#27. There Is No Paradise Where a Betrayer Arrives. (End)
The outskirts of the mansion were shrouded in thick darkness. Elite guards stationed at regular intervals patrolled at the slightest sound nearby, tense in their duty to protect the numerous nobles gathered at Duke Rosel's estate—and the king himself. At small watchtowers positioned at key points north, south, east, and west of the mansion, archers stood ready, bows lightly drawn, poised to eliminate any threat at a moment's notice.
Whistle.
A single whistle pierced the air at the northern entrance of the mansion, renowned for its stringent security. Though it was late enough that even the crickets had fallen silent, something caught the eye of the vigilant watchtower sentry.
A figure approached the northern gate, face hidden beneath a shabby hood pulled low, hands concealed by a long hooded cloak. The suspicious attire prompted the sentry to draw his bowstring to its limit, aiming at the man—or what appeared to be a man, judging from his sturdy build and bold stride, the only features faintly visible.
The guards below glanced toward the direction the arrowhead gleamed, raising their spears. As the figure drew near, one bellowed a warning.
"Halt and raise your hands!"
"..."
The stranger stopped obediently in his heavy tread, showing no sign of resistance.
The two guards at the north gate advanced, spear tips sharpened and aimed squarely at him.
"Remove your hood and state your identity."
"...Come on, isn't the welcome a bit too cold?"
Lips moved beneath the shadowed hood. His casual, somewhat roguish tone—suggesting a free-spirited background—did nothing to ease the guards' tension.
"I said remove the hood. And declare your identity."
"...Eh, tsk. I was trying to make a dramatic entrance after so long, but oh well."
As expected, the voice was masculine, though a touch frivolous. Yet the aura he exuded was anything but lighthearted. That was why even these battle-hardened guards remained on edge—a inexplicable pressure emanated from him, even as he stood casually.
"Hurry up! Any funny business, and you'll be pierced through!"
"...Why treat me like some noble lord? What's with the hostility?"
Muttering complaints like a sulky child, the stranger flipped back his hood without resistance.
Red hair gleamed under the pale moonlight, subdued from being crushed beneath the hood, while his revealed eyes shone with a contrasting blue. He was strikingly handsome at first glance, his features as bold and open as his speech. One guard tilted his head, puzzled.
He was a knight from the Royal Guard, led by Captain Dubel, the king's protector.
"Have we met? Your face looks familiar."
"Haha, must be my handsome mug that stuck in your memory. Though your face is so average... sorry, doesn't ring a bell for me."
"..."
His lowly tone clashed with his noble bearing, creating an odd dissonance. The guard thrust his spear forward again.
...Not because he'd been called plain, surely.
"State your purpose here."
They'd treated his hooded approach as hostile, but now that he'd revealed himself—and didn't look like a runaway slave—the guard's tone carried a measure of respect.
The stranger reached into his hood's inner pocket. The two guards stepped closer, issuing a silent warning: try anything, and you'll taste steel.
But he smiled calmly despite the threat, pulling out an identity token and a scroll.
"Whoa, easy there. I'm just here to see Duke Rosel tonight."
"...At this hour?"
The stranger shrugged.
"Well, read this. It explains everything."
The guard took the scroll, untied the cord, and scanned the contents. It bore Duke Rosel's official seal—a legitimate visitor's writ.
"Show your identity token too."
"Here."
He handed over a wooden token stamped by the territory's verification office. Its intricate pattern was impossible to forge. The guard compared it meticulously to his own seal template before returning it.
Forging one meant certain execution if caught; no sane person would risk it.
"All seems in order. Deljera Raspon, correct?"
"As it says."
"Thanks for cooperating. We'll open the gate, but I doubt Duke Rosel is awake at this hour."
"Don't worry. I came because of his personal invitation to a guest."
At Raspon's words, the guard glanced toward Duke Rosel's bedroom window. A faint light seeped through the curtains, suggesting he wasn't asleep. And for a guest warranting such an invitation, they had to escort him regardless—even if the duke were abed.
The guard lowered his spear and called to another by the wall beside the gate.
"Regol! Take Lance with you and escort this gentleman to Duke Rosel."
"Yes, sir!"
Thus, the boisterous man named Raspon stepped through the mansion's gates into the garden beyond. It had been fully sixty-eight days since his feet last touched Rosel Territory.
*
As Raspon entered the mansion and the iron gates clanged shut behind him, the guard cocked his head at his comrade.
"Hmm, doesn't he look just like that guy?"
"Who?"
"You know, back at the demon king subjugation send-off. We were drafted to the Royal Guard for it. He was that porter trailing at the rear."
"Oh, the one who vanished the day before their return?"
The public story was that the hero party's porter had gone missing a day before arriving in the capital. They'd announced it as a disappearance to avoid the negative connotations of "desertion." After all, with Emilia's fall, no one expected the porter—who might know the truth—to show his face. The royals had quietly ordered Biela, Daltan, and Gleon to hunt him down in secret.
The guard tilted his head again.
"Yeah, exactly like him."
"Name's different, and it's an official token. You're seeing things."
