‘Until the day our lives come to an end—you and I shall be one.’
In the dream, the Duke had spoken those words, and the royal garden lit up with radiant lights, drawing gasps of awe from onlookers.
But now, the royal garden was shrouded in oppressive darkness.
Frustrated, I pounded my chest with a clenched fist and slumped to the ground.
Footsteps echoed behind me. I already had a feeling who it was, so I swept my hair back and shouted toward the sound.
“I get it! Thanks! Thanks
so
very much! Let’s save the praise and applause for later, shall we?!”
Even with my shouting, the footsteps didn’t halt.
I glared up at the figure approaching, full of irritation.
Eric Orléans.
It was too dark to see his expression clearly, but I could imagine it—no doubt he was wearing that smug look of a righteous savior, basking in the glow of his own good deed.
Ah yes, the righteous ones. So very exhausting. They always needed others to applaud and praise them like some hero in a cultivation scroll.
Grumbling, I forced my cramped legs to straighten and rose to my feet.
Fine, fine. I’ll play along. Bow my head, murmur thanks—anything to get this over with!
Why had he even helped me? He couldn’t even lie properly. Didn’t he realize his voice cracked mid-performance? If the nobles hadn’t all been so careless, we’d both have been exposed...
“I’melline Wedgewood.”
He stopped right in front of me—and something felt off. He didn’t look proud or triumphant. If anything… he seemed angry?
No… he looks… sad?
The sheer absurdity of this arrogant young master looking sad left me momentarily stunned. And I couldn’t help but wonder… what on earth was causing it?
Look at me, worrying about the cat while I’m the mouse.
I eyed his face warily and took a careful step back.
“W-Why did you call me, then? If you’ve something to say, just say it already…”
But Eric simply stared at me in silence, a conflicted storm written across his features.
When I finally opened my mouth to demand an explanation, he spoke at last.
“The back page of the document.”
“…What?”
The back page of the document…?
Ah.
That.
I recalled the document envelope Eric had brought to me—the one that hadn’t included that crucial second half. If I’d had it… maybe I would’ve had more leverage. More options. Perhaps even a decisive piece of evidence.
Eric must’ve noticed the regret flicker across my face, because he pressed on.
“...So you
do
know what was written there.”
His crimson eyes sharpened like drawn blades, locking onto me.
I furrowed my brows.
Of course I knew. I had taken it to the Duke’s study and ended up with a musket pointed at my chest because of it.
…But there’s no way I could say that.
“I don’t know exactly. But I assume there’s something… more conclusive on it?”
“Lies.”
The moment my words left my mouth, Eric closed the distance between us in a single step.
Standing this close, I realized just how massive he was. A former commander of the Royal Sword Division, his limbs seemed long and lean from afar, but up close…
A beast.
His crimson gaze bored into mine, and in that moment, I couldn’t help but think of Valdeck Orléans—his father.
The night was dark. The garden isolated. There would be no one to call for help if something went awry.
An unease twisted in my chest as I looked up at him.
“Wh-What proof do you even have to call it a lie…”
The words spilled from my lips like scattered leaves.
…You idiot. You should’ve just sold yourself off to the slave market instead…
Old memories clawed through my mind like rampaging inner demons.
I pressed a hand to my forehead.
Ugh… damn Biolord… damn Wedgwood… whether it’s a wealthy commoner or a crumbling noble clan…
In the end, those who believed themselves powerful always revealed their true nature before those weaker than them.
“So much for being ‘righteous inside and out.’”
That’s when Eric, his face burning with fury, spoke.
“...Feigning fear. Pretending ignorance. Lying when cornered, and threatening shamelessly when needed…”
I instinctively took a step back, eyes darting around in search of a decent-sized spirit stone—anything I could throw.
“What now? Planning to release a poison mist like last time and knock me out? Or maybe bash my skull in with a rock?”
My gaze, caught scouring the ground, froze on Eric’s face.
Heh… guess I’ve been found out.
As if some pebble could take him down.
I raised my hands slowly, palms up, as if to calm a raging beast.
“Hey… let’s not do this, alright? You should really calm down… This isn’t you. You’re not some crude brute, are you…?”
Let’s talk this out. Just talk, okay?
