Chapter 2
Chapter 2
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: The Fragrant Stranger
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“As expected, all of Nexus's victories are thanks to Duke Dever.”
Arthur brushed back his tousled blond hair, tossing out the words with a beaming grin. The whiskey in his hand sloshed lightly in time with the rhythmic cadence of his speech.
Dever, lounging with his long legs casually crossed atop the side table, looked less like the empire's army commander and more like the duke he'd left behind in Wayne. Utterly refined—someone might even call him beautiful.
Arthur gazed steadily at him. It was hard to believe this was the commander on the eve of a predawn air raid. Dever showed no trace of anxiety, his demeanor like a honed blade or a bomb on the verge of detonation—calm right up to the edge.
“Once 'Dawn' is over, that'll be the end of it. This war, too.”
Undeterred by his friend's silence, Arthur pressed on. This was how their conversations always went, and he was used to it. They'd been fighting side by side since they were fifteen; he knew Dever's temperament inside out.
“When we get back, the ladies will be in a frenzy at the banquets, all clamoring to catch a glimpse of you.”
“Whiskey.”
Only then did Dever speak, prompting Arthur to shake his head with playful exasperation as he poured another glass.
“Leading us to a win like this, your nickname should be something like the Goddess of Victory, Nike.”
No one in Nexus didn't know the Cliff family, to which Dever belonged.
Founding heroes who built the empire alongside the first emperor, war heroes who turned endless conflicts into triumphs. With their innate ferocity bolstered by immense wealth and martial renown, some even jested impurely that Nexus belonged to the Cliffs.
Not that it was wrong. Even the capital's name, 'Wayne,' came from an ancestor of the Cliff line.
Puppy wolf, junkie, war maniac—even branded the ghost of his late father Cassius, Dever's name never lost its luster.
The Cliffs were Nexus's very symbol, and Dever had never shirked that duty.
A man who inspired both fear and awe. That contradiction defined Dever Cliff.
“You've spent your youth rolling in the dirt. This time, I'll give you a pretty nickname.”
Despite Arthur's lighthearted quip, a heavy silence soon settled over the table. Not born of tension on Dever's part, of course. It was Arthur's own unprecedented anxiety ahead of the final air raid battle weighing on him.
“Want to hear something fun?”
And hiding that base emotion was Arthur's role, as always.
“Word is, a stunningly beautiful nurse has arrived at the forward hospital.”
Dever's eyebrow twitched as he idly caressed the rim of his glass. A thoroughly insolent expression, laced with the implication that this was idle nonsense.
“For real. I heard it from Allen the gossip. But the real juicy part starts here.”
Arthur's voice dropped conspiratorially, as if sharing the empire's darkest secret.
“That woman can't—”
“Commander Dever...!”
A soldier burst into the tent, cutting Arthur off mid-sentence.
Arthur's lips, poised for a quip about daring to interrupt a prince, froze at the sight of the soldier's ashen face. A bead of sweat-like droplet trickled slowly from the glass precariously perched on the table's edge.
Dever's expression as he listened was oddly inscrutable. Blank as ever, yet the glint in his eyes suggested he was almost enjoying the situation. That gaze twisted in another direction only after the second soldier's report.
“So, to sum it up... We caught a spy trying to hand over the Dawn operation map, but of all nights, the rear hospital got hit with an air raid too?”
Arthur pieced together the reports from both soldiers. This time, he turned not to his friend, but to Nexus's army commander, as if urging him to speak.
“Looks like rat-hunting day.”
Dever's assessment was curt.
Inside the car racing through the darkness, Dever sank into thought.
This was what he'd been waiting for. Double-checking his ranks on the eve of the final battle was routine. No matter how they hid, spies always showed their tails eventually—and rooting them out was never difficult for Dever.
He'd set the trap. And caught them.
That's what he'd thought when the first scout burst into the tent with his report. His plan had worked perfectly, once again.
But the variable came next, with the singed communications officer staggering in.
An air raid on the army hospital, of all things, on the night before the operation.
Dever's ash-gray eyes darkened further, infused with the night's chill. The hospital fell within his domain. Was this the enemy's pathetic arrogance, daring to strike here? Or a meticulously laid trap of their own?
The trap-layer now had to suspect snares at his own feet.
“Stop.”
The car halted just as it entered the forest path after the unpaved dirt road—the true start of the route to the rear hospital.
“Lights out.”
The driver snapped to attention at the sharp order, shoulders stiff with tension. A glance revealed the commander staring into the abyssal darkness, fixated on something.
What the hell could he see? The driver strained his eyes, but the path stretched ahead like a beast's maw—empty.
Dever's boots crunched silently over fallen leaves as he stepped out. Arthur and the escort soldiers followed, only to halt at Dever's single gesture.
Dever slipped into the shadows like a predator stalking prey.
The path, lined with trees whose branches intertwined to cast long shadows, was ideal cover for both hunter and hunted.
Going alone was instinct. Dever's instinct to ferret out hidden threats amid the silence. To catch them, he couldn't make a racket. He had to approach soundlessly, convincing the skittish creatures they were utterly alone.
“Ugh... It hurts... Please, save me...”
That way, he could snag them like this.
Deep into the woods, Dever's lips twisted faintly.
Rather than pounce like a beast seizing its quarry by the scruff, he opted to play spectator to the drama. For a better view, he took a single step back. Even the moonlight couldn't quite grasp his retreating shadow.
“P-Please... spare me... Hah, hah...”
The wounded soldier's chest heaved with blood, his face pallid and blue. Blood trickled from his mouth with every cough. Another hour, maybe? Dever ran the pointless calculation.
The only noteworthy sight was the other soldier, back turned to Dever, fumbling desperately as if determined to do something.
Clad in an oversized uniform, he rummaged frantically through his pockets. Bandages and vials spilled wildly onto the leaves, capped by a syringe.
Unlike his initial clumsy motions, injecting the painkiller with practiced ease—then wrapping the wounded man's belt around his arm in lieu of a tourniquet—betrayed no novice handiwork. Even though field medics were illegal in Nexus.
Meanwhile, the mischievous moonlight clung once more to Dever's shadow.
“Hah... ugh...”
The wounded man's bluish lips suddenly began to quiver violently.
He flailed his rigid limbs as if gearing up to fight, dislodging the syringe to clatter uselessly to the ground—yet he thrashed on, oblivious.
“De... Dever...!”
Dever's head, tilted oddly in line with the syringe needle, turned slowly.
“Kovah Army, huh.”
The play was over.
Gun barrels glinted as he emerged leisurely from the shadows.
He didn't need to see the rest to know how it played out beyond the path. The communications officer had reported the hospital director likely colluding with the enemy. Spare uniforms were always on hand there—easy to pass along. Dressed as Nexus troops, crossing the border would have been a breeze.
“P-Please. Spare—”
How utterly clichéd.
Before the plea could finish, Dever's trigger—chamber loaded—beat it with a pull.
Dever turned away briskly, his polished boot toe now pointing toward something far more intriguing: the pitiful prey, staring up blankly, too stunned even to tremble.
The shallow, pale jaw peeking from under the helmet cap screamed not Kovah at first glance. Which meant Nexus forces. An ally saving the enemy? The absurdity deepened with every thought, drawing a hollow chuckle from Dever.
Dever slowly picked up the discarded syringe from the mud. Even as he dropped to one knee, the diminutive soldier's eyes didn't meet his—the helmet brim hid everything but those lips, the only part visible to him.
“Affiliation.”
No reply came.
Dever afforded a touch more patience. After all, this was the sole witness to events down the path, and seemed poised to offer something worthwhile.
“Only two types come down that road. Friendlies,”
His straight, pointer-finger gesture indicated the corpse behind.
“Or enemies pretending to be.”
Dever's hand slowly cupped the soldier's jaw. The stubbornly sealed lips smeared grotesquely against his rough thumb.
“Which are you?”
His grip tightened on the quivering chin. The thick digit circling the lips pried the teeth apart. Warm, humid breath—contrasting the cold night air—flowed unimpeded.
Scared just that much, by the heat.
“Speak.”
Not even a scream escaped as his fingers ravaged the mouth like they meant to devour the throat. The ragged breaths squeezing between them proved the soldier lived, at least.
Dever flung the syringe aside and hauled the soldier up by the collar with brutal force. Dangling in the baggy uniform like a netted fish, the soldier dangled as Dever dragged him toward a massive tree bathed fully in moonlight.
He slammed the wriggling figure against the trunk. The soldier clawed at the ground silently, gasping. Did he know this only made Dever's patience thinner?
Dever readjusted the collar, marked by handprints, and propped him against the bark. The soldier's feet scraped futilely against the wood. His eyes squeezed shut, as if choked.
“Open your eyes.”
Only as the breaths faltered did their gazes lock at last. Shadowed by the helmet, the eyes looked darker than they might have.
“Speak.”
Dever's ash-gray eyes flashed like a beast's in the standoff.
In that instant, a fierce gust rattled the silent woods. Endless branches clashed with eerie groans; Dever's unruffled hair whipped in the wind.
People called Nexus's nights as winter approached 'nights of secrets'—the howling winds perfect for hiding whispers.
But some secrets were too sweet to conceal. For instance.
“Who are you?”
A stranger's scent, borne on ebony-black secrets pouring down.