Chapter 112
Chapter 112
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 112
Chapter Title: Bastard
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Born crying.
A child's world is terribly narrow. Before knowledge accumulates and awareness expands, his world contained only one person. His mother.
In a shabby, dust-covered little room, his mother who coughed dryly while nursing him. His mother who brought him baby food from the world beyond the door.
Thanks to his innocence, young Envers could immerse himself in tranquil happiness amid the boundless love his mother provided. She was the only one in the world who truly cared for him.
As he grew older and the world began to seep into his mind bit by bit, those three warmest letters gained a strange qualifier.
A mother ignored even by lowly servants.
...
His mother taught Envers using the books the servants tossed aside. "Blue, the color of your eyes is blue. A vast, clear blue like the sky." Starting from words like that.
This was the Redburn Ducal House, and he had been born from the duke's seed.
Nobles held high status, and dukes especially were great bloodlines respected everywhere in the world. So he must become a fine person worthy of that blood.
How to fold clothes, and tips for doing laundry.
Apple peels were good for scrubbing off grease and water stains.
Learning time with his mother was joyful. The world grew wider, and he learned new concepts. Status, power, authority, bloodline...
He had never seen his father's face since birth, but Envers harbored vague hopes. The half that created him—his father. What kind of man was he, and how would he express his love?
Like in the storybooks, could he become a splendid noble, leading people in life?
...
Young Envers harbored such questions too. If the Redburn Duke was such a noble figure, then his wife—his mother—should be noble as well.
Why did even passing servants dress more finely than his mother?
Why did they speak politely yet look down on her with their eyes? Why did they widen their eyes and pretend not to hear what was clearly audible?
Back then, he had no way to unravel those mysteries.
The year Envers turned ten.
The servant finally said it was time to meet his father.
Envers first laid eyes on his father in a vast bedroom lit by red lamps and filled with pink smoke. On the enormous bed, naked women lay sprawled with glazed eyes.
His father didn't stop thrusting his hips even with his young son present.
It wasn't lewd so much as revolting and terrifying. No one felt pleasure or ecstasy—just waxen faces undulating together.
No love, no lust. It was like a pit of snakes writhing against each other.
When he asked what they were doing, his father replied curtly amid the wet slapping sounds. "Breeding." This was a farm for producing offspring. Treating people like livestock.
"Take him away and educate him."
That single short sentence was all. Envers was dragged off by the arms.
Only then did Envers understand. Beyond feeding chickens and chicks, was there any need for more love or affection? They were mere beasts, after all.
To his father, the Redburn Duke, Envers and his mother were the same.
His mother too must have been shaken like a broken doll on that bed, used to create him. The thought made his stomach churn. Something—many things—felt deeply wrong.
The place the servant dragged Envers to was a mansion full of boys who looked just like him. He instinctively knew they were his brothers.
This was the house of bastards.
What followed was a relentless cycle of education and training. The instructors drilled into them why they must devote their lives to the Redburn Duke, rewarding good behavior and punishing the bad.
They learned to wield daggers and rapiers, how to fight mages. They were also goaded into blind hatred for mages.
The Redburn Duke was kind-hearted and good, wanting to give his sons comfortable lives and happiness, but evil mages plotted schemes, forcing him to resist to protect the family.
The reason they suffered in training was the mages' fault, and once grown, if they killed all the wicked mages, they could live the luxurious lives they deserved.
"Mages, evil mages, die... die!"
"Louder! Is that all you've got to spit at those harming House Redburn?!"
"Die! It's all because of you, mages die...!!"
Envers mimicked the other boys, but a corner of his mind held doubts.
After the grueling training, rewards came based on performance. Top performers got sweet treats, while mid-tier Envers received dry hardtack.
Crispy, tough, with only a faint nuttiness for flavor.
Envy burned for the top boys' sweet cookies—what did they taste like? Once, curiosity drove Envers to approach the number one boy.
"Can I have just one bite?"
"..."
The top boy scowled, glaring with red eyes.
"I don't talk to trash below fifth place. Even if we share blood, purity differs. You're weak, so you must have inherited the noble blood diluted. Don't talk to me, you commoner scum."
The top boy's name was Roderus, rude even as a child.
Pat pat.
"I'm Redburn too—why call me a commoner?"
"You can't even swing a sword right, commoner."
"I'm Envers. Isn't this decent swinging?"
"I'm Roderus. Gripping the hilt like that throws off your aim, commoner."
The reason Envers doggedly trailed the sharp-tongued Roderus, chattering away, was simple. He was the only one who kept conversations going.
Other top brothers usually snapped, "Don't bother me!" and swung fists.
Lower brothers huddled together, eyeing mid-tier Envers with jealous exclusion, thanks to his "great" scores while playing with them.
Roderus had a foul mouth but always replied.
"But isn't this grip more comfy?"
"...Do it like they taught you, stupid commoner!!"
Intentionally fumbling brought a torrent of tips.
Sometimes, when in a great mood—like after consecutive first places—he'd break off a cookie piece as "charity."
Thanks to Roderus's lessons, slow-learning Envers climbed to third or fourth.
"Roderus."
"I'm a year older, so use honorifics. Call me Lord Roderus."
"Roderus bro."
"Stupid commoner..."
Back then, a loose bond of brotherhood existed between them. They got along decently.
Competing yet mirroring each other's flaws.
When Roderus fell ill with a bad cold and plummeted in ranks, Envers shared his cookies.
On moonlit nights, they'd sit side by side, dreaming futures.
"I'll be Father... the Redburn Duke's right hand. Revive the house, make my name echo across the continent."
"Then can I be the left hand?"
"As if trash like you could. Commoner, you'll be... my right hand's right hand."
"Then you'd have two right hands, Roderus bro!"
In a normal home, they'd have been close brothers.
But soon, harsh winter descended on the bastards' house. Harvest season for the duke. One morning, the instructor announced:
"You'll take the final exam. Everyone fights everyone. The victor becomes the glorious scion of Duke Redburn. The rest—the worthless losers..."
The instructor's trailing off sparked grim imaginations.
Rivalry intensified, jealousy turned to hatred. Boys taught devotion to House Redburn as life's sole goal rejected being "worthless losers."
Was Roderus the same? Or some other reason?
One day, he quietly told Envers:
"...Commoner, I figured out how to use mana. Telling only you. But it's one-use, so only in the decisive moment."
Roderus taught a flawed mana technique. Envers trusted him.
Envers thought: If I reach the finals and tie with Roderus, maybe both get picked. If only one, I'll yield.
Because he'd promised to make him right hand's right hand.
"Urk, aaaagh...!!"
In the fateful final exam, Envers vomited blood from botched mana and collapsed.
He didn't know what became of Roderus after. Envers only knew his own fate.
After recovery, he realized his body was ruined. His sense for feeling and wielding mana was twisted. The family doctor diagnosed: "This boy will never achieve harmony or fullness."
Envers's talent was crippled.
He got labeled "unselected fraud." A cripple who wrecked himself trying to use unlearned, unknown mana out of greed to win.
The scorn once aimed at his mother now targeted him.
Still, it was okay. With effort, he could be a family guard. Or study hard, serve with brains.
As long as he could live with his mother despite the disdain. They'd been apart a year already.
Upon discharge, Envers sought his mother. Her room was empty. A passing servant said she'd been chased out.
No value in the dam of a fraud.
"..."
He stood blankly like a corpse for a day.
Other failed brothers vanished. Asking yielded mechanical replies: "Serving the family."
Asking his mother's whereabouts: "Don't know since she left the gates."
No one cared to help a fraud.
Fine then.
If he grew strong, induced fable, even sublimation. Became "useful." Then he could bring mother back.
All who scorned him would look again, and he'd ask Roderus bro... Did it have to be like that?*
When of age, he applied to the academy and passed.
He swung sword, spear, dagger, staff without rest. Trained till fainting from exhaustion. Whether some mad mage caused a fuss mattered not.
Only growing stronger mattered; no distractions.
But on fine moonlit nights, he'd gaze skyward, recalling the past. Roderus sharing cookies under the same moon. His brother.
"..."
Hatred, longing, sorrow, betrayal—all tangled in turmoil.
Was he wielding rapier as Redburn Duke's right hand, for the family? Did that lie have meaning?
Was he doing well?
"No...?!"
One morning, Roderus Redburn awoke from an unsettling dream.
He realized he had become a lovely girl in his bed.