One Word Incurs a Thousand-Tael Debt. (1)
At the age of twenty-six, Dubel became the kingdom's greatest swordmaster. A commoner by birth, he had risen solely through the 'prowess' of his pure physical body, proving his worth by winning the [National Martial Tournament] hosted by the twenty-first king, Dragon Bui Huurion. And in the year he turned twenty-seven, he was appointed as Huurion's royal guard.
Only the kingdom's top experts qualified to protect the king, and this commoner had seized that honor—not with magic, but with raw 'strength' alone. Thus, Dubel became an object of admiration for countless commoners and those unable to wield mana. The pure power he demonstrated became a dream and hope for many, including one 'Roden.'
When he was twenty-eight, the Demon King and his monsters returned. With no one in the kingdom his equal in swordsmanship, everyone acknowledged Dubel as the hero who would save them. 'The hero is destiny itself.' But to slay the Demon King, it wasn't skill that mattered—it was innate 'destiny.' So he received no divine selection from the goddess.
Regretful though he was, Dubel didn't press the issue. The saintess's prophecy was the goddess's will, after all—something no one could defy. He was grateful just to become the 'swordsmanship mentor' to the hero Emilia, pouring his efforts into training her for two months. True to her divine selection, Emilia grew rapidly in that time.
Training together in seclusion, they shared many conversations, so Dubel could never believe the saintess's prophecy of the hero's betrayal. The Emilia he knew was pure-hearted, brimming with adventure and free of any lust for power. Yet the prophecy was absolute, forcing him to strike her down with his own hand.
The agony of crumbling the very disciple he had raised was excruciating. Still, he held his sword to her throat. It was his 'destiny,' after all.
Now, that same man gazed down at Brikal, sprawled shamelessly on a luxurious bed, belly exposed in drunken slumber. His eyes were filled with pity—and at the birthday party of Duke Rosel's daughter, where Brikal had nearly committed another atrocity, they held a touch of despair.
...Lord Huurion...
Dubel invoked the late king, now at the goddess's side. Had it not been for Huurion's dying words, Dubel would have left Brikal long ago. But 'Protect Brikal, no matter what.' That single command kept him guarding this pathetic, debauched king.
...
He had sworn it—to the dying Huurion. That he would uphold that mission until his last breath. Of course, the Brikal of then was young, virtuous like his father. Now, he walked the opposite path.
Brikal had exiled all threatening nobles to distant lands, surrounding himself only with sycophants. With none to check his tyranny, it grew fiercer by the day. Among those flatterers was naturally Duke Rosel—a fellow commoner who had achieved greatness. The man who turned a backwater into a prosperous nation had become Brikal's closest aide through flattery and tribute. And today, for the first time, he had seized the king's wrist.
...Duke Rosel is the first to lay hands on the king's noble person.
The sycophants spewed such drivel, but Dubel—the only sober one in the garden—had seen it: the look in Rosel's eyes.
But... since when could Duke Rosel wield mana?
Rosel had always professed 'weakness' in arms. Yet moments ago, mana had clearly flickered at his fingertips. The drunken fools hadn't noticed, but Dubel had. Rosel's gaze, his aura—everything was suspicious.
Hmm...
Lost in thought as he stared at Brikal, Dubel suddenly headed somewhere.
At that moment, Lebion del Rosel stood alone on the mansion's rooftop. Leaning on the iron railing, deep in contemplation, he was interrupted by approaching footsteps.
"The night view is quite splendid, isn't it?"
It was Sregon, grinning with his grotesque face flushed from heavy drinking—a sight to behold.
Rosel turned his head back with a blank expression. Undeterred by the cold response, Sregon sidled up beside him, leaning on the railing.
"That was truly astonishing just now."
"..."
"Smashing the head of that young servant under your command like that. Heh heh."
"..."
Rosel's eyelids twitched faintly. The vile chuckle burrowing into his ears made him want to rip them out and wash them clean.