“I’ve had enough,” Eric said, his tone sharp. “Enough of so-called righteous retribution.”
“No, wait. That’s not like you. Think it through.”
My head spun with flashes of Biolord’s fists. Wedgwood’s slaps.
The powerful always enjoyed brandishing that power.
But still… wasn’t Eric Orléans the type who valued decorum over dominance?
I trembled as I spoke.
“You’re someone who believes in love… and justice… right?”
But Eric only advanced, slow and deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey. I stepped back—
And something pricked at my spine.
I turned. A wall of thorned bramble loomed behind me.
There was nowhere else to run.
And the moment I realized that, Eric spoke again.
“Not anymore.”
I instinctively took another step back—and the thorns jabbed into the sole of my foot.
“Kh—!”
Pain twisted my expression.
Eric’s gaze flickered with something strange—almost amusement.
“On the way here,” he said coolly, “Lily shared an interesting tale. Apparently, a pearl hairpin was found at the site of Biolord’s death…”
“W-What are you—”
A shiver ran down my spine.
So what Vivian said… it was true.
There really
was
a hairpin there.
“And word is, that hairpin belonged to Biolord’s daughter, Emelline.”
Repeat it, Emelline. Biolord’s death wasn’t your fault. You didn’t kill him. And you are Helena Biolord’s daughter. Say it—say it now!
My mother’s voice rang through my head.
Helena. Helena Biolord.
When I first met her, she bore that name too—along with the title:
The Fifth Wife of the Bluebeard Merchant-Lord.
“What do you think would happen,” Eric said, stepping closer, “if I added a little pressure and told the sheriff this: that Helena profited immensely from the merchant-lord’s death, and that if she’s found guilty, half the inheritance would fall into the sheriff’s hands. Don’t you think he’d be
very
motivated to dig up a few more pieces of ‘evidence’?”
My eyes widened.
I didn’t kill Biolord. I’m Helena Biolord’s daughter… I didn’t kill him…
I gasped, recalling the voice of that twelve-year-old girl echoing in my mind.
My vision spun wildly. I tried to bolt, turning back toward the thicket of thorny woods.
But Eric seized my wrist. He held me fast, refusing to let go even as I struggled.
“Have you lost your mind? That way lies the Thorn Forest!”
He shouted at me. I stopped resisting and glared at him. A throbbing ache climbed up from the soles of my feet.
“So now… you're pretending to
care
about me?” I scoffed, voice hoarse. “You bastard… Pick a side, will you? Be righteous or be vile. Don’t do both.”
Eric looked down at me, pained.
Why
—why did he wear that face, when
I
was the one who was hurting?
I clenched my teeth.
Then Eric spoke.
“Do you really think I’m the only one who knows the truth? My father knows, too. And do you know why he’s said nothing? Why he’s allowed Helena, Phillip, and you to wander free all this time? He’s waiting. So that when you try to flee, he can drag your family back by the leash—”
A sharp breath escaped his lips. A low, wounded sound like that of a beast caught in a trap. But only for a fleeting instant.
The next moment, his face was calm again as he said coldly:
“—and kill you all, just like he did my mother.”
But even as he finished those words, a sorrow he couldn’t quite hide flickered in his eyes.
Beneath the fall of ebony-black hair, shadows deepened in his gaze—shadows I had never seen before.
You’ve… realized it.
I was rattled.
Why couldn’t I ignore that sorrow in Eric Orléans' eyes—the same Eric who just moments ago had tried to corner and threaten me?
I opened my mouth, trying to say something—but before I could, Eric yanked me toward him, pulling me away from the thorns and back onto solid ground.
A sharp throb stabbed through my feet.
Eric glanced at me standing there dumbfounded and spoke again, his voice like iron.
“Yes. I know everything now. And from this moment, I’ve decided—”
He paused, eyes sharp as blades.
“—to stand with the wicked.”
“…The wicked?”
I blinked, not understanding. But Eric lifted his hand and pointed at me.
“You. Imelline Wedgewood. Of all the wicked cultivators I know, you’re the one best suited to be my ally.”
His finger hovered just before the tip of my nose. I backed up slightly, flustered.
“W-Wait… weren’t you just trying to
blackmail
me? Take my memory jade, rip out secret scrolls… Talking about how justice and righteousness were a farce?”
