Chapter 16
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 015
Chapter Title: Slop Bucket (3)
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Kaintrea Ducal Residence.
Afternoon sunlight lazily settled over the marble floors.
It was a time so peaceful it bordered on boring.
Sharl sat at the tea table in the garden, blankly staring at her red black tea.
"How much longer?"
The promised month. That rat bastard would either crawl here on his own two feet or get dragged in a sack.
Either way, it would be a while before she saw the end of it.
Of course, the one who had agreed to wait that long,
who had accepted that 'condition', was none other than Sharl herself—and that was the problem.
Clink.
She irritably set down her teacup.
It clashed sharply against the saucer.
She was annoyed.
In all her life up to now, the word 'patience' had never existed in Sharl de Kaintrea's dictionary.
If she wanted a jewel, she took it right then and there.
If she craved something to eat, she had strawberries fetched even in the dead of winter.
Yet here she was, cooped up in this vast mansion, counting days because of some slum rat.
"......This is a first for me."
Her insides burned with frustration.
This unfamiliar thirst was unpleasant, yet it strangely fueled her possessiveness even more.
'A promise?'
Sharl twisted her lips.
'Who gives a damn about that.'
Promises must be kept regardless of status? That was a moral for powerless commoners.
If the lady of a ducal house like her willed it, she could tear a promise to shreds lighter than scrap paper.
She could just send someone right now
to grab that rat by the scruff and drag him here. Easy.
"Yeah. No need to wait."
Sharl shot up from her seat as if resolved.
Her patience had run dry, and her whims were boiling over.
She needed to see that insolent face right now to feel better.
That was when it happened.
Thud, thud.
A hulking man approached, stepping on the well-manicured garden grass.
Wearing a loose leather vest.
His expression was as impassive as ever.
"It's been a while, miss."
"......Kain?"
Sharl's brows furrowed.
"What are you doing here?"
"Well... there was a bit of a problem."
"He ran off already?"
Sharl's eyes sharpened.
Disobeying orders? Or had that cunning rat slipped away after all?
"I told you to bring him dead if necessary."
"No."
Kain cut her off curtly.
Then, glancing at the teacup sitting alone on the table, he reported flatly.
"She's dead."
"......What?"
Sharl blankly echoed him.
"Who? The brat?"
Kain shook his head.
"His mother."
"......"
Sharl's hand froze.
Mother. Rinea, was it? That legless pile of filth.
"Dead? She got treatment."
"Yes. She seemed fine just a few days ago. Eating, sitting up."
Kain scratched the back of his head and continued.
"But yesterday at dawn, she suddenly spewed up a bucket of blood and that was it."
"......"
"No time to do anything. Just went out like a snuffed candle."
Silence.
Sharl stood dazed for a moment, then slowly sat back down.
"Ha."
A hollow laugh escaped her.
"Dead? In just four days?"
"That's how it happened."
Her silver eyes flashed fiercely.
Sadness? Pity? Nothing like that.
What she felt was pure irritation at buying a defective product,
and
"That pig of a priest...
Stuffing his face with my money, and then saying he couldn't save her?"
Nothing but rage at the audacity of scamming the Kaintreas.
Sharl ground her teeth and shoved the teacup away roughly.
Clink.
Red black tea spilled across the white tablecloth,
spreading like a bloodstain.
"......Hoo, so."
She propped her chin and looked up at Kain.
"The brat."
"......"
"Wailing and carrying on? Or throwing a fit about dying together or whatever?"
The one who had made such a fuss to save his mother.
Digging through the slop bucket, acting bold in front of her,
presenting conditions even on the brink of death.
That insolent rat—how had his face looked when faced with the worst outcome?
That was intriguing.
"No."
"......?"
"He sleeps."
Kain jerked his chin toward the distant southern sky.
"Just sleeps. All day.
Wakes occasionally... drinks some water, stares blankly at the empty bed...
Then crashes again. Like a corpse."
Kain clicked his tongue.
"Soul's gone or shock fried his brain. Not normal, anyway."
That spirited kid, wilted overnight like a dried-up potted plant?
"......Hmm."
Sharl's lips curled up slyly again.
Disappointment? No. Relief, rather.
Better this way.
That venom, that cunning—it must have all stemmed from that 'mother' after all.
Without her, he was just a ragdoll with cut strings, sprawled limp.
"Broken."
Sharl stood.
"Perfect. Would've had to break his pride first anyway to train him.
He's done it himself—saves me the trouble, right?"
Leon’s grief was no concern of hers.
Just meant the process to acquire her collectible was shortened.
"And... anyway, she was baggage dragging things when bringing him.
She's cleared herself out—easier pickup now."
Her mother's death was an annoying scam mishap,
yet also an 'efficient outcome'—the obstacle hindering toy acquisition gone.
