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Kyle Bellaon, eldest son of the Bellaon Count family.
Deron Kellid, second son of the Kellid Ducal family.
Blund Rosphel, second son of the Rosphel Marquis family.
Elden Raphelion, sole heir of the Raphelion Count family.
With the exception of the now somewhat diminished House Raphelion, every one of them was the scion of a family that held a firm footing in the Winterfell Grand Duchy—and every one of them had thrown his hat into the ring for Grand Duchess Lumiang’s marriage tournament.
They were also the victors who had clawed their way into the final candidates among one hundred participants.
Looks, martial and scholarly talent, wealth, and the personal achievements each had racked up for himself—by every outward measure they were outstanding young men, without a single flaw as potential fiancés for the Third Grand Duchess of Winterfell.
The problem was this.
…Why on earth did she choose only men like these?
If one turned one’s gaze from the surface and looked inside them, they were wretched, shameless creatures. They delighted in standing over the weak, felt not a shred of shame for their twisted pleasures and extravagance, and would commit any wickedness without hesitation if it served their ambitions. Typical vicious nobles—that was their true worth.
And so, when those four men had advanced into the final ten of the main rounds, Gelwood—central aide of the Winterfell Grand Ducal house—had prayed with desperate fervor.
That Lady Lumiang would spare those four at least.
That this earnest wish might somehow reach her.
But whether Lady Lumiang had gently brushed that prayer aside, or whether she had scraped out with an earpick the loyal advice he had offered in an excess of caution, she selected precisely those four as her final candidates. Gelwood had been forced to drain the bitter cup of despair to the dregs.
Given her character and her uncommon insight, the choice was utterly incomprehensible. Yet a mere aide could only follow the will of the one he served. So he had swallowed his wretched feelings and been reviewing the communal lodging that would begin the next day.
Until one minute ago, that is.
“…Haha. So Young Master Elden has come all this way not to make a request, but to share a joke?”
It had to be a joke.
Gelwood chose to believe that. He had no other choice. If the only men left in the world were the final four candidates, he himself would have chosen Elden Raphelion—not as the best option, but as the least bad one.
The reason was simple. Elden Raphelion was, compared to the other three, somewhat less vicious and less wicked. At least he was a beast faithful to his instincts; he did not wear the cunning mask the others did.
Faced with that young man’s declaration of withdrawal, Gelwood forced a smile and asked again.
But the answer that came back was nothing like what he had hoped for.
“It’s rather far from a joke.”
The eyes shone with seriousness; the lips carried a voice of truth. Only then did Gelwood face the situation squarely. His expression hardened as he asked once more.
“…You are in earnest, then. What is your reason?”
“I suppose I realized I am far too lacking to become the Third Northern Grand Duchess’s betrothed.”
“You passed both the preliminary and main evaluations with outstanding scores, and you were even chosen by Her Grace herself. How can you claim you lack the qualifications?”
“I consider it an undeserved glory far beyond my station. When something you cannot hold is placed in your hand, the proper thing is to let it go.”
“Are you saying you will make all your efforts until now into wasted labor?”
Elden shrugged, his face indifferent, as if it were nothing of consequence.
“I’m simply reducing the wasted labor still to come.”
“…The place Young Master Elden occupies is the seat one hundred young lords dreamed of. Do you truly mean to abandon it?”
“Yes.”
A short answer, and all the more unyielding for its brevity. Sensing that persuasion would not move him so much as a hair, Gelwood considered a moment longer, then finally took a step back.
“A final candidate’s withdrawal is something that has never once occurred in the history of the marriage tournament… I believe this is a matter I must report to His Grace the Grand Duke. If you would grant me a day’s grace, I shall bring you an answer as swiftly as possible.”
Elden let out a quiet sigh. For a man who wanted to leave this place as soon as humanly possible, a full day felt far too long. Yet the thought that an abrupt candidate withdrawal might sour the Northern Grand Duke’s temper forced him to answer Gelwood with careful courtesy.
“Please convey my regards carefully to His Grace the Grand Duke.”
Please, just help me escape.
Gelwood, who had no way of knowing the true meaning beneath those words, once more offered a gentle smile.
“Do not worry. His Grace will respect a candidate’s wishes.”
“Then I’ll take my leave.”
Elden gave Gelwood a light bow of the head. On the legal hierarchy Elden stood above Gelwood, but the central aide of the Grand Ducal house that ruled the North held a lofty social position of his own; mutual respect was required—not as obligation, but as proper form.