"Even our kind wouldn't go that far, heh heh heh. I've gained new respect for you today, Your Grace."
Sregon, lacking a family name, was no human. Born of orc and human—a half-breed—he combined orcish brutality with human cunning. Five years ago, he caught Brikal's eye and became the underground dungeon's torturer. As if it were his calling, he reveled in breaking countless humans, earning the king's favor. Send a weakling he disliked to the dungeon, and Sregon returned a 'proper' man. How could Brikal not adore him? Thus, this lowly half-breed abomination became a royal intimate.
And his prized 'work' had been Isel.
Gulp, gulp.
Sregon chugged from his wine bottle like a trumpet, wiping his mouth with his sleeve before continuing.
"Heh heh heh. But... even you, Your Grace, seem lenient with that traitorous slave criminal?"
Try as he might to ignore it, Sregon's mention of Isel forced a reaction from Rosel.
"...What do you mean?"
"Heh heh, I know that slave bitch better than anyone."
"Get to the point."
"I saw earlier... her scars are gone. That must be your doing, Duke Rosel?"
Rosel flinched but feigned composure.
"It is."
"Sigh... that pains me."
"...What does?"
Sregon let out a dramatic sigh, then swigged more wine.
"That slave bitch was so stubborn. It took a full sixty-five days to break her."
Rosel's fist clenched at the casual slur, but he endured with ironclad patience. Sregon was Brikal's man, like him. Provoking him recklessly would bring no good. Though how long that line held, even Rosel couldn't say.
"She's my masterpiece. But you ruined it, Your Grace. Heh heh heh."
"...I bid justly at auction and bought ownership of that 'work.' It's mine to do with as I please."
"Oh, I don't resent you, heh heh. Just a bit regrettable."
Unable to stomach the repulsive sight any longer, Rosel straightened from the railing. Any more, and he'd smash that face.
"...Have your drink and go. I'm heading down."
But as he stepped away, his foot halted. At Sregon's words from behind.
"Oh, right—one more regret."
"..."
"Heh heh heh, never got to taste that slave bitch's holes. The saintess forbade sexual torture—such a shame. How's the continent's greatest beauty taste down there? Decent?"
"..."
A thick vein bulged at Rosel's temple. It seemed Sregon had crossed the line first. Time to show him something spicier than holes.
"Heh heh heh. Come on, tell me. Was she any good?"
Sregon had never spoken to Rosel like this before. Never even conversed this long. Rosel had always been a subtle rival, his stoic face hard to read. But after the recent incident, Sregon was convinced: Rosel was like him. Much like him.
Thus, Sregon was now showing 'camaraderie.' Though every word from his mouth only provoked Rosel.
Rosel turned back, fist trembling, glaring at the drunken fool. Sregon just leered.
"...There's a saying: One word can repay a debt of a thousand taels."
"Keh hel hel, what a beggar's proverb."
"...Meaning the reverse: One word can incur a debt of a thousand taels."
"..."
Sregon's grin faded as he sensed Rosel's murderous aura, clamping his mouth shut. But Rosel's eyes, sharp with venom, didn't soften.
He extended a hand. Black mana ignited from it like flame.
"...Y-You can wield mana...?"
Sregon staggered back at the sudden shift. But whoosh—the black mana surged, coiling around him like an anaconda seizing prey.
"Wh-What is this...! Duke Rosel!"
No mercy lingered in Rosel's gaze. He checked his pocket watch with his left hand.
Today was Silia's birthday. He hadn't wanted blood today. But alas, the hour hand had passed twelve. A new day had begun.
Rosel glared at Sregon again. He was always magnanimous, broad-minded, earning loyalties. But not so forgiving as to spare a mongrel barking fearlessly in a tiger's den.
Such curs learned their place only when their necks were snapped.
Moonlight glinted off Rosel's black pupils, laced with chilling intent.
"...I may have made you, but that one word just now was your choice—incurring a thousand-tael debt."
"Guhk! Wh-What are you...!"
"Now, I'll collect."