Episode 65

“Oh my goodness, what on earth is all this?”

“They say there was chaos in the middle of the night.”

“But why? Who did it?”

“Ian was attacked while returning to the mansion.”

“What?! How did that happen?”

“They’re still investigating. I just came out to distribute some rations, and suddenly this disaster strikes.”

“And Ian? Is one of those bodies his?”

As dawn broke, everyone learned what had happened during the early hours. The alley was blocked by a mountain of corpses—there was no way to keep it a secret. And the blood flowing all the way to the main street only made things worse.

While the guards lined up the bodies for identification, the crowd kept their distance, whispering among themselves.

Meanwhile, the mansion was no less chaotic, especially the basement of the main building.

“Ahhh!”

Only two of the attackers had survived.

One was presumed to be ‘Petraeo,’ the other an unidentified man. Petraeo was gagged, screaming silently, drenched in sweat, tears, and blood.

“Do you realize how terrible your condition is right now?”

“Ugh…”

“If you keep going like this, you’ll die. Once we confirm your identity, I’ll have a medic tend to you.”

In fact, while he had been unconscious, a medic had already come by. But the wounds were so grotesque and severe that the prognosis was grim—survival beyond three days was unlikely. Beric pressed a cloth tightly against Petraeo’s face, clearly annoyed.

“Enough with the talking! Just open your mouth!”

“Ahhh!”

“Stop screaming! Damn it, people might think I’m torturing you!”

Though tied to a chair and gagged, what they were doing was more like nursing than torture. They wiped away the grime with lukewarm water, but since so much skin had been torn away, even that caused him pain.

“Ugh…”

“Beric, that’s enough. Strip him completely.”

“Strip him? All of it?”

“Not a single piece left on.”

“Ugh…”

Beric grumbled but obeyed Ian’s order.

Petraeo was military, though exactly what role he played was unclear. But it was obvious he had served under the imperial palace’s command. Judging by his age, he had likely fought in many battles. Soldiers often tattooed their identity on their bodies, so even if they died on the battlefield, their homeland would know who they were.

“Oh? Is this it?”

Beric found a tattoo on Petraeo’s left side as he pulled off his shirt. But the tattoo had been deliberately scratched and scarred—meticulously prepared.

“Tsk tsk.”

Ian bent slightly to examine the wounds and met Petraeo’s eyes. Even with his stomach pierced and face melting away, his eyes hadn’t lost their light. Men like this rarely spoke easily. Moline must know that well.

“I don’t want to torture someone who’s about to die.”

“…”

“But a true warrior never forgets revenge. I hope you have no one dear to you. Anyone bearing the name Petraeo will meet the same death as you.”

His words were calm but cruel. He didn’t really intend to kill Petraeo—he was just trying to probe for weaknesses. As expected, Petraeo showed no reaction.

“…Keep watching closely.”

“Okay. Ugh, the smell of blood is disgusting. Seriously.”

Ian reluctantly left the cleanup to Beric and stepped out into the basement corridor.

Creak.

“Ahhh!”

Petraeo’s screams leaked through the closing door, then abruptly stopped. As Ian moved toward the other end of the hall, he heard someone rushing down the stairs.

Thud! Tap tap! Thud thud!

“I-I-Ian!”

“Oh, Romandro. You’re awake.”

“This! This! Oh dear…”

Romandro had come running, dressed lightly. He grabbed Ian’s shoulder and scanned him up and down, clearly surprised at how unharmed he looked.

“They say over a dozen men died…”

“As you can see, I’m fine.”

“Of course, of course! Magic users really are different!”

“Please calm down first.”

If Beric had heard that, he’d have been furious. He was the one who had fought and gotten beaten up, yet Ian was getting all the praise.

“Petraeo conspired and caused this mess. He seems to be one of Moline’s men. When we caught him, he had poisoned his face to prevent identification. We’re investigating, but he keeps giving strange names.”

“And Moline’s group?”

“Not much different.”

Ian nodded toward the room at the end of the corridor where Moline and two others were imprisoned.

“What will you do now?”

Romandro paced in front of Ian, clearly at a loss. Even if it was true that Moline tried to kill Ian, by custom, it wouldn’t be a problem. Moline was an imperial administrator, and Ian, as he claimed, was a commoner stationed in the Great Desert. Ian was a magic user and responsible for the mansion, but held no official title.

“Will you kill him?”

“No. I refuse to allow any more investigation teams from the palace.”

If Ian killed Moline, the palace would send more people. Worst case, Gale’s side might even send troops to eliminate Ian.

“Then?”

“That’s not for me to decide.”

“Hmm?”

“I told you—I want to prove myself. So send word to Lady Marib. I will comply.”

Besides proving he wasn’t Gale’s ally, this was the cleanest, safest option. Ian could guess the palace’s situation, but only as a guess. He couldn’t be sure what Moline’s death would trigger, so he left that responsibility to Marib.

“So until the reply comes…”

“Leave them be. That’s fine for now.”

“Understood. I’ll send the messenger immediately.”

“Ah, wait, Romandro.”

Ian caught him as he started running up the stairs and handed over a ring wrapped carefully in cloth. It was a simple silver band, but inside was a tiny needle surrounded by poison discoloration.

“Have you heard of this? When it pricks, the face melts away immediately.”

“Hmm, let me see…”

Romandro leaned back, narrowing his eyes.

“Planning to reuse this?”