"Prepare."
"You're going?"
"Yeah. Gotta offer some comfort, at least."
Sharl brushed off her skirt hems, smiling with anticipation.
"Curious how that rat with nowhere left to go...
will cling to me, aren't you?"
It was quiet.
The usual bustle was gone,
silence so deep even a fly's buzz would echo.
A crooked [Closed] sign hung on the shop door,
chairs stacked atop tables in the first-floor hall.
And on the second floor. The innermost room.
"......"
I sat on the floor, staring at the empty bed.
Where Rinea had lain.
Just the bloodstained mattress left alone there.
'......She's gone.'
Empty. Like all tension draining away.
After that pig priest left, Rinea really seemed to improve.
Color returned to her face; she even sipped some porridge and smiled at me.
[Sorry. Mommy's causing you worry.]
[...Thought you'd die for sure.]
[Who said anything about dying? Not before leaving my baby behind.]
Then yesterday at dawn.
Rinea spewed black blood and closed her eyes without a final word.
Probably sepsis.
"......What the hell am I supposed to do if you really croak, you idiot woman."
I buried my face in my knees.
Even after sleeping nearly two days straight, bone-deep fatigue crashed in.
Money? I'd scraped it together so desperately.
Rubbing palms raw, worming my way up, wiping others' shit.
And it just fattened a con artist, leaving me broke and orphaned.
"......Fucking moron."
Muttering curses softly, I flopped back down.
Right cheek to the floor, room tilted vertical in my view.
Worn wooden planks. Bed legs ready to snap.
Those would've shattered if she'd spread 'em one more time.
Dust and bread crumbs. Cockroaches crawling, munching them.
Finger-length ones: one, two.
Nail-sized one too.
Shoved out by the big ones, fleeing from the crumbs.
Scuttle scuttle—
It fled to the room's darkest corner.
There sat
the slop bucket that caught Rinea's shit, piss, and pus.
"......Mommy."
Yeah. Gotta dump that too now.
No one to use it, just stinking up the place.
Attract more bugs.
"......"
Later.
Sleep first.
Sleep when tired.
It's fine for a five-year-old.
I closed my eyes.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Pounding like they’d break the door down,
"Hey! We know you're in there!"
"Open up! While we're asking nice!"
Harsh shouts from rough men.
In the first-floor hall, Master Jerome stood with his back to the firmly shut door.
In his hand, the heavy club he usually hid under the counter.
"Sign says closed."
He warned the intruders beyond the door in a low growl.
"Get lost."
"Kuhaha! Who you training like a mutt, old man?"
Bang! A kick rattled the door, hinges screaming.
A gap opened, and ugly mugs shoved through.
"Week's up, pal."
The leader-looking one bared his teeth in a grin.
"We notified you, right? Remember?"
"......You think 20 gold makes sense."
"Doesn't it? Raking it in with room fees and all."
He leered greedily around the shop.
"Word's out. Making bank.
20 gold's pocket change, yeah? Share with the bros."
20 gold. Might as well be handing over all the shop's earnings—straight-up robbery.
"......No such money."
Jerome gripped the club tighter.
"And even if there was, not giving it."
"What?"
"This place isn't mine. Different owner."
Leon. That fierce kid.
Even rotting like a corpse in the corner now,
he'd revived this shop, fed everyone.
Couldn't let punks like these steal his blood-and-sweat turf.
That was the last pride of an adult—and his kid's 'front man'.
"So scram."
Jerome raised the club. Eyes sharp behind glasses.
"One more step, and I smash your skull."
"Heh..."
The leader scoffed in disbelief.
"This guy's nuts. Push him."
Crash!
At the order, they battered the door with a crowbar and surged in.
A wave of violence poured through.
"Guhk!"
Jerome swung, cracking the lead thug, but outnumbered.
A fist shattered his glasses; brutal kicks hammered his gut.
"Khek...!"
He tumbled to the floor. Blood sprayed from his mouth.
"Where's this gramps get off acting tough."
The leader yanked Jerome up by the hair.
"Hand over the cash. Where ya hiding it?"
"......Ptoo."
Jerome spat blood-mixed saliva in his face.
"Ain't got none... you fuckers."
"This goddamn...!"
Thwack! A dull thud snapped Jerome's head back.
They stomped him like a dog again.
One grabbed a strong liquor bottle from the counter display.
Uncorked it, splashing everywhere on the floor.
"Told ya we'd burn it if no pay?
Making an example. So these alley bugs never punk out again."
Scratch. Match struck.
Tiny flame arced through the air.
Whoosh!
Fire caught on the booze-soaked floor.
"Kuhaha! Burns nice!"
"Let's go! Bounce!"
They hooted and fled.
In seconds, red tongues licked hungrily,
devouring the old wooden building.