards exploding as a massive uproar erupted in the deathly silent garden. Some noblewomen screamed, and even the barons' families recoiled in shock at this unprecedented sight of Duke Rosel.
Thud. Roden collapsed limply to the grass.
Drip. Blood trickled from the gash on Rosel's hand where shards had cut him. The same blood filled his mouth.
“...Gellion.”
At the family head's call, Gellion snapped from his stupor and rushed forward. His usually steady gray-white beard trembled faintly.
It was the first time Rosel had laid a hand on a household servant—and stained it with blood. Unbelievable.
“Y-yes...! My lord...!”
“...Take him to the infirmary. The bottle broke, so his life should be spared.”
Rosel's voice was icy. His eyes held a devastating, overwhelming terror beyond anything they'd ever seen—like a different man entirely.
Gellion, with butler Demian's help, hurriedly hoisted Roden and dashed into the mansion.
The stunned Brikal clapped and cackled.
“Hahaha! Who knew you had such a cruel side! Ah, Duke Rosel—you grow more captivating by the minute, haha!”
Rosel ignored the repulsive voice drilling into his ears. He staunched the bleeding with a handkerchief brought by a servant, then turned his back on the dais.
For the first time since rising to power, he showed Brikal his back. As if foreshadowing the future.
Ignoring the king's laughter, Rosel surveyed the shocked garden and declared:
“The hour is late. The party ends here.”
As if awaiting his words, the nobles rose in unison. Even Count Lubran's wine-soaked wife offered no protest, fleeing to the annex with her husband.
Moments later, amid the ebbing crowd like a receding tide, Silia approached.
“D-Dad! Isel's missing...?”
Perplexed, she spotted the blood on Rosel's hand and rushed over, only to notice Isel behind him.
Relieved to see Isel safe, Silia anxiously checked her father's hand.
“Dad! Wh-what happened to your hand? Are you okay?”
“I'm fine, Silia.”
“Y-yes?”
“Take Isel inside. Have a servant prepare fresh clothes and a bath.”
“O-okay.”
Faced with her father's wrathful tone—unheard before—Silia asked no more, took Isel's hand, and headed into the mansion.
Rosel was left alone. Turning once the chaos settled, he saw Brikal sprawled on the dais, belly-laughing in his sleep.
“...”
Disgust surged at the pathetic sight, but Rosel swallowed it. The fool wouldn't know. Here, amid the kingdom's elite nobles...
He'd just been utterly overwhelmed. This tiny shift would accumulate to strangle him eventually—but the dullard remained oblivious.
Dubel and an aide hurriedly supported Brikal to his bedroom. Rosel, with a bitter expression, grabbed a remaining bottle of wine from the table and headed somewhere.
Thud-thud-thud.
“Roden! Roden! Come to your senses! Roden!”
Demian trailed Gellion, calling out nonstop. But the unconscious Roden wouldn't wake.
After a minute of sweating sprint, they reached the infirmary. Gellion laid Roden on the bed.
“Roden! Wake up! Roden!”
Gellion cherished the boy. An orphan who joined the household, excelled at his duties, and became good friends with Lady Silia.
That's why Gellion had personally selected him as an attending servant—to give him greater experience.
Tears welled in Gellion's aged eyes. He was sorry. Guilty. If only he hadn't chosen him...
Guilt crushed his chest madly.
“St-step aside! Hit on the head with a wine bottle?!”
The head medic rushed over, channeling mana from his palm. He scanned Roden from head to toe precisely.
“Wh-what is it?! Is he okay?!”
But the medic tilted his head in confusion, withdrawing his mana. His diagnostic skill was Royal-grade—enough for instant assessment of internal and external injuries.
Yet... none registered. No trauma, no wounds.
“...Did a glass bottle really shatter on his head?”
“Y-yes! I saw it with my own eyes!”
“Hmm...”
“Wh-what? Is there a problem...!”
“No.”
The medic shook his head firmly.
“...He's just asleep?”
“What? No way!”
“He's in a sleep state. Look—no external wounds where the bottle broke. The blood isn't even his. No internal injuries either. His skull should be cracked, but it's fine. Though there was mana infusion? Trace mana detected.”
“Wh-what...?”
Gellion's shaken eyes gradually steadied. Only now did he see it: Roden snoring peacefully.
And Rosel's hand on Roden's shoulder before the swing—it all clicked.
Thud. Legs giving way, Gellion sank to the floor with a hollow laugh.
Unbelievable. Like a dream, surreal.
What in the world...?
“Ha, hahaha... truly... I've never seen a family head like him in my life. Where does your extraordinariness end...?”
Gellion shook his head in bewilderment. How does one pull off such ingenuity in that moment? And he'd never shown mana use—when did he master it?
“Hahaha, truly... awe-inspiring.”
Duke Rosel—his limits seemed beyond mortal ken.
Gellion eyed the medic.
“Even when Roden wakes, keep him from leaving the infirmary. He mustn't be seen.”
“Why?”
“...That's the family head's will. Hahaha.”
Gellion couldn't stop laughing for a good while.