I'll reveal the contents of that journal to the city constables. Or maybe I’ll just spread it through the newspapers.”
“I can’t simply hand it over.”
“I'll shatter your clan’s reputation.”
Eric’s crimson eyes glimmered calmly, a faint glow simmering in their depths. He spoke with a solemn expression.
“Don’t do this, Lady Helena.”
“W-What gives you the right—?”
“If you pursue this, only you and Philip will suffer. I give you my word—something like this won’t so much as dent the House of Orléans.”
Helena stared at him, disoriented, realizing that intimidation had no effect on him whatsoever. Just as Emelline had warned—Eric was immune to coercion.
But…
But still!
“Then why are you offering money?”
Eric gave a soft laugh as he met Helena’s gaze.
“Because you said you needed it. Even if you hadn’t tried to threaten me, if you’d simply said it was urgent—I would’ve lent it to you.”
Helena found herself at a loss for words.
What an honest and righteous man…
Emelline’s handwriting seemed to float before her eyes.
But still… could someone truly place such blind faith in another’s goodwill?
“What if I just run off with the money?”
“Well… if that happens, then there’s nothing I can do. It’d be disappointing, but I wouldn’t die over it.”
For a moment, Helena looked genuinely moved—until her expression hardened.
Ah. She took it back.
It wasn’t faith in goodwill. It was faith in
wealth.
She clenched her teeth.
“You little…”
✵
✵
✵
Ella was descending into the underground chamber beneath the West Tower when she paused halfway down the stairs.
The dungeon was caged in by iron bars, and through a small opening in the wall, the moonlight poured in.
There was only one flickering spirit-lamp inside the entire place, which made the silver gleam of the moon all the more visible.
Bathed in that light, a silver-haired youth huddled quietly.
Ella stared at his hair, luminous beneath the moon, as a familiar line from one of the cheap cultivation romance scrolls she’d been reading rose to mind.
“Though his frame is different… he seems around seventeen summers old.”
She tapped the wall with her knuckles.
The boy, startled by the sound, jerked his head up.
Recognizing her, he sprang to his feet and grabbed the iron bars.
Hadn’t they said he fainted?
The attendant behind her frowned and rushed down the steps. He returned with a long steel rod and shoved the boy away from the bars.
Ella watched calmly as pain twisted the boy’s face.
Then she descended the remaining steps and snatched the rod from the servant’s hand.
“Your Highness…”
“I’ll handle the interrogation myself. You may leave.”
The servant hesitated, clearly uneasy.
“Surely… you’re not defying my order?”
“N-No, Your Highness.”
He scurried out.
Ella observed his retreating back, then lowered herself into a rickety old chair in the dungeon. Dust puffed up from every crack in the wood, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
“Ugh…”
Unacceptable. Just because it housed prisoners didn’t mean it had to be filthy.
She didn’t mind extracting the truth through a bit of pain—that was just battlefield strategy—but even an enemy deserved to sleep in a clean cell.
Ella crossed her legs, barely letting her backside touch the chair—an attempt to distance herself from the filth of the cell. With the rod she’d seized from a servant, she struck the iron bars.
Clang!
A crisp metallic ring echoed through the dungeon.
Startled, the young man inside flinched and shrank deeper into the corner.
“Oh. Louder than I expected…”
“……”
“You, your name—”
She stopped herself.
No use asking something that couldn’t be answered directly. She needed to ask questions that could be answered with a nod or a gesture.
“How many years have you cultivated?”
The boy trembled, then slowly lifted his head.
There was a long silence before he raised two fingers.
Ella stared at him, tilting her head.
“Two years old?”
The boy shook his head wildly.
“Then… twelve? You’re awfully tall for twelve.”
Ella scratched the bridge of her nose.
She’d assumed he was at least seventeen or so.
Another shake of the head.
Only much later did she realize what he meant.
He was twenty.
“You’re already twenty cycles into your cultivation path?!”
Ella gawked, mouth open in disbelief.
The boy withered further, curling up like paper under weight.
Ella observed his shrunken form, folded and hunched like dried parchment, and turned her gaze to the tray the servant had brought.
Carrot soup.
Ella rose, picked up the bowl, and pushed it through the food slot built into the bars.
“Eat. I heard you collapsed from hunger.”
She glanced at the other bowls left untouched in the feeding slot. Three of them. All still full.
So that’s why he’s this scrawny at twenty—starving himself in this prison.
And they sent someone this thin, this conspicuous, from the Northern lands as a spy? Doesn’t add up…
Annoyed, Ella banged the food slot with the rod again.
