Chapter 131
Chapter 131
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 130
Chapter Title: Beggar Gritz (6) - Origin
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Kobin, a servant of the Canillian family, wiped the sweat dripping down from his relentless labor and stretched his back tall.
"Ughhh."
For a brief moment, a groan escaped his lips and his back felt refreshingly cool, but soon enough, a dull ache set in, as if to remind him it had all been in his head.
Probably tomorrow, too, this pain would linger.
The thought made irritation bubble up anew, and Kobin spat out a curse.
"Fuck, what kind of bullshit festival is this... That damn bitch. If she's gonna croak, just croak quietly without tiring everyone else out. Hah."
The feelings the people of this land held toward the shrine maiden hovered somewhere between guilt and unease.
Intellectually, they understood they were alive thanks to her sacrifice, but facing that truth head-on was too hard, so they just averted their eyes.
But the world had its share of people utterly lacking even that shred of shame, and Kobin was one of them.
Truth be told, what did it matter to him if the shrine maiden died or ascended to the heavens?
He simply resented her for making needless trouble with her pointless suggestion, creating work out of thin air.
As he grumbled while repeating the task of moving cargo,
Suddenly, something odd caught Kobin's eye.
'An oak barrel?'
A fairly large oak wine cask sat abandoned in the corner of the corridor.
It was strange.
Suspicious.
He should check its condition right away and report it upstairs if needed.
'Better pretend I didn't see it.'
That is, if this weren't festival season.
With the entire estate in an uproar, swarming with people and goods moving every which way.
Assuming it was someone else's doing, Kobin turned his attention away from the barrel.
If he poked at it or lingered and some superior spotted him, he'd end up hearing, "You there, help with this for a sec"—that would be the real nightmare.
The golden rule in times like these was to focus solely on your own tasks and look busy.
Kobin had no idea.
That today, in the Canillian estate, countless others had gone through the exact same thought process as him.
Too busy, too annoying, might get chewed out if they touched it, they'd check later, someone else must be handling it—they'd all ignored the barrel.
"Hup, ugh? Ack?!"
He never realized, even after tripping over a small rag that had somehow ended up underfoot.
A slimy rag hurled from the barrel had flown straight through the distance to land precisely at his feet—something that defied his common sense.
After teaching one servant a lesson in holding his tongue, Gritz's infiltration operation continued unabated.
Sometimes exploiting people's perceptions.
Sometimes hiding in blind spots.
Sometimes tracing paths no ordinary person could imagine.
Deeper inside, further in.
Toward the estate's highest authority.
Squelch. Slide.
The guard at the family head's door failed utterly in his duty ahead of Gritz's ambush.
He couldn't draw his weapon to fight back, couldn't cry out to alert others, not even thrash around to drain the intruder's stamina and time.
All he managed was trembling limbs before going limp as Gritz slithered behind him, clamped his mouth shut, and choked him unconscious.
And so, the head of the Canillian family only realized the danger when the intruder burst through the main door and jammed a staff into his mouth.
"...? ...?!"
"Shut your mouth. Unless you want a hole in your head."
"..."
"Rolling your eyes like that, you must not get what's happening. No need to figure it out. I'm gonna ask you a few questions now—just answer sincerely, no fuss. Got it? Blink twice if you do."
Blink. Blink.
With a wet pop, the staff pulled free from the family head's mouth.
And naturally, he let out a shout.
"Intruder!! An intruder in the family head's chambers!!"
The family head wasn't acting foolish out of fear.
No, he was utterly calculating and wise.
The intruder wanted to question him.
Meaning there was information he needed; killing him outright wasn't an option.
There was a chance of rash action from anger or haste, but the weapon was a blunt instrument, not a blade.
And this was the heart of his own estate—a few hits were survivable until allies arrived.
His actions and judgment were logical in their own way.
But.
Even as he yelled, the estate remained silent.
And Gritz neither raged at him nor tried to stop him.
Realizing this, the family head's face grew paler by the second.
'No way... Everyone's been taken out?'
