IWMHWD 114

Chapter 114 – What Love Is
February 22, 2024

“Why are you angry?”

“Because it’s unfair and infuriating! You treated me so terribly, and yet you so easily drew your sword at that half-witted half-brother, Noah, or whatever his name was. But when it comes to Marquis Ingrion, you just stand there and let him beat you without lifting a finger!”

Cordelia’s voice trembled, and tears welled up as she spoke.

“You’re Beluce! Just raise hell the way you always do. Why are you holding back? Why are you letting yourself get beaten so stupidly? What’s so terrifying about that old marquis that you cower before him?”

Now she understood why she was so furious.

Seeing Beluce standing there helplessly, taking the blows, reminded her too much of her own past self—just a few years ago—groveling at her father’s feet with a pale, terrified face, begging for his mercy. It was like watching her own pitiful reflection from the outside.

“Marquis Ingrion is a cruel man.”

After staring at Cordelia for a long time, Beluce finally opened his mouth.

“He cannot bear it when things don’t go his way.”

“What does that matter? You’re Atilay’s man, Beluce—my teacher’s knight!”

At that, Beluce faintly smiled for the first time.

“From the moment he learned that I was officially knighted and serving under Atilay, the marquis started nitpicking, trying to use me as a weapon against him.”

“…”

“He began with my birth, and from there, he picked at anything and everything, no matter how absurd. My master told me not to mind it.”

Beluce let out a short sigh before continuing.

“Ingrion gradually dragged in other noble families to increase the pressure on Atilay. All because he wanted me to crawl back to him like a dog, groveling at his feet once again.”

“Does Master know this?”

“He has far greater matters to worry about than trivialities like this.”

Beluce spoke lightly as he wiped the blood trickling down his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Trivial? Do you really think Atilay would ever crumble before someone like Marquis Ingrion?”

“He wouldn’t fall, but he would be wounded. And I cannot stand the thought of being the cause of that scar.”

At last, Cordelia understood why Beluce endured the marquis’s violence in silence. He couldn’t bear the idea of tarnishing Atilay’s honor. He would rather be beaten like a dog by his own father than bring shame upon his master.

“He just needs a punching bag.”

“Whatever the reason, stop groveling before that marquis. It doesn’t suit you at all. Promise me. Now.”

“Tch.”

Cordelia glared at him, demanding an answer. Beluce gave a helpless little laugh—not sharp or mocking as before, but softer.

“I already passed the Intermediate Mage exam in one try. I’ll be an Advanced Mage before long. Master said he would pass everything down to me. No matter what Marquis Ingrion does, I’ll be able to stop him.”

“You didn’t even know what a mage was not long ago, and now you brag?”

Beluce only snorted at her clumsy boast.

Just then, Gasil approached after spotting them in the corridor. His eyes fell on Beluce’s battered state, and he asked,

“What happened?”

“It was Marquis Ingrion,” Cordelia quickly answered before Beluce could stop her.

Gasil exhaled quietly, his face unreadable.

“Again?”

“Again? Sir Gasil, you knew about this?”

“Every time Sir Beluce meets the marquis, he returns in this state. It would be stranger if I didn’t know. Thankfully, it seems our master has yet to notice.”

“You knew?” Beluce asked, surprised.

“You must think me blind.”

“But you never said a word.”

“You didn’t want it spoken of, did you?”

Beluce’s lips tightened in an awkward grimace. Cordelia quickly interjected.

“I already warned the marquis, so this won’t happen again. And Beluce promised me he wouldn’t just stand there and take beatings anymore.”

“When did I promise that?” Beluce muttered.

“Warned him?” Gasil repeated.

Ignoring Beluce’s protest, Cordelia explained everything: how she had stumbled upon the scene of violence, and what words she exchanged with the marquis.

“Hmm.”

After listening, Gasil deliberated briefly before saying,

“We should pack. Knowing Marquis Ingrion’s temper, he will not let this pass.”

“I wasn’t planning to travel with him much longer anyway, but… is he really that dangerous?”

“You must not know, since it’s been years. There was once a Baron Usher, a close acquaintance of the marquis. But when the baron shot a fox in a hunt before him, the marquis fired hundreds of arrows into him, killed him, and dragged back his corpse in place of the fox as his hunting prize.”

“…My god.”