“Can it be used again?”

“Well, you’d need a technician to reset the needle, but it’s not unusable. The poison looks like Tebarfin. Assassins use it to hide their identities, or, well, human traffickers often use it in their crimes… that sort of thing.”

Human trafficking or organ smuggling.

It was a toxic substance actively used in crimes where the victim’s identity must remain unknown. It was shocking because such poisons weren’t used in Ian’s time.

“Such a thing exists?”

“You might not know. Why so surprised?”

A hundred years ago, such deadly poisons were in use. Ian felt a chill run down his spine. How many crimes had been covered up by mutilated corpses?

This poison was unrecognized in Ian’s era. It must have been banned at some point, but he had no idea when or why.

Romandro glanced at Ian, then said he’d write the letter and headed upstairs.

“I’ll send it as soon as possible.”

“Thank you. See you later.”

Ian wrapped the ring back in cloth and tucked it into his inner pocket. Then he approached the room where Moline and his men were held.

“Any disturbances inside?”

“No, none.”

“Open the door.”

Click.

The gatekeeper unlocked the large, fist-sized lock. Inside, a wooden bowl lay abandoned on the floor like animal feed.

At the sound of the door opening, Mac sprang up reflexively.

“Ian, you bastard!”

But the guards quickly restrained him. Ian placed the fallen wooden bowl on the table and asked,

“Did you get any sleep?”

“You lowly wretch, you don’t know your place! How dare you act like this, knowing who we are? Open the door at once! Or I’ll kill you! The palace won’t let you live!”

This time, Degor didn’t hide his anger either. He stormed forward, ready to grab Ian by the collar.

“We’re here under the palace’s orders! Treating us like this is an insult to the central government! If this is the border, act like it! And you, the Cheonryeo tribe! Behave yourselves! Ian is, as you say, part of the Cheonryeo tribe! If someone like him treats an imperial administrator this way, don’t you understand what that means?”

“So that’s why you’re still alive?”

“What did you say?”

“If it weren’t for the palace’s banner, you’d be sitting where Petraeo is now, not eating.”

Ian said this as he pulled out the ring. Holding the band by the cloth, he brought the needle close to Mac’s face. Mac flinched, instinctively pulling back when he recognized the object.

“Petraeo, you say!”

“The investigation is ongoing. Even if his face has rotted away, his existence hasn’t vanished. And haven’t you already heard?”

Beric had shown the red brooch. Their secret conversation had been recorded. But Moline’s group wasn’t intimidated. Instead, they shouted defiantly, protesting the injustice.

“We don’t know anything about this! If you’re so confident, hold a proper trial! What kind of damn process is this? How dare someone without a name…!”

“Even the territory has lost its name—how could a person still carry that name? Dregor, this is the borderlands. It’s not the central lands where they once were.”

Ian muttered as he brushed the disheveled feathers from Mac’s cloak.

“A subordinate’s mistake is ultimately the commander’s fault. Above all, the warriors of the Great Desert do not take revenge lightly. Because the brooch naturally leads to a certain conclusion, I have no intention of letting this slide.”

More precisely, Ian planned to punish the group that had been cornered under Marib’s orders. He glanced down at the spilled barley porridge on the floor and issued a warning.

“Food is precious.”

It was a clear message: next time, if this happens again, they might have to eat what falls to the ground. Ian gave a sharp look to the guards to keep a close watch, then stepped outside.

Click.

“Ian! I-Ian!”

Just then, Hayna came running down from the cellar, calling out to him.

“What’s going on?”

“The villagers have all gathered—there’s a whole crowd of them!”

Why had the villagers come? What could have prompted this?

But Hayna was too anxious to explain, her feet pounding as she rushed ahead.

As Ian followed, several possibilities crossed his mind. Were they here to raid Gula? Or was this some force sent by the mob?

“Ian!”

Emerging from the cellar, sunlight poured down brightly. The villagers had gathered beneath it, each holding wildflowers or small fruits. They looked just as surprised to see Ian.

“You’re alright!”

“Oh, thank goodness. Thank heavens!”

“Who started those rumors? That you’d been stabbed in the belly?”

“We were worried. Heard there was a massive attack in the dead of night… the alleys were soaked in blood.”

“You’re really okay? Don’t go wandering out at night like that.”

“Shh! Quiet! The central bastards might be listening.”

“Ian, please accept this. It’s small, but it’s good.”

The villagers surrounded Ian, their concern pouring out nonstop. They scanned him with their eyes for any wounds and pressed their gifts into his hands. In no time, his arms were full of flowers and fruit.

“All of this…”

Ian fell silent for a moment, gazing down at the flowers. It struck him, belatedly, what had carried him through the weight of the crown in such a short three years.

Such small smiles. That was everything.

“Looks like everyone’s here at last. Lord Romandro has finally given his permission.”

“Sir? Permission?”

“Permission for the cultivation, distribution, and consumption of Gula.”

“Whaaaat! No way!”

“Thank you! Thank you so much!”

The unexpected good news sent the crowd into cheers and embraces. Ian motioned for calm, and they all looked at him with bright, eager eyes.

“But there are conditions.”

“Just say the word!”

Amid the lively chatter, everyone pictured a bountiful winter ahead. Ian handed the flowers and fruit to Hayna and spoke.

“This afternoon, have all the villagers gather in the square. I’ll make the announcement and explain everything.”