~Chapter 14~

“Uaaaaah!”

A scream shook the mansion’s hall. The people trapped inside ran in panic, shoving, stumbling, and trampling over each other. Some pushed those coming down the stairs, making them fall.

The floor shook. Cracks spread across the walls. Pale with terror, people rattled the doors, but they wouldn’t open no matter how hard they tried.

“Open! Please, open!”

A man with a long mustache shouted, shaking the door. Suddenly, a stone pillar shot up right in front of him, launching him toward the ceiling. His desperate scream ended with blood splattering across the ceiling.

“P-please… please spare us.”

Everyone dropped to their knees, bowing toward the second-floor railing.

There stood Larvihan. Sitting casually, legs crossed, he looked down at the hall.

“It’s only the beginning. Don’t cry so soon.”

He snapped his fingers. The glass windows shattered, and shards flew like blades into the crowd. The hall echoed with screams of every kind, music to Larvihan’s ears. He smirked, cold and sharp.

“Have you finished, Your Grace?”

A building collapsed before Maxmuel, sending up clouds of dust. Out of the haze, Larvihan appeared.

Maxmuel hurried forward, offering him a handkerchief. Larvihan handed over his gloves and wiped the blood from his face.

“Mostly. Some ran away early. Hunt them down—even if it means to the ends of the continent.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

As soon as Larvihan climbed into the carriage, he stretched his legs onto the opposite seat and opened the window. Smoke rose from the chimney of a small house in the distance. It stirred a rare memory.

“…Did you find out what I asked?”

“You mean Count Harmelda’s family?”

Larvihan nodded.

“Yes.”

“He still lived at his old estate. Conveniently, it’s on our way. Shall we stop?”

Larvihan leaned his chin on his hand, lost in thought.

During Emperor Arwen’s father’s reign, when nobles and the Mage Tower persecuted him, only Count Harmelda had shown him kindness. It wasn’t much, but Larvihan remembered. Just as he hunted down traitors, he wanted to see how the man who once stood by him was doing.

“Let’s go.”

Maxmuel gave the order to the coachman. The horses turned sharply.

Larvihan wondered what expression Count Harmelda would have when he saw him—long thought dead and suddenly returned.

“It’ll be interesting to see.”

He almost expected the soft-hearted Count to cry and cling to him. But such things never came to pass.

When they arrived, only weeds filled the once modest but lively estate grounds. No mansion, no garden, just desolation under the pale moonlight.

“…My apologies,” Maxmuel whispered.

Count Harmelda hadn’t survived. The killer was unknown, but the reason was clear: Larvihan had too many enemies, and Harmelda had been one of the few on his side. The world punished not only him but also those connected to him.

Larvihan slowly turned his head and looked down at Maxmuel.

“You survived.”

It was short praise for one of the rare loyal ones left. But to Maxmuel, it sounded like reproach—why had Harmelda died while he lived? His head lowered further.

Larvihan inhaled deeply, then patted his shoulder.

“You did well.”

The words eased Maxmuel’s guilt.

Larvihan turned to the barren field. With a wave of his hand, white flowers bloomed on the dry stalks, transforming the wasteland into a sea of blossoms. His eyes stayed fixed on the flowers as he gave an order.

“Find out what happened.”

“Where will you be, Your Grace?”

“I’ll wait here.”

Maxmuel vanished like the wind.

Larvihan sat upon a large stone. Once, a hundred-year-old magnolia tree had stood there, heralding spring at the Harmelda estate. Now it was gone. For the first time in a while, he had a moment of quiet.

“You’re back?”

After the clouds passed over the moon several times, Maxmuel returned. Larvihan leapt from the stone, brushing his robe. The moment he moved, the stone crumbled into dirt.

Maxmuel waited for the dust to settle before speaking.

“There’s no trace. No one even remembers.”

“Strange. Harmelda may have lived quietly, but he was still a lord.”

“It seems many mages were involved.”

“That would explain it.”

High-level magic could distort or erase memories. It required complex formulas and circles, plus vast mana, but it was possible.

“Not just one or two—it must’ve been many mages.”

Larvihan absently fingered something in his hand. Maxmuel squinted—it was a portrait or photograph.

“Shall I track down the mages who took part?”

“No need. I’m not ready for war yet. Tell me what else you learned.”

His eyes never left the portrait.

“No one remembered Harmelda’s name, but some found the empty lot suspicious. A few even claimed intruders had stormed the place. Since there was nothing to steal, they thought maybe it was an old famous grave.”

But that was a twisted memory. When the intruders came, this had still been a mansion.

“I see.”

“Do you have any other questions?”

“No. If memories were altered, that’s all there is. More importantly, Maxmuel…”

Larvihan raised the portrait into the moonlight, then handed it over.

“What is this?”

“Picked it up. From there.”

He pointed to the place where the stone had crumbled.

“The frame wasn’t even broken. It was preserved with magic. Harmelda must have cherished his daughter.”

“Yes. I heard he never let her feet touch the ground as a child.”

“Look carefully, Maxmuel. Don’t you notice anything?”

Maxmuel studied it. The girl looked familiar, but…

“…I don’t know.”

“Pink hair isn’t common. A mole on the earlobe, mischievous green eyes…”

Realization struck him.

“…Lady Lovelace?!”

Larvihan laughed, the sound echoing through the empty field.

Late that night, Larvihan returned to the mansion. Naturally, Lovelace was asleep.

He stood by her bed, watching. Pink hair wasn’t common—how had he failed to recognize her? Time had passed, of course. And no one would connect a starving beggar in the temple to the cherished daughter of Count Harmelda.

The girl once treated like fragile jade, shielded from wind and rain, was now here.

Her mole, her pink hair, her forest-colored green eyes—they hadn’t changed. But her small body had grown taller, her once plain figure now curved.

He remembered seeing her only as a troublesome child, back when he briefly stayed at the Harmelda estate. After that, never again. No wonder he hadn’t realized.

And he’d never paid much attention to people anyway.

“Her personality wasn’t like this back then. She’s become… interesting.”

She used to be brash and rude. That wasn’t bad either, but Larvihan found he liked her current self even more.

He poked her nose. Lovelace whined softly in her sleep.

Larvihan held his breath, afraid she’d wake. When her breathing stayed calm, he tiptoed out. Only once he was in the hall did his steps grow firm. He went straight to his office.

“Your Grace, I have something to report.”

Maxmuel rose from his desk as Larvihan entered.

“What is it?”

Larvihan sat, eyeing the tall stack of documents waiting.

So much for sleeping early tonight.

“What about Harmelda’s family?”

“They say he had another child.”

“What? Wasn’t Lovelace an only daughter?”

“They had another, later on.”

A late-born child. It made sense, given the couple’s closeness.

“And what became of that one?”

If Lovelace survived, perhaps that child did too. Maybe meeting them would help restore Lovelace’s missing memories.

“Shall I investigate?”

“You haven’t already?”

“I’ll start right away.”

Maxmuel bowed, grabbing his coat.

Larvihan rubbed his tired eyes. It was late, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep until Maxmuel returned.

“I hope the child lived.”

The words surprised even him. Since when did he wish for someone else’s survival?

He wasn’t sure anymore—was it because he lost his elemental powers, or because of Lovelace, who had crashed into his life like lightning?

“To know for certain, I need my power back quickly.”

Her innocent eyes flashed in his mind. Feeling uncomfortably warm, Larvihan opened the window. The cold wind cleared his head.

He organized his thoughts about Count Harmelda, Lovelace, and everything tied to them.