Chapter 6
Click.
Despite it being midsummer, the metal doorknob felt cold enough to sting. As Malon Fletcher gripped and turned it, a faint scent of book dust seeped out through the crack.
“Hah.”
A sneer of deep contempt flickered across the wrinkled face of the man holding the knob—Malon Fletcher.
“A mansion left neglected the moment its owner vanishes, despite having dozens of servants… What a fitting end for a bastard who coveted what wasn’t his.”
But what Malon didn’t realize was this:
There was an instinctive fear laced in his own voice.
The blue-eyed devil.
The monster that couldn’t be killed even when killed.
The words used to describe Duke Cyrus Blanchard hovered like vivid fear around the mansion—and Malon was no exception.
Creeeak.
With a chilling creak, the heavy and imposing study came into view.
But Malon’s gaze lingered not on the grandeur of the room but on the position of the desk.
Unlike most studies where the desk typically faced the entrance with its back to the window, the red mahogany desk here was placed so that it faced both the entrance and the window.
A position perfect for defense, no matter where the intruder came from.
“…Which made him very hard to kill.”
Cyrus Blanchard, with his unbelievable strength and skill, had never let down his guard—thwarting dozens of assassination attempts without fail.
Clicking his tongue in irritation, Malon approached the desk and picked up a document from the stack of papers—one bearing the insignia of the Order of Knights.
On it, the name he’d been looking for was written in red ink:
[Knight, Evan Blanchard — Banishment from the Territory]
Crunch.
Unable to contain his rage, Malon crumpled the paper in his fist. A recent memory flared up in his mind:
—“Ba-banishment?! Evan merely…”
—“Only followed your orders, yes.”
—“…”
—“Your nephew said he’d take responsibility. It was a foolish choice, but fitting for him. Anyone with the name Blanchard merely gets exiled. Anyone else would lose their head.”
—“Your Grace…”
—“So get out of my sight, Count Fletcher.”
Before I change my mind and kill you.
The Duke’s blue eyes had shone more intensely than ever that day, and Malon had been forced to back away.
Seething with humiliation, Malon had waited ever since—for the day Cyrus Blanchard died.
Born in filth and raised in horror, yet accepted as a legitimate heir simply because of his bloodline—this damned bastard had no right to remain in the mansion.
Once he was gone, Evan Blanchard—the Duke’s nephew and Malon’s sister’s son—would become the rightful Duke.
And then…
Just as Malon, still holding the crumpled paper, was lost in deep thought, a knock sounded at the door.
Knock knock.
“Come in.”
At his words, a figure clad in all black from head to toe entered the study.
The man, making no effort to hide his role as an assassin, carried a massive crossbow and bowed before Malon.
“Did you find him?”
“…I’m sorry.”
It was not the answer Malon had hoped for, and a deep furrow formed on his brow.
“We spent that much money, even hired Morghillen poison… and you still haven’t found the