"Hmm... maybe. Weird, though. His hair was white back then."
"Enough idle chatter. Stand your watch—relief's coming soon."
"Yeah, yeah, probably just a lookalike."
Dismissing their futile suspicions, the pair refocused on their duties, eagerly awaiting the shift change.
**
"...W-what are you saying? The ugly truth? That's something that applies to Emilia, not...!"
Biela forced her lips into a smile to mask her bewilderment. As a noble lady, she'd endured the cutthroat intrigues of high society unscathed. But the gaze of Rosel before her now made those past schemes feel like childish pranks. It pressed down with unbearable force.
Her smile froze awkwardly; her upturned eyes twitched pale. Her rigid spine stiffened like rebar; her breathing lost rhythm, heaving erratically.
Rosel rose with a sneer. That simple motion made Biela flinch as if her nape ached.
Yet she feigned composure, lifting her teacup for a sip.
"...Y-you're going too far with the jokes, Duke. Why would we kill a comrade we fought alongside?"
Rosel clasped his hands behind his back and moved to the window. Ethereal moonlight bathed the garden in a soft glow. He spoke softly, gazing at its beauty.
"I'll ask you one last time. I hold all the truths in my hands—there's no need for futile struggles. Lady Biela."
His quiet words bristled with countless thorns, as if they hovered right before her, craving blood.
Her hand trembled wildly; she set the cup down.
And so, she played her final card—or rather, overturned the board.
"...You're truly overstepping. I'll take my leave, Duke."
Her furrowed brow betrayed disgust as she fled the rising terror.
For now.
"Sit. My questions aren't finished."
But Rosel denied her escape. Biela, now standing, eyed the office door. Mere minutes had passed, yet suffocation clawed at her.
This space, saturated with his overwhelming presence, felt like it would crush her. Yet the door seemed farther than ever—nay, receding into illusion.
"M-must I sit just because you say so? How rude...!"
"Haha, rude, you say? Absurd."
"W-what's so funny...!"
Rosel turned his head stiffly, like a jointed doll, fixing her with moonlit eyes that gleamed eerily.
"The rude one cries foul at rudeness... How could that not be amusing?"
"R-rude one...? Why are you doing this all of a sudden! Treating me like a criminal—what did I do wrong?! Is it because I said one word to that slave bitch!?"
Cornered, Biela raised her voice—like Emilia sixty-seven days ago, protesting her injustice in court.
She shouted at the man she admired, no less. Rosel had never been overly warm, but nor cruel. His occasional ambiguous words and glances had kept her hopes alive. Thus, this betrayal carved into her heart.
Was dreaming of a future with her debut ball partner to end in such humiliation? Why this sudden turn? Why fear from him?
Incomprehensible. She felt trapped in a vile abyss, like a fish in a net—unable to breathe without his permission. All she could do was scream, like Emilia that day. Childish whining, incomparable to Emilia's noble grievance.
"You're too much! You know I adore you, yet you smile at that slave wench! And now you slander me as a comrade-killer?!"
"...Is it stupidity? You don't grasp the meaning of 'slander.' I'm not slandering—merely stating facts."
Biela's eyes welled with indignant tears—like Emilia's from bitter betrayal in court.
Of course, not Emilia's sacred tears, but the pitiful tears of a wretched betrayer.
Rosel gazed at her pityingly. He'd meant to offer sincere mercy, like to Sregon—broad-minded, given her role in the kingdom's salvation.
Yet before even granting that chance, she wailed like a brat, marching into self-ruin. Pathetic.
"...Impudence knows bounds. Never thought you'd be this thick-headed."
"T-thick-headed?! Hah! I'm leaving! I'll tell Father and depart at dawn—mark my words! You'll answer for this insult!"
"Get a grip. Insult is a noble emotion felt only by the honorable. But... you lack honor, don't you?"
"..."
Rosel's words twisted like wrenches in joints; Biela fell speechless. They ripped open her heart's hidden ugliness. His all-seeing gaze was unbearable.
Finally, she stormed toward the door in fury. All she could manage was a tantrum. Wretched, shameful, humiliating.
What disrespect for a hero party member who'd saved the kingdom. It negated her very self. Vowing to show him a woman's wrath, she flung open the door—and froze.
"Oh? Lady? Long time no see. What a coincidence, huh? Haha."
Beyond the door stood a man like a gatekeeper. Cognitive dissonance halted her.
A dream? No—a nightmare. Nothing else explained this.
"Haha, what's wrong? Overjoyed to see me?"
He closed the door behind her and entered. She trembled like she'd seen a ghost, backing away. Dumb groans escaped her quivering lips.
"Ah... aaah..."
"Haha, too thrilled for words? Didn't expect this much affection. Mind a hug? Duke Rosel?"
He grinned back at Rosel, who nodded. Biela's eyes followed—and in that man's embrace...
She screamed.
It was none other than Rapelon, the hero party's porter they'd desperately sought.
Of course, now graciously renamed Deljera Raspon by his benevolent lord.
"...KyaAaAaK!!"
A truly splendid scream echoed through the office.