Chapter 16
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 16
Chapter Title: In Search of Moonlight Grass (1)
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“Uweeek!”
“Spit it out! You idiot!”
It had all happened in the blink of an eye.
The black-haired boy swung a fist at the golden-haired girl.
Not content with just striking the frail girl's solar plexus, Blanc even shoved his fingers down her throat to force the vomiting.
The steak she'd just eaten came back up in perfect chunks from Izrelin’s throat, but Blanc paid no mind as he jammed his fingers deeper, desperately trying to make her purge the poison she'd already swallowed.
Damn it all!
Even with his quick first aid, he could see Izrelin’s lips turning blue.
Signs of poisoning.
He'd clearly made her vomit, but some of the poison must have already been absorbed into her bloodstream.
It was that woman!
Blanc Cardmus, the fourteen-year-old young baron no longer—instead, the forty-year-old grizzled mercenary resurfaced in an instant—snatched up the knife he'd been using to cut his steak.
“Where are you?!”
Finding the redheaded woman was child's play.
She was fleeing in a panic, shoving people aside.
Crackle.
A flash of white lightning flickered in Blanc's eyes the moment he spotted her.
And with it, he shot toward the redheaded woman like a bolt of lightning itself.
Truly, in the blink of an eye.
He appeared behind her in no time, grabbed her by the hair, and slammed her head hard into a nearby table.
Bam!
A cracking sound followed the impact with the table.
As the woman flailed, dazed from being smashed into the table, Blanc seized her left arm and drove the knife straight through her hand into the wood.
Screeeam!
The steak knife pinned her left hand back to the table, piercing right through.
“Manager!”
The manager responsible for the hall was so stunned by the sudden chaos that he stood frozen.
Blanc bellowed at him.
“Listen well! I am Baron Blanc Cardmus! If that knife is gone when I return, you're dead! Got it?!”
It was pressure no fourteen-year-old boy could exude.
Even the manager, who had clawed his way up through every hardship imaginable, was overwhelmed by Blanc's aura and could only nod dumbly, entranced.
“Y-yes? Yes, yes! Understood, my lord Baron!”
Without waiting for the reply, Blanc scooped up the blue-lipped Izrelin and sprinted toward the Tolome estate with all his might.
It was deep into the night, but not a soul in the mansion was asleep.
“How is she, Billy?”
Blanc sat on the edge of his room's desk, clutching his disheveled hair.
“Her prognosis isn't good, sir. Of all the poisons, it had to be from the yellow-striped mushroom...”
Of all the damn luck!
There had been a reason Blanc caught the woman who poisoned Izrelin amid that frantic chaos.
To identify the poison from her.
Knowing the type would make finding an antidote far easier.
But the poison from the yellow-striped mushroom that afflicted Izrelin had no antidote.
That was what made it such a nightmare: it only caused agony in men without killing them, but in women, the symptoms turned viciously lethal.
The effects varied by the victim's gender, which was why no antidote had ever been made.
And Izrelin was a girl whose body hadn't fully matured, making it even deadlier.
She was holding on this long only thanks to Blanc's immediate action.
Otherwise, she would've died before they even reached the Tolome estate.
Who...?
His past life's thirty years had been nonstop survival struggles.
Perhaps that's why.
Blanc, who had always prioritized his own safety above all, hadn't spared a thought for Izrelin right beside him.
My fault.
It was his mistake. If that drink looked suspicious, he should've knocked it over or at least kept it far from her hands.
“What about that woman?”
“Tolome soldiers have her in custody. Lord Viteli is interrogating her personally right now.”
The Tolome family had plenty of enemies, but no one could've held a grudge against a ten-year-old girl.
That's why Viteli stepped in himself.
To root out the foes targeting the family's youngest.
The redheaded woman Blanc had caught was destined for a gruesome end.
In the gray-white study.
“Did you get anything?”
Bartolomeo Tolome was every inch Felix's lion.
His growl betrayed no hidden rage—he looked every bit the beast to anyone watching.
But Viteli standing before him was no less imposing.
Blood splattered his clothes from the hands-on interrogation, and his usually neat hair was a mess from rushing up the moment he got a confession.
“My men investigated. She's not an assassin—just a common whore. She's lived in Baltimer for years and was somewhat known in her trade...”
“And?”
Even facing his father, Viteli couldn't help swallowing hard under the man's pressure.
“...And she claims she was just paid to hand over the drink.”
“By whom?”
Viteli hesitated, uncharacteristically fumbling his words at Bartolomeo's question.
Bam!
“I'm asking who paid her—!!”
Bartolomeo couldn't contain his fury, even with his own son before him.
Viteli grimaced, forced to answer.
“...Yonas, she said.”
The utterly unexpected name from Viteli's lips left Bartolomeo momentarily flustered.
“Yonas...? You mean my grandson Yonas?”
“Yes, Father. More precisely, she got the money from Yonas's valet.”
“Why would that boy...?”
The shock hit hard; Bartolomeo's legs buckled, and he slumped into his chair.
“The whore said the original target wasn't Izrelin—it was Blanc. She was just supposed to pass the drink to him...”
“Why would Yonas poison Blanc?!”
Yonas and Blanc had no reason to be at such deadly odds.
Blanc had no claim to Tolome succession rights anyway.
He posed no threat to Yonas's interests or position.
If anything, they could've bonded as fellow sword trainees.
“...The poison used was yellow-striped mushroom extract—as you know, Father, in men it...”
“Doesn't kill. I know that much.”
Viteli smoothed his messy hair and continued.
“It's been used before. Some of the boys training under Sir Edwin with Yonas fell ill once, and it was the same poison...”
“How'd you confirm that?”
Bartolomeo’s question drew a sigh and a defeated look from Viteli.
“Truth is... I'd already interrogated Yonas's valets. They confessed everything. Said it was all Yonas's doing.”
“So why?”
If Yonas poisoned Blanc, there had to be a reason.
“...Jealousy, he said. Blanc inheriting Sir Edwin's swordsmanship—and excelling at it—put a lot of pressure on him.”
Bartolomeo squeezed his eyes shut at Viteli's words.
The Tolome emblem was the lion.
The family name passed to the finest lions within.
Yet Schmaier Tolome, Bartolomeo's favorite son and heir apparent, had sired no lion.
And Yonas, his grandson who might lead the generation after next, was little more than a mangy stray cat.
The morning after Izrelin collapsed from the poison.
The little girl clung to life, her breaths shallow and faint.
A man knelt by her bed, gripping her hand tight, praying without cease.
“If I'd known it would come to this, I should've stayed by her side always... No mother, always so alone...”
Weard Tolome, Izrelin's father and Bartolomeo's fourth son, hadn't let go of her hand since entering the room—as if releasing it would spell disaster.
He managed the trading company, handling all external affairs, so he was rarely in the mansion.
Then came the thunderbolt: his daughter poisoned.
He'd dropped everything and raced back.
Over a decade after his wife's death, he'd taken no other woman, loving her to the end—and cherishing Izrelin as her final legacy.
But now even that fragile remnant was slipping away.
“Where's Blanc Cardmus?”
“He left the mansion at dawn with his servant.”
“I see.”
Weard kissed the back of his daughter's hand, veins bulging blue.
“...I wanted to thank him. Heard he was the only one who played with Izrelin.”
“...Yes. These past few months, all she's talked about was Baron Blanc.”
Izrelin's maid and closest nursemaid recounted how close the two had grown.
In truth, Izrelin had just trailed the exasperated Blanc, but it had made her so happy she'd chattered endlessly to the servants about it.
Weard and the nursemaid spoke as if sharing memories at a funeral.
“Wherever he's gone, I hope he returns soon. As her favorite cousin, I'd want him at her bedside in her final moments...”
The nursemaid wiped tears at Weard's words.
The doctor had said Izrelin wouldn't last three days.
Ulrich Tideman, head of the Illusion School, was a perfectionist.
He'd prepared for regression mishaps with multiple contingencies, including ten rendezvous points.
Some were famous like Baltimer; others remote; some hidden from the world entirely.
The seventh, an old workshop from his youth, lay in the wild hills near the capital Baltimer.
Young Ulrich had sought isolation for his research but needed proximity to Baltimer for supplies, so he'd scoured those nearby hills.
There, he'd found a small cave by a cliff.
—And made a splendid discovery. Ever heard of moonlight grass? It dies in sunlight, growing only by moonlight.
Moonlight grass appeared only in dusty histories or folklore—supposedly mythical, incredibly rare.
Yet young Ulrich had stumbled upon it by sheer luck.
—Sold it for research funds! Fetched a fortune. Hahaha.
But in this timeline, Ulrich didn't exist yet.
Certainly not his younger self. So...
Moonlight grass should still be there.
The precious herb young Ulrich harvested would still be slumbering in that cliffside cave.
—Why it's so valuable? Simple: it absorbs pure lunar essence, repelling demons and all manner of curses.
In other words, the ultimate antidote for any poison.
“Hyah! Hyah!”
“Faster, Rakshar! We need maximum speed!”
“Y-yes, young master!”
Before dawn broke.
A black-haired boy and a gray-maned werewolf spurred their horses, racing out of Baltimer.