“Eat it, I said.”
How was she supposed to interrogate or release him if he collapsed dead from starvation?
Everyone clings to warmth and a full belly when they can—no one lets go of comfort once they’ve tasted it.
And that’s exactly why Ella hated this grimy prison even more.
The boy stared at her from the shadows, terrified, as she rattled the bars.
Shaking, he crept over and picked up the soup.
“Spoon…”
Ella reached for the spoon on the tray, but it was already too late.
The boy had lifted the bowl to his lips and was gulping it down like a starving beast.
Ella frowned.
“…Are you some kind of feral beast?”
Then it happened.
He finished the soup, wheezing as he dropped the empty bowl.
There wasn’t much left inside anyway.
Suddenly, he clutched at his throat, scratching as if suffocating.
“…?”
Ella narrowed her eyes.
Had someone… poisoned the soup?
She began furiously pounding on the cell door with the rod, summoning the servant.
The servant rushed in, breathless.
“M-Milady, what’s—”
“Hey! What’s wrong with him? His eyes are rolling back in his head!”
Despite the panic in her voice, Ella didn’t actually move to help. She just stood there as the servant shouted for others.
Seemed like they’d already stationed a palace physician on standby.
And after what must’ve been a long, tiresome day, the royal physician finally descended—face weary and grim.
As soon as the iron bars were unlocked by the attendant, the imperial healer stepped in without hesitation. Supporting the youth's body and swiftly clearing his breathing meridian, he declared,
“It’s an allergic reaction. He has an intolerance to carrot broth…!”
Ella blinked in disbelief.
Carrot? He’s allergic to carrot?
She cast her gaze toward the untouched bowls of soup lined up on the side. Every single one—carrot broth.
“Then why didn’t he say anything?”
At her question, the attendant stammered awkwardly.
“...Because he can't speak?”
Ella looked down at the trembling boy—no, young man—whose breath rattled raggedly from his throat.
So foolish.
And yet…
“Being foolish isn’t always a bad thing,”
she thought.
It just means escape will be harder for him.
Pointing lazily at the pale, rabbit-like youth, Ella gave her command.
“Clean him up and bring him.”
“W-Where to, Your Highness…?”
“My bedchamber. Where else?”
She said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, then turned to ascend the stairs. But halfway up, she paused and added casually over her shoulder,
“If you fail to save him, don’t bother bringing him. I’ve no interest in staring at a corpse.”
Her gaze lingered briefly on the shivering young cultivator.
Live or die… it’s his karma now.
Just then, the attendant hurried after her, climbing the stairs.
“Your Highness! That identification tag made of mythril... You said the engraving was in the northern tongue, yes?”
“I did. Why?”
And why had the servant acted without orders? She hadn’t even told him to summon the healer.
“I checked the inscription. The name on the tag is Kai Gerda.”
Kai Gerda?
Ella, just about to ascend the final step, stopped cold.
A chill ran down her spine as she turned to look back at the boy beyond the iron bars.
The healer was desperately feeding the youth a potion, trying to stabilize him.
Ella said nothing. The attendant’s face grew strained. She let out a hollow chuckle.
“So what, you’re saying he’s someone from Duke Gerda’s line?”
“They say the duke’s second son, the one rumored to be sickly… was named Kai…”
“...Ah, hellfire.”
✵
✵
✵
I was walking.
Wandering through the Inner Palace…
For how long, I didn’t even know anymore…
Until finally—
“This cursed palace is too damned big!”
I suddenly realized I was completely lost.
What kind of nonsense is this? Why is it so huge?! It’s a palace meant for a single princess!
Frustration boiling over, I planted my hands on my hips.
But then… my waist fit perfectly in both hands.
Something was off.
Why did it feel like I’d forgotten something critical?
A creeping sense of dread began to coil around me.
Then, like lightning, it struck me.
“...?”
The journal.
I reached down, fumbling around my waist.
But the thing that should have been securely fastened there—was gone.
The journal wasn’t there.
I clapped a hand over my mouth.
…Oh no.
I’ve really done it this time.
Wow, damn it…
So you finally did it.
You finally caused a catastrophe.
And not just a minor slip—this was a full-scale deviation that could spiral out of control depending on where it lands in the sect hierarchy…
That’s what I was thinking as I turned around—and then I saw him.
A man stood at the top of the stairs, half-shrouded in the dim light of the chamber.
Even with the shadows clinging to him, I recognized him instantly.
In his hand was the very journal I had been desperately searching for.
Eric Orléans.
The moment I saw him, my entire core froze over.
“…Looking for this?”
Chapter 46