#32. Instead of Forgiveness, Enlightenment.
Biela had ultimately been chased away just like that. Without ever earning the "forgiveness" Lebion had spoken of.
It was pathetic. Not only abandoned by the object of her obsessive affection, like a moth to a flame, but cast out as the daughter of a baron, her face a mess of tears and snot, utterly devoid of any dignity.
Lebion, having dragged Biela out of Isel's room, returned with her to the study.
"I won't forgive you. So leave."
"Ah, p-please...! I beg you...!"
"I don't want to forgive you."
"I-I'll do anything. Please...!"
"...Then live the rest of your life in regret."
"Ahh...! N-not that...!"
In the thick darkness, the conversation between victim and perpetrator echoed. Lebion had smiled contentedly at Isel's verdict of "live the rest of your life in regret"—a punishment perfectly suited to her pure and fragile nature. She hadn't wanted the one who had plunged her into the horrors of the underground dungeon to suffer some gruesome physical torment. Instead, she wished for her to dwell eternally in remorse. It was a judgment that fit Emilia to a tee.
Yes, Emilia was that kind of woman.
He had forgotten for a moment. Even shattered in despair, she was compassionate, warm, and tender at heart.
And her resilience moved him deeply. It was more than admirable—it was awe-inspiring. He could vividly picture Isel overcoming her fears for the sake of their promise.
Of course, it did leave a lingering regret that Biela hadn't received forgiveness. He felt responsible, in a way. He had known everything and yet stood by, watching.
With all his plans and future hinging on Isel, he had no choice but to let Biela's fate unfold unwatched. That's why Lebion had hoped she would be forgiven. If she could earn it like Sregon, it would have been an act of mercy.
Sregon, of course, had met his end when his true intentions were exposed.
And if Isel had wanted Biela's death, he would have carried it out. No matter his sense of responsibility, he wouldn't go back on the choice she made on her social debut. For Isel's sake, he could rip out his own heart.
Well, in any case.
Since Isel's decision was final, and he respected it completely, he said nothing to the tear-streaked Biela about her future punishment as she was thrown from the room.
Biela was driven by a strong survival instinct, but she wasn't cunning. She knew exactly what she had to do to live.
That's why Lebion didn't imprison her like Sregon. Moreover, unlike Sregon who had a substitute, Biela had none. Her father's relentless pursuit after losing his daughter could create unpredictable variables. Especially now, an emotional execution risked derailing the grand plan.
Instead, he meticulously imprinted her with the Seal of Subordination to prevent any mishaps.
The Seal of Subordination was legal only for slaves, but it didn't enforce absolute obedience or brainwashing. It simply carried a subtle power that made one acutely aware of their place.
Fortunately, Biela didn't resist. She had realized what she must do to survive.
"Isel's wounds haven't fully healed yet, so she can't forgive you."
"Hic... I'm sorry..."
From a girl who had adored Lebion to a sinner now, Biela felt no injustice—only misery. She could no longer love him.
Lebion gazed at the trembling Biela. He knew she had mocked Isel to bury her own guilt. Though it had ignited a flicker of anger toward Isel's pain, that was in the past.
The confession extracted via the Record Object was irrefutable evidence, but he had no intention of showing more anger. It was a form of leniency for his own complicity in her fate.
Living in irredeemable regret was punishment enough; he wouldn't press her further.
"...Very well. Out of respect for Isel's choice, I'll release you. But don't do anything you'll regret."
"Hic... I-I won't... I'm sorry..."
"And one more thing to remember."
"Y-yes...?"
Biela looked up at Lebion, wiping her tears. He now seemed impossibly lofty, beyond her reach.
"65 days."
"...Pardon?"
"The time Emilia endured countless tortures and terrors in the underground dungeon."
"W-what...? Torture...?"
"Sleep deprivation, finger torture, waterboarding, starvation, and every vile method imaginable."
"...."
"Her lips torn, molars shattered, eyes bloodshot, body covered in scars. She endured brutal torment for 65 days."
"B-but no scars...!"
"I erased them all. To free her from that day's horrors."
"Ah...!"
Biela's pupils dilated massively. She had overheard Sregon claiming it as "your handiwork" at the banquet, so she had some inkling. But seeing no wounds or scars, she hadn't imagined such savage torture—perhaps just mental conditioning.
