A Way to Make You Look Strong
“……Director, please wait inside. I'll talk some sense into them.”
“Walter, just apologize and―”
“I'm fine. Don't worry—just stay inside. I'll wrap this up and join you shortly.”
In the biting cold of the northern chill, whether from standing too long or my fingertips freezing solid, I couldn't bring myself to stop Walter as he strode toward the northerners.
No... not you—me! I'm the one who's worried! The Beauty Tower is!
Even with just Walter and the black-haired man swinging their swords, the ground shook like an earthquake. And now these new arrivals—northerners with faces as brutal as Jeff or Ollie, at least thirty of them, massive hulks. If they charged in earnest, turning the Beauty Tower to rubble wouldn't take more than a moment. Easy to imagine.
But I couldn't spit out the words swirling in my head, terrified of drawing those monsters' attention. All I could do was curse them inwardly, low and vile.
“Northerners have no manners, then or now. Don't they teach their kids? Tolstoy?”
“Worm! Reckless fool! How dare you utter His Grace the Grand Duke's name so lightly! We'll cut out your tongue and feed it to the beasts―”
“Enough, enough. You lot couldn't handle him.”
...I'm losing it! Hey! You said you'd talk them down—why provoke them? Wait, Grand Duke? Your Grace? That black-haired guy's the northern Grand Duke?
Cache had only told me northerners had dark red hair, so I'd naively thought avoiding them was enough. What a fatal mistake.
The Ling Office warning about pulling your own number ticket... did that mean they could grind you to powder like a snail?
As memories flashed of our casual chat on the walk to the Beauty Tower, a shiver raced down my spine like icy needles.
“We cannot let this insolent cur who insulted His Grace live. Please, let us rip the mouth from that filthy face―”
“Hey, hey, didn't you see us fight? He's the Devil's Cry.”
“Ah, the Devil's Cry, you mean?”
“The Devil's Wail!?”
Ching― clang― clang― At the northern Grand Duke's words, the northerners drew their swords in unison. Their fierce reaction confirmed it: before his neurofibromatosis surgery, Walter's other name was Devil's Cry.
Watching them, the northern Grand Duke smirked.
“Sheathe your swords, all of you. It's obvious even if you all rushed him, you couldn't win. If even I couldn't beat him, how could you?”
“B-but... that man's face doesn't match the Devil's Cry at all, does it? Before, it was clearly...”
The gravelly-voiced man trailed off, but the Grand Duke waved dismissively, as if too annoyed to explain.
“He got treated, obviously. Same aura, though. Anyway, Devil's Cry—or Walter, was it? Feeling slighted? I begged for your name for years, but you never told me.”
“Get lost, you redheads. This is a sacred hospital. Not a place for bloodstained brutes like you.”
Even as Walter growled like a beast, the Grand Duke just smirked again.
“Amusing. You're the one who reeks of blood the most here. Or maybe me?”
No, the sword...?
The sword in the Grand Duke's hand shrank in an instant, morphing into a necklace. He looped it around his neck and continued.
“Anyway, I'm black-haired, so it should be fine, right? I need to consult the doctor here.”
“Don't play word games!”
Walter leveled his sword at the approaching Grand Duke. They clearly knew each other, but leaving them like this could spark disaster any second.
“W-Walter! Hold on! Th-that gentleman—no, Your Grace—I've consulted with him before. You two seem to know each other, so let's sheathe the sword.”
“......Understood.”
At my desperate plea, Walter sheathed his blade. The Grand Duke approached with an intrigued look.
“Interesting... So cold to me, but jealous of the doctor?”
“Trick me, and I'll sever your head, Tolstoy.”
“Won't be easy, friend.”
Invisible sparks crackled between Walter and the Grand Duke's eyes. Any moment, round two could erupt. Hiding my trembling gut, I wedged myself between them.
“Haha, no need for this—come inside and talk it over.”
So I hustled them into the Beauty Tower. The automatic doors on the first floor slid open, blasting warm air from the heaters. My body melted like a marshmallow in hot chocolate.
But seating the Grand Duke in the cafe corner felt like every window had been flung wide in a blizzard.
I knew Walter was strong, but... not this strong...
Before I could gather my thoughts, Ravi—the wolf boy handling barista and serving duties for the Cash Shop cafe during winter instead of flyers—brought a tray of refreshments to our table. Unsolicited, which meant Cache had spotted the tension and acted fast. I sent him a silent thanks.
Time for the real talk.
“I'm Baron Minor Gold, director of Beauty Tower General Hospital. My apologies for the rudeness toward Your Grace.”
“Don't sweat it—I like interesting people.”
Small mercy. I'd piqued his interest.
“Of course, if it wears off, I kill them. Like those flies earlier. Shame Walter stopped me; I'd have slaughtered the vermin.”
“Hmph. You've probably already sent your underlings to finish them, yet you call it a shame.”
“Not killing them myself is the shame. No thrill in it.”
“Fair enough.”
Deadpan, as if those thugs from moments ago were already ghosts. My mind went blank. No more chit-chat—straight to business.
“While Beauty Tower treats most diseases, my specialty is cosmetic surgery, as I mentioned. What consultation does Your Grace seek?”
I treaded carefully to avoid offending him. His response was blunt.
“I want to look strong.”
“......”
Nobles had their quirks, sure. But this Grand Duke took the cake.
“If I may, Your Grace is stronger than anyone.”
“Yeah, I know. Few can stand against my blade. Walter here's one.”
Walter's face twisted at “friend,” but my calming hand kept him silent.
“Like you said, I'm strong. But looking strong? That's different.”
The Grand Duke chuckled and pressed on.
“No need to freak. Even I'm embarrassed saying it, haha.”
“Not at all, Your Grace. But does 'looking strong' mean more intimidating? Then abs surgery to sculpt your—”
Swish―
“Abs? I've got plenty.”
“I see......”
Before I finished, he yanked up his shirt, revealing razor-sharp abs at 7% body fat, split like a turtle shell.
“I'm thirty-four this year. Inherited the duchy at fifteen, been ruling the north ever since. One more month, and it's nearly twenty years by the calendar.”
His expression hardened slightly as he continued.
“Everyone in the Lancaster Duchy—or the North Continent—knows me. One look at my jet-black hair, tainted by magic, and they tremble. But step outside the North Continent, and flies like today buzz around. Killing them every time is a hassle.”
“......”
Tolstoy Lancaster of the North leaned back irritably, tapping the armrest with pale, elegant fingers.
“That's why your words caught me. Overcoming inferiority with surgery.”
“That was just—”
Something I said offhand. Can't you just leave?
“Method doesn't matter. I want my overwhelming power to show on the outside. That's it.”
...Psycho. Definitely a psycho.
I'd never dreamed he'd twist my cosmetic explanation like this. Confusion swirled; cold sweat poured like a canal opening down my back. Psychos have limits, but powerful ones? Deadly. I needed a fix, fast. For my survival.
“......If I may, couldn't Your Grace bulk up more? Add some scars?”
“Sadly, impossible.”
“Impossible...?”
“It's not my frame or build—I'm taller than the northern average.”
“......”
“But I lead every battle, slay more foes and beasts than anyone. I fight several times harder than any knight, so no matter how much I eat and train, it burns off. You'd faint seeing my intake.”
Even Korea's Marathon Boy lost 7.5kg after three days awake swimming. The Grand Duke's basal metabolic rate had to dwarf that.
“You're wasting the Director's valuable time with nonsense. Speak—if you want, I'll carve up that pretty face myself, no need for the Director.”
“Tempting? Shall we settle an old score today?”
As Walter growled and gripped his sword, Tolstoy toyed with the cross necklace at his throat.
“Walter. We're consulting. Don't interrupt.”
“My apologies, Director.”
Sorry, Walter, but I couldn't let the Beauty Tower become a battlefield. Amused by his obedience, the Grand Duke chuckled and dropped the necklace.
“You'll see, but sword masters like us who wield aura don't scar easily. Forcing wounds feels weak. Look outside at my men—soft, so their faces are hacked up.”
“......”
Glancing at the bear-like guards by the doors, “weak” seemed worlds away. Their feral faces alone dried my throat.
Arrogant, but true. Legendary boxer Floyd Mayweather went 50-0 pro with barely a mark on his face.
His goal clear, time for a custom procedure.
“How about a hairstyle change? Our expert barber does a 'fade' cut—”
“Barber, huh? Figures.”
“......”
Swallowing my irritation, Tolstoy cackled maniacally and continued.
“Tried hairstyles. But hair grows back. So, besides bulking up or self-harm, any way to make me look rugged?”
“......”
This was plastic surgery, not psych. I had to do something, but what— Ah.
“Your Grace, in my homeland, there was a famous boxer. No match for you, but he dominated an era with his fists.”
One solution dawned: the mark etched on Mike Tyson's face. The way to make northern Grand Duke Tolstoy Lancaster look strong.