“You heard me,” he said. “That’s why I’m choosing your side.”
“…
My
side?”
My eyes widened.
What did he mean, ‘my side’? What kind of alliance could possibly exist between a noble young master like him and someone like me, who walks the path of survival on the edge?
I asked in a trembling voice:
“Didn’t you just accuse me of being… a murderer?”
Eric looked stunned, as though the accusation were absurd.
“That was just to provoke you,” he said. “I was simply conveying what my father believes. Do you really think I believe it myself? You were only twelve years old.”
Only twelve…
Those words made me recoil instinctively, my steps retreating back toward the thorned path I’d only just escaped.
Eric scowled and caught my hand again.
“Why are you so desperate to run from me?” he muttered, exasperated.
Then, crouching down in front of me, he lifted one of my feet gently, noticing the blood staining the heel of my shoe.
“Tch. You’re bleeding…” he muttered in a tone laced with disdain. “Stupid Imelline Wedgewood. I
told
you not to run.”
He looked up at me then, his expression completely sincere—and entirely exasperated.
As though I were some reckless junior disciple getting scolded by her senior cultivator.
In that moment, I knew.
Eric could never truly walk the path of demonic cultivation.
Even if he sided with me, he would remain a righteous cultivator at heart.
Those who walked the righteous path simply couldn’t succumb to true darkness.
I looked down at him, half-amused, half-pitying.
“How exactly do you plan on becoming my ally... with that mindset?”
A boy who still clung to the naïve notion that a twelve-year-old couldn’t kill.
Ah, Young Master of pure heart.
You’ve no idea. You know nothing of how vile true demons can be.
There are those who can kill their own fathers without lifting a finger.
You simply wouldn’t understand.
✵
✵
✵
Helena Wedgwood was pacing near the entrance of the grand ballroom.
Why is that damn Duke taking so long to arrive?
Sure, high-ranking nobles often made a habit of arriving fashionably late to banquets, but even by those standards, the Duke’s tardiness was excessive.
And today was not just any gathering—it was the day the King was to grant his approval for Helena’s marriage to the Duke.
Helena’s reputation, in truth, was less than stellar. The Duke, by contrast, was universally lauded.
Across the entire continent, there were only two cultivators of ducal rank whose influence was supreme: Grand Duke Gerda of the North and Duke Orléans of the Capital.
Gerda’s strength lay in vast frozen lands and martial might—his cultivation base practically rooted in the Northern Qi of the Earth Veins.
But Duke Orléans? His power came from the Capital: supreme prestige, deep-rooted ties to the royal clan, and a mercantile sect whose influence stretched across the empire like mycelium.
In short, Duke Orléans was a vital pillar of the Kingdom.
The King, naturally, had no choice but to appease him. He had already boasted that he’d personally sign the marriage decree—but should the Duke’s mood sour at the last moment…
Helena wanted to lock the matter down—utterly, completely.
We have to enter together. Radiating harmony. The perfect image of a match made in heaven.
Not only for the Royal Court, but for all those attending.
There were whispers, of course—whispers that Helena was using the Duke as a stepping stone to ascend the social hierarchy.
She needed them to believe instead that their bond was one of transcendent love that defied worldly cultivation ranks.
And so Helena had decided: today, she would appear utterly affectionate. She would craft the perfect tableau of mutual admiration and shared destiny.
Is he coming from the side entrance?
she thought, glancing across the hall.
But that way was rarely used—a narrow, unassuming door. Not at all in keeping with the Duke’s theatrical temperament.
He had protagonist syndrome.
Kind, noble, and benevolent though he appeared, every gesture of his was ultimately designed to highlight himself.
Helena had noticed this from their very first meeting. That day, when she'd been ignored by every sect representative at the gathering, and he alone extended a hand to her.
“May I ask the name of such a radiant cultivator?”
he had said, voice gentle like a spring breeze.
But in that voice, Helena had heard it clearly—he was captivated not by her, but by the reflection of himself being ‘a man above status, who offers compassion to the ignored.’
Later, he’d claimed he fell in love at first sight.
But really, the Duke had simply fallen for the idea of himself as a man who could fall for a woman regardless of status.