She clamped her gaping mouth shut. And tears spilled once more.
"Ah... Ahh...!"
How? How could someone endure such horrors and then simply chase away the perpetrator with "I won't forgive you," as if merely jilted by a boyfriend?
Compared to Emilia's ordeal, it was impossibly lenient. Shouldn't she have inflicted similar torment and despair? Or at least a slap?
Even a lifetime of remorse seemed like a drop in the bucket against 65 days of hell.
"How... how could she..."
And so it dawned on her. Yes, she had forgotten—tried to erase it. Emilia was that pure, kind, and fragile a woman.
"Ah... Ahh..."
The image of Emilia enduring 65 days of terror burned vividly in her mind. Biela collapsed to her knees again.
Isel's refusal to forgive had utterly broken her will. Even if given the chance to go back, she wouldn't reverse her betrayal. She wanted to live—to eat delicious food, love, feel joy. Death voided it all.
She regretted that choice, but wouldn't take it back. It had kept her alive.
She was just grateful to Isel. For giving a coward like her a chance to live.
And sorry. For shouting lies, calling her a traitor to smother her guilt.
And ashamed. For clinging to falsehoods until the Record Object forced her confession.
She should have just told the truth from the start.
"Hic... I'm sorry... Emilia..."
Thus, Biela etched Isel's 65-day endurance into her heart, weeping endlessly. Isel's mercy—not punishing her betrayer with death or terror—had brought her to her knees.
"Think hard on what you must do to earn Isel's forgiveness."
*
"Hic... Hic-sob..."
Like a lost child, Biela wandered, sobbing pitifully toward somewhere. Maids and servants glanced her way, but she couldn't stop.
She felt as if she had received grace instead of retribution for her betrayal.
And realization struck. In this masterfully scripted play, she—not Emilia—had been the fool.
"Hic... Thank you... Emi..."
Wiping her tears, Biela reached the stables and mounted her carriage horse.
"Biela!"
Then her father, Delmaron, rushed out in his nightclothes. His butler, Elyat, panted behind.
"Biela...! Where are you going?!"
"...Father."
Delmaron blocked her horse, startled by her tear-stained face.
"W-what happened? You said you were seeing Duke Rosel...!"
"I did."
"D-did the Duke harm you?"
"...As if."
"Th-then why mount a horse at this hour...!"
"...I have somewhere to go. Don't stop me, Father."
Delmaron couldn't easily yield. Venturing outside the territory at night was dangerous. Hero party member or not, she was still a foolish girl in his eyes.
But her smile—more mature than ever—left him speechless.
"I have to go, Dad."
"W-where to...? At least tell your father, so I can stop worrying...!"
At his plea, Biela gazed north. Her destination: the mansion of Daltan, the Gridus Gell, who had led the betrayal more than anyone.
Now she understood. Which side to join to survive.
Neigh!
With resolve, Biela gripped the reins and galloped off. She finally grasped what Duke Rosel meant by "what you must do to earn forgiveness."
*
"Haha, this is something."
"...What's that?"
"Heartwarming, maybe? Or bittersweet. But it's good. Lady Biela seems truly repentant."
Lebion rolled the Record Object's magic stone in his hand, murmuring at Rapelon's words. His eyes were misty.
"...She hasn't been forgiven yet. 'Live in regret forever'—that's Isel's judgment today. Still, you played a big part, Rapelon."
"Haha, no. It's all thanks to you, Lord Rosel."
"I'll commend you properly for this. I promise."
"No need. You've already saved my life—what more could I want?"
Rapelon stood. He was simply glad. His efforts for his comrade Emilia had succeeded.
Daltan and Gleon remained, but with Lebion, victory felt certain.
"Then I'll be off, Duke of Black Flame."
"...."
Duke of Black Flame—a playful nickname Rapelon used now and then. Lebion smiled at him.
"Where to, Crimson Porter?"
"...."
When teasing back, Lebion mocked his red-dyed hair as "Crimson Porter." They were that close.
Rapelon grinned alongside him.
"Home, now."
Lebion rose too.
"Where are you headed, my lord?"
As he passed Rapelon toward the door, he said, "Follow me. We should greet your old comrade, right?"
"Ah."
"She'll be thrilled."
Imagining Isel's joyous smile at seeing Rapelon, Lebion opened the study door with a warm grin.