All his servants, soldiers in the estate?
He had no clue.
That Gritz had enveloped him in Sound Blocking Technique—a thin membrane of mana.
The estate still bustled with people unharmed; they simply couldn't hear his voice.
He'd never even imagined such a technique existed, so his guess veered off wildly.
Either this monster before him was so powerful he'd massacred everyone alone, or he had many accomplices.
Either way, no hope for the family head.
"Done thrashing? Time to pay for ignoring me and breaking your promise, then."
Gritz didn't bother correcting his misconception.
He'd set the stage precisely to foster that misunderstanding.
"I-I'll answer! No, I will answer! I'll tell you anything—please spare me!!"
Stoking the opponent's imagination and fear was far more efficient than just beating obedience into them.
At last, a long tale poured from the family head's lips.
***
Long ago—far before all the fuss about the Demon King and such—our Canillian family had ruled this land.
Not as the unparalleled, singular overlords we are now, though.
We were just one among many local powers and influential houses.
Then one day, our ancestor went hunting and by chance discovered 'it'.
I call it 'it' because its form differed utterly from any creature he knew.
At a glance, it resembled a human, but bore massive wings on its back, with a faint halo of light shimmering around it like gold dust.
Had it been whole, it must have been breathtakingly beautiful and majestic—we can only guess.
Yes, guess.
Because when our ancestor found it, it was far from intact.
One wing, evoking a white bird, was torn off midway; half its upper body, including the face, was smeared in something like blood mixed with black mud; and the lower half was pulverized into a bloody pulp.
The intact remnants were so exquisitely beautiful and grand that its wounds and missing parts seemed all the more tragic.
Most wondrous—and horrifying—was that even in that state, it lived.
Whether pity, curiosity, or entranced by its eerie mana, our ancestor brought it home and nursed it.
It soon regained consciousness, but its mind was shattered.
Calling it childlike would be too kind; it was more like an utter simpleton.
Dull, foolish, quick to forget what was taught.
Ask about its past or how it ended up broken here, and it couldn't answer properly.
Of no use but eating our food, our ancestor used it like... a trash bin.
Grievances, complaints, grudges, irritations.
He'd vent all the negative emotions of leading a faction to it, or demand agreement—like cursing a foe together.
Topics too sensitive or vulnerable to share with servants were fair game with it.
It wouldn't comprehend anyway, and too impaired to flee.
Then one day, something bizarre happened.
As it blankly listened to our ancestor's usual rants or parroted responses without understanding, it suddenly questioned him back.
-Want?
-Want that guy unhappy?
-How unhappy? Want how?
While cursing a rival local power, our ancestor answered without much thought.
He wished their crops would fail spectacularly.
Their leader had smugly boasted to him about their fine fields and bountiful grains.
Our ancestor soon forgot the exchange.
People don't remember every item tossed into a trash bin.
Even if it made an odd sound on impact, nothing noteworthy.
It should have ended there.
But their rival's crops truly failed.
Neighboring families and fields bountiful, yet theirs suffered historic famine.
So bizarre, people gossiped for ages.
Our ancestor recalled his forgotten talk with it.
He asked if it had done something.
It couldn't answer properly. Not surprising—it barely remembered instructions.
Our ancestor shrugged it off with an "I knew it."
Then another dispute arose between our family and a rival house.
Over who would use a newly dug well.
We lost the power struggle, and drunk, our ancestor vented curses before it again.
But it spoke once more.
-Want?
-Want that guy suffer?
-Suffer how? Want what kind?
Our ancestor wished their well would dry up.
Worthless, spewing only mud despite their efforts.
And so it did.
The well dried; the rivals lamented.
People chalked it to bad digging spot.
Our ancestor couldn't dismiss it.
Once coincidence, twice suspicion.
He asked if it had meddled again; no proper reply.
Instead, he commanded:
Can you dry someone's land?
Can you parch someone's water?
Can you wither someone's cherished trees?
It replied.
-Want?
Our ancestor answered, and all came to pass.
Thus, Canillian became this land's sole ruler.