Helena knew this.
And she liked it that way.
A tall figure was walking down the corridor toward the ballroom—a refined man with crimson eyes that gleamed like enchanted rubies.
The Duke of Orléans.
Helena looked into those eyes and thought,
Those enamored with their own image… are the easiest to manipulate.
She waved.
The Duke saw her and smiled, surprised and delighted. His steps quickened, and joy lit up his face like a spiritual lantern.
Helena offered a sweet smile in return.
And to top it off, he’s good-looking too.
She greeted the Duke in a tone smooth as silken qi.
“I just needed some fresh air—it’s a bit stuffy inside. Seems I came out right as you arrived, my lord.”
Helena slipped her arm around the Duke’s with practiced grace. The Duke responded with a soft smile.
“Must be fate.”
Helena narrowed her eyes, gazing at his handsome face.
Such charming words too…
With a smile, she took his hand and led him toward the grand hall, guiding him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Just then, one of the Duke’s personal knights stepped out from the ballroom and leaned in, whispering something discreetly into the Duke’s ear.
The Duke’s crimson eyes dimmed faintly.
Helena glanced inside the ballroom, where clusters of nobles were beginning to murmur amongst themselves.
We need to go in. Quickly…
Growing anxious, she moved to pull the Duke along before anyone could start gossiping. But before she could act, the Duke gently resisted and spoke with an apologetic look.
“Please, go on ahead, Helena. There’s someone I must speak with first.”
“Who is it? Why don’t I join you? If they’re a friend of yours, surely they’d be a friend of mine too.”
She fluttered her eyes sweetly.
But the Duke released her hand.
Helena looked up at him, unease flickering across her face.
The Duke gently patted her hair as he said,
“I’m sorry, but this is someone I must speak with in private.”
“Who—?”
The moment she tried to press further, the Duke’s expression stiffened. It was a stark contrast to how he usually treated her—as though she were coated in honey, something to be indulged and fawned over.
…So now that the wedding’s close, this is how it begins?
Typical nobles. Loyalty was never their strong suit. Just like the Wedgewoods.
“You must know Lady Margaret Beaufort. She’s someone to whom I owe a considerable debt in business affairs—”
“Oh! Lady Margaret Beaufort! Of course, I know her! I was just thinking I should greet her myself—!”
Helena jumped in eagerly, clapping onto the opportunity. Margaret Beaufort was a grand matriarch of the capital’s social scene. Gaining her favor was a prized feat, and Helena wanted to be seen beside the Duke when it happened.
But then, the Duke spoke her name sharply.
“Helena.”
He looked down at her for a moment, and she felt an unexplainable chill.
Just a fleeting instant—but in that sliver of time, it felt as if the Duke was not looking at her like a person.
But rather… as an object.
And Helena knew that gaze far too well. The kind that men in power wore when they appraised things—possessions, tools, toys.
She froze before she could stop herself.
Then the Duke’s gentle smile returned, along with his usual warmth.
“I really must greet her alone. As much as I’d prefer we go together, the matters I need to discuss are… of a business nature. Perhaps difficult for you to follow. I won’t be long, so do wait for me just a bit.”
He lightly brushed her hair into place, then placed a soft kiss upon the back of her hand.
As if to say,
that moment of disdain you saw—it was all in your head.
Helena’s face briefly twisted as she looked at the gesture, but when the Duke raised his head again, she masked her expression with a sweet smile.
“I’ll miss you terribly, but I’ll be patient, my lord.”
The Duke chuckled as though he found her utterly adorable. Then he turned and strode briskly down the corridor with his knight in tow.
Helena watched him disappear, her smile still fixed in place. Only when he was completely out of sight did she murmur to herself,
“That was… strange, wasn’t it?”
✵
✵
✵
Meanwhile, I turned to Eric, ready to press him—I felt as if I had finally grasped the thread of truth.
“So you're saying you found the hidden back page of the dossier, right? The one with the secret about your mother and the crucial evidence that the Duke of Orléans is planning a rebellion—so now you're going to help me and my family escape to some faraway sect to keep us quiet, right?”
If I could just get my hands on that back page, I wouldn’t even need to flee that far. It’d at least be enough to persuade my mother.
But Eric shook his head.