“And that is not all. His second son, Renald Ingrion—when Count Ardone’s daughter rejected his proposal, the marquis crippled her. In despair, she eventually threw herself into the river.”

One horrifying story after another. Now Cordelia understood why Gasil had bowed so low upon first meeting the marquis.

“So, it would be wise to leave at once.”

“Alright. Meet me at the inn’s back door in ten minutes.”

Cordelia nodded firmly. Gasil left first, but Beluce still lingered. She lightly slapped his arm.

“What are you doing? Don’t just stand there—go get your things!”

“…Fine, fine.”

Pushing him along, Cordelia hurried back to her room. She had little to pack—just tomorrow’s clothes, which she shoved back into her travel bag, along with her magic books. Soon she was ready.

The inn remained quiet; no sign of the marquis’s response yet. She slipped to the back door, but even after ten minutes, neither man appeared.

“Did something happen?”

Stretching her neck like a cautious deer, she looked around. The night was silent.

“What are you doing?”

“Ah!”

A light tap on her shoulder in the darkness nearly made her jump out of her skin. She turned to see Beluce and sighed in relief.

“You scared me!”

“Scared? You talked back to Marquis Ingrion without flinching, and this makes you jump?”

“I didn’t know he was that insane.”

“It’s not too late. Just pretend you never saw it. You’re Master’s disciple—he won’t dare harm you directly.”

Strangely, Beluce’s tone was unusually fragile, like a dandelion seed in the wind. In his eyes—eyes that had faced countless beasts without fear—there was now an unmistakable resignation.

“So you’ll just go take the beatings for me?”

“He’s old now. His punches don’t even sting that much anymore.”

“I don’t care.”

Cordelia met his gaze directly. His eyes resembled the marquis’s, yet were not the same.

“I don’t want to see you beaten stupidly by that man.”

“What does it matter to you? Whether I get beaten or not.”

“Because it’s like looking at myself.”

“…”

“It reminds me of begging my father to let me live. And it makes me sick. So… so…”

Cordelia’s voice faltered. A rush of emotions choked her, and tears threatened to spill. To hide it, she quickly changed the subject.

“When is Sir Gasil coming?”

As if summoned, Gasil appeared from the darkness, reeking faintly of oil.

“Let’s depart.”

“Fire!”

The cry rang out at the same time.

Shouts filled the inn as panic spread, but Gasil remained calm. Leading the horse Beluce had brought, he asked Cordelia,

“Do you need help mounting?”

“No, I can manage. But Sir Gasil…”

The stench of oil on him, followed by the sudden fire, was too suspicious. Narrowing her eyes, she mounted the horse herself.

“Was that your doing?”

“Yes. I set fire to the food wagons. They’ll be too busy to pursue us.”

He admitted it without hesitation. Calm and collected as always, yet capable of setting fire to the marquis’s supplies—Cordelia hadn’t expected such boldness from him.

The three of them rode swiftly out of the village. They didn’t dare push the horses too hard in the dark, but by dawn, they had reached a new settlement.

Exhausted, they found a small inn, caught a few hours of sleep, and set off again.

After two days of restless travel, the walls of Yebo Delim finally came into sight.

“You must be tired after such a grueling journey. Thank you for enduring,” Gasil said as they entered the city gates.

Cordelia had been tense, half-expecting pursuit, but no one followed. Gasil’s diversion had worked.

“It was only two days. I can manage. You two must be tired as well—let’s head to Atilay’s townhouse. I’ll go see my father from there.”

“We’re fine,” Gasil replied. Even Beluce, eyes red from fatigue, refused to leave her side.

So Cordelia had no choice but to head with them to the address written on the letter. Truthfully, it wasn’t consideration for them, but simply because she didn’t want to reveal her own shameful circumstances.

Please, let it just be a quiet farewell.

That was all she wished for.

At the address on the envelope stood a dilapidated old mansion. Not the whole house, but a room on the top floor of the third story was in use.

She knocked on the weathered wooden door. A young servant peeked out.

“Who are you?”

“I’m here to see Prince-Elector Vasquez.”

“O-oh! One moment!”

The boy rudely left her standing outside. Sounds of frantic shuffling came from within. Unease pricked Cordelia’s chest.

Finally, after about five minutes, the door opened again.

The familiar smell of liquor hit her nose immediately. It was the scent that had always clung to her father.