#48. From Isel to Emilia (完)
“Butler... why did Sir Dubel...”
As he left Lebion del Rosel's study and headed to the first floor, Roden muttered in a dejected tone.
Now he thought he understood. Dubel, who had called himself a rotten puddle with those sorrowful eyes—the man who was his idol, the hope of pure body trainers—had left behind such a lingering unease. Roden finally saw why.
“...He realized he'd been stained red with lime...”
“The puddle stained with red lime...”
“Yes...”
Like Roden, Gellion was profoundly somber. Dubel had been like a son at times, a comrade at others, a knight at times—to Gellion, he was one of the precious few.
Of course, there had been regrets. The honor and bravery Dubel showed protecting Lady Ronsha that day had faded somewhat. But Gellion had never given him stern advice. That was who Dubel was now—the realistic face of a human.
To live was to do anything. Redemption, atonement—all of it.
So Dubel's death struck Gellion hard too.
“Hah... Dubel... So that's why you left those words...”
Just as Roden interpreted “rotten puddle” as his death, Gellion understood the final words: In an era that devours convictions, guilt means nothing.
And then he recalled the request Dubel left behind.
Treat Emilia well—his last plea.
Did you know something about the hero's crime of treason...? Dubel.
Treat her well, and guilt means nothing—did that mean the hero's treason wasn't clear-cut?
I don't know... Dubel, why did you leave those words and go...?
The dead don't speak. Whatever deep meaning lay in Dubel's final words as a dead man, Gellion now knew what to do.
Listen to Isel's story. That way, he could at least gauge the depth. Why Dubel chose that end too.
And since that plea to cherish her became his dying wish, Gellion had to honor it as much as he cherished Dubel.
Lost in thought, they reached the first floor. Roden drew the treasured sword at his waist.
Shing. The razor-sharp blade caught the light.
“...Butler, can I keep this sword...?”
“That sword? The one Sir Dubel said King Huryon the Wise gave him.”
“Yes... Anyway, since Sir Dubel assassinated His Majesty...”
In other words, it was now the blade of a traitor.
So Roden hesitated. What if just having it hindered the family head's revolution?
Gellion stroked the boy's head.
“That sword was forged by King Huryon the Wise before Sir Dubel ever held it. What problem could there be?”
“Ah... Yes, sir.”
“Don't worry. Sir Dubel left it to you as a keepsake for a reason.”
“Yes... Thank you.”
“Good. Prepare to greet your old comrades—it's been a while.”
They reached the end of the first-floor corridor and entered the spacious kitchen. The bustling maids' eyes snapped to Roden.
“...”
A brief silence. The maids blinked at him like he'd seen a ghost, then—as he gave an awkward smile and small wave—they rushed over in a clamor, beaming brightly.
During those three days under Brikal, rumors said Roden was at death's door.
“R-Roden! What happened? You okay?!”
“I saw your head get smashed! What, you healed already?!”
“Hey, Roden! Y-You were alive?!”
“Kyaa~! Roden~! What's this~!”
Roden spent a good while spreading word of the family head's sacrifice and grace, while the mansion staff praised Duke Rosel's generosity and resolve once more, rejoicing together.
That image of the family head striking Roden's head lingered shockingly in their minds.
But Roden's hale appearance ended the shock and confusion in an instant.
“Our family head is truly amazing~!”
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Swish. Even with Jichel watching, Emilia twirled the hem of her dress, gazing strangely at her reflection.
“Your hair looks so pretty too. Thank you, Lady Jichel.”
Replaced from the slave's baggy, shabby rags, the dress and neatly braided updo made her feel like someone else. Especially the style—tangled, frayed ends sorted, thin braids pulled back to highlight her ears—radiated feminine charm.
“No need. With such beauty, it's a masterpiece.”
“Hee... You're lovely too, Lady Jichel.”
“...N-No, not at all.”
Jichel, who hadn't heard “lovely” in ages, flushed faintly at the praise.
Emilia stared at her mirror self.
The molt was over. Her slave life ended.
Even seeing it, she couldn't believe it. A dream?
Pinch.
“Ngh...! It, it hurts...”
“E-Emilia? Why pinch your cheek suddenly?”
“Oh... Thought it might be a dream. In my world, we pinch cheeks to check if it's real.”
“Hoho, what a fun way. Does it hurt?”
Emilia nodded, rubbing her stinging cheek.
It hurt—a lot. The long-forgotten pain confirmed: this was reality.
“Yes, it hurts. A lot.”
“Good. Not a dream, then.”
Knock knock knock.
A knock. Emilia tensed, spine stiffening.
Her master. Showing him this look—excitement mixed with shyness froze her body.
What if he’s disappointed?
Men and women see differently. She thought she looked pretty(?), but maybe ordinary to him.
Her palms sweated. First face-to-face as woman Emilia, not slave Isel.
“If you're shy, stay turned. I'll get the door.”
“Th-Thank you...!”
At Jichel's offer, Emilia spun around hurriedly.
Why so nervous? Did she really love her master?
She'd felt affection before, but today's pounding was different.
From slave to woman? Yes, that. Today she realized even non-hero Emilia liked dresses—like any girl. That explained the flutter.
Creeeak.
The door opened. Her slender shoulders twitched at the sound.
Thump thump. Pound pound.
His footsteps entered; her heart nearly burst.
“Lady Emilia is shy, sir. Give her a moment, family head.”
Jichel stepped aside politely.
Rosel, holding something, gazed at Emilia's back with a pleased smile.
Heavenly beauties shone from behind alone. Even a plain dress became artisan finery on her—his heart raced too.
He anticipated. Would that day's Emilia return?
Reading his eyes, Jichel bowed.
“Then I'll take my leave.”
“Good work, Jichel.”
Jichel left. In the small room, two heated breaths echoed softly.
Outwardly like a sex slave proving her worth; inwardly, a woman revealing her true self to a man.
Rosel was tense too. Eager for her debut from slave Isel to woman Emilia, yet he didn't rush.
His heart ached from pounding, but he waited silently for her.
“M-Master... Don't expect too much.”
After a minute of wordless tension, Emilia spoke first.
“...How could I not, when your back alone is ecstasy?”
Rosel confessed honestly. Impossible not to.
He knew her beauty conquered nations—how not to anticipate?
Not just beauty, though. He yearned for that day's Emilia—fresh, pure, vibrant.
His life built for that. Plans made solely for it.
Now it bloomed; how could he not expect?
“Ah... Th-Then how should I turn...? You might be disappointed...”
“No worries. I won't be.”
“B-But...”
“No reason to. Your true self is enough—beauty or not.”
But for the reborn woman Emilia, it mattered. She couldn't turn easily.
Even as a woman now, slave habits lingered; this felt like “merchandise value.”
Like the auction block. Not as horrific or wretched, but fear rose unbidden.
Fortunately, she bit her lip, exhaled resolutely.
And turned, praying her master would like it. All this new life from him—she'd do anything he wished.
“...H-Here...”
“...”
Face-to-face with Rosel. Her busty vest worried her—would he see her lewdly?
Unable to meet eyes, she fidgeted.
“I-Is it... okay...?”
“Hah...”
But Rosel sighed deeply. A sigh like lament.
Emilia paled instantly.
Not enough value? Dress doesn't suit? Hair weird?
Thoughts raced. Wounds not fully healed, confidence as a woman still fragile.
His unfamiliar sigh made her bite her inner lip—dungeon habit resurfacing.
He didn't like it after all?
“...”
But that habit didn't last. Duke Rosel wouldn't allow her sad tic.
Clap. Clap. Clap. Sudden applause filled the room. Startled, Emilia raised her teary emerald eyes.
“M-Master...!?”
And she was stunned. Rosel was crying.
Or swallowing sobs, but tears streamed unchecked from both eyes.
Bright smile on lips, yet tears flowed as he clapped.
Clap... clap... clap...
“M-Master...”
She understood. What those joyful tears meant.
Thicker than a hundred words—Rosel's tearful smile overwhelmed her with emotion.
And relief. At least not tears of dissatisfaction.
“Emilia...”
They called tenderly.
Rosel gazed at her glistening eyes. The dull, sunken gaze now shone emerald; sunken cheeks filled with fresh life; dull gold hair gleamed, prettily bound by Jichel.
The dress barely registered. Like that day's face, her blooming visage moved him deeply.
How much effort to restore that smile, that vitality?
Knowing the future yet unable to save rashly due to fate—how guilty, sorry?
This wouldn't absolve past sins or atone fully, but her return alone moved him to unseemly tears.
“Really... Master too.”
Feeling his heart, Emilia teared up, grabbed a handkerchief from the bedside drawer, and approached.
She wiped his streaming tears.
“Why cry... Master. You scared me...”
Rosel thumbed her tears, stroking her cheek.
“...Now you look like you, Emilia.”
“Hee, all thanks to you.”
“Sorry, crying like a fool.”
Emilia smiled, shook her head, and hugged into his chest. Stroking his broad back, she soothed her master.
“No. Knowing someone cries for me feels good. Thank you.”
“Tears for you are never wasted. Stop crying now.”
“How can I when you cry...?”
Rosel and Emilia wiped each other's hot cheek tears. They held close, tenderly dabbing until sobs eased.
Jichel, overhearing from outside, throat tight, cleared softly and walked away.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
“I have something for you. Emilia—no, to return.”
Tears dried, Rosel picked up the wooden box from the table, where he'd set it during applause.
“What's this?”
“Yours. Hero Emilia's.”
“M-Mine...?”
Thin and wide box—hard to guess contents. Fine wood suggested valuables, but she'd lost everything to the palace. Tilting her head, she opened the lid.
And her eyes widened again.
“Th-This is...?”
“Sir Dubel said give it when the time came. Seems today—so I brought it to return.”
“Ah... M-Master...”
Inside: the clothes “Hero Emilia” wore on the return path.
The grand parade garb, preserved in the box.
Emilia pulled it out, eyes misty, scanning it.
“Sir Dubel picked it from the trash heap.”
“Ah...”
She clutched it, collapsing to the floor.
After the diary, Dubel's gift—the hero's memories wished back—overflowed with intent.
Diary recollections, clothing memories, fleeting freedom.
He'd felled her, yet left so much.
And through his gifts, Isel slowly reclaimed Emilia's memories.