“No. I didn’t find the back page.”
“…What?”
With a calm face, Eric pulled a canteen of strong spiritual liquor from his robes and soaked a cloth with it. Wait—did I mess something up?
The secret about his mother…
Even when I brought it up, Eric didn’t seem surprised. As I suspected, he likely already knew the truth behind his mother’s death.
He handed me the cloth.
“Treat yourself.”
I took it, dumbfounded.
That’s not the point right now, okay?! My brain is about to shatter trying to figure out how to keep myself and my clan alive!
“So are you saying you’re just going to release that photo of the two of us together and bring the documents to the Princess? You really okay with that? You and she seemed… kind of close… Hey! Say something—”
“How do you know what’s written on the back page?”
Eric’s voice cut through mine like a sword slash.
…Huh?
Oh no.
I realized I’d acted like I knew
way too much
about that sealed document. Even when the truth about his mother’s murder was revealed, I’d barely managed to fake a proper reaction.
“I-I don’t know?”
“Lies. Can you stop lying for once?”
How can I?! If I said I saw it all in a prophetic dream where your father appeared as a deranged demon cultivator, you’d toss me in a padded cell on the spot!
But unlike my desire to deflect with half-truths, Eric wasn’t letting up. He stared at me with a piercing gaze, the kind that could strip away falsehoods like peeling old talismans off a gate.
I met his gaze, tense.
What now? Should I tell the truth? About the prophetic dream? About that strange old crone who gave me the cursed apple wine?
Ugh… if Eric Orléans were anything like Phillip—believing in astrology and spiritual fate—I might have had a chance.
But as far as I knew, Eric was a devout orthodox cultivator. Upright to the core. The kind who hated superstition more than demonic beasts.
Then Eric spoke.
“That informant you mentioned back then… do they really exist?”
“…Huh?”
Informant…?
Oh—right. That nonsense I blurted out in the manor.
‘I can’t reveal my source’s identity.’
Ah. That one.
“What exactly are you involved in…” Eric muttered.
I quickly shifted my expression into one of mysterious gravity.
“Which is why you shouldn’t be thinking about betraying me.”
Eric let out a humorless laugh.
“If there’s anyone here who fits the role of ‘betrayer,’ it’s not me—it’s you.”
Can’t argue with that. He was completely right.
As I licked my lips, Eric folded his arms and gave me an exasperated once-over.
“…I still don’t know if going along with this insane plan is the right choice.”
“…Why are you looking at me like that?”
What insane plan? That’s definitely more my style than Eric’s.
A bad feeling crept up my spine. I cleared my throat awkwardly.
Eric’s frown faded, replaced by a grave expression.
“Do you know why my father wants to marry your mother?”
Yeah, I do. But no way I can say that.
So I pulled out my best acting skills.
“Hmm… probably because she’s easy to control? Loyal to the ducal household but not in a position to claim any major inheritance rights?”
Eric muttered under his breath.
“So your intel didn’t make it that far, huh.”
Nope. That’s not it at all.
I silently answered inwardly, all the while keeping my eyes fixed on Eric’s conflicted expression. So… he already knows about the coastal land?
Just as I thought that, Eric looked directly at me, his tone solemn.
“Don’t be too shocked by what I’m about to say.”
Ah, perfect timing. Time to unveil the dramatic acting skills I’ve refined over countless lifetimes.
“The land your mother inherited from House Wedgewood… it’s the ‘Merfolk’s Graveyard.’”
Wow, how
shocking
! The Merfolk’s Graveyard, of all things!
“Whaaaaaaaaat?!”
I put my whole soul into my performance, shrieking until my throat nearly gave out.
Eric frowned, gesturing for me to lower my voice. “Calm down.”
As if.
I widened my eyes and darted glances around like a frightened deer, pretending to be overwhelmed with terror.
But in truth—
I knew everything already.
The Merfolk’s Graveyard.
A sacred burial site said to be from the Primordial Era, where the corpses of ancient merfolk, long extinct, had crystallized over millennia into pure, high-grade spirit stones—priceless resources for any cultivator.
Who would’ve guessed that such a legendary treasure trove would be buried beneath none other than the Wedgewood clan’s forgotten coastal land?
Chapter 23