Of course, receiving that courtesy for the first time since they had met left Gelwood more than a little bewildered.
A fortnight had already passed since the marriage tournament began. In that time they had crossed paths and spoken on several occasions, yet Elden Raphelion’s neck had always been stiff as iron. No—beyond stiff; it had been thrust so high it seemed he feared nothing under heaven. The air that coiled around him had been sharp as a blade, and those red eyes had carried a murderous light.
And yet, somehow…
…He’s different.
More precisely, the sense of wrongness Gelwood had felt from the moment this meeting began had just been given a name by that single bow.
The eyes were as calm as spring. The air around him was as gentle as a breeze. Even the raw, grinding speech of before had become mild and polite.
It was a subtle change, one that might easily be dismissed as an abstract illusion—but an aide’s virtue was to catch such things exactly and respond to them. And so Gelwood found himself questioning the change in Elden.
For now, he hastily returned the bow.
“Go carefully, Young Master Elden.”
“Yes. Please attend to your work.”
Click.
Elden left the office. Gelwood lingered a moment, turning over the atmosphere the young man had left behind, then set off at once for the family head’s study.
The problem at hand was not the subtle change in Elden Raphelion. It was the first recorded withdrawal of a final candidate in the history of the marriage tournament.
“Tsk.”
The moment I stepped out of the aide’s office I clicked my tongue. Escape had been postponed. Worse, I hadn’t even gotten a firm answer.
If the Northern Grand Duke decided to nullify the withdrawal, things were going to get thoroughly annoying. Of course, he wasn’t likely to refuse a resignation thrown down by the scion of the weakest family among the finalists… Still, for now all I could do was hope His Great and Illustrious Grace the Northern Grand Duke would simply wave it through without fuss.
“I should at least pack my things.”
I’d sent the head butler on an errand in case anyone tried any troublesome interference. For a former freeloader like me, packing a bag was something I could manage alone without trouble.
I hurried back to my room and began gathering everything in sight into one place.
Less luggage than I expected.
The Grand Ducal house had provided most necessities, so there wasn’t much I actually needed to take. A few changes of clothes, shoes, some accessories, and several bottles of high-grade liquor—that was the lot. Empty bottles among them suggested the original owner had enjoyed his drink even during the tournament.
Villains and booze do make an inseparable pair.
I was packing so that I could bolt in the middle of the night if necessary when a knock sounded and an elderly man entered the room. It was Rendler, the head butler I had sent on the errand.
“I have brought the items you requested, Young Master.”
Useless junk, really. I gestured vaguely toward the shelf.
“Just put them over there.”
“…….”
I finished tying up a reasonably neat bundle and straightened my back—only to find Rendler still standing there, the errand items in his arms, staring at me as if he had seen a ghost. His eyes were round as saucers; the look of a man who had just witnessed something that should not exist.
I glanced around the room for no particular reason and said,
“…What are you doing? I told you to put them over there.”
“…W-what are you doing right now, Young Master…?”
“Ah, I forgot to mention it. I just came from declaring my withdrawal to the aide. Figured I’d pack so we can leave the moment the answer comes.”
“So… what are you doing right now…?”
Hmm. Maybe I used too many words. It didn’t seem that hard to understand, though. And for the wastrel heir of a declining house with nothing much to boast of, simply reaching the final candidates should already have been more than enough to be grateful for. Don’t tell me the head butler of House Raphelion had actually been nursing some delusional dream that this wastrel would go on to win the whole thing?
If so, my apologies.
“Even getting this far was a miracle. Just making it to the final candidates of the Grand Ducal marriage tournament is enough validation that marriage proposals will pour in from all sorts of families. There’s no need to cling to a fight with no chance of winning.”
“…….”
I thought that should have been clear enough, yet Rendler’s eyes remained wide and unblinking. I was just starting to feel a twinge of guilt for delivering such a shock to the old butler when he looked at the bundle I had packed and uttered a single line.
And that single line laid bare, with perfect clarity, a slice of the villain character known as Elden Raphelion.
“So… Y-Young Master… you packed the luggage… with your own hands…? H-how can such a thing…?”
“……?”
In other words, what had stunned the old butler more than the fact that I had kicked away a chance to revive a declining house was the fact that the wastrel known as Elden Raphelion had actually used his own strength to pack a travel bundle with his own two hands.
Which meant that from the very beginning, the old butler had not held so much as an ant’s speck of expectation that Elden Raphelion would ever win the tournament.
……
……
Elden Raphelion.
Just what kind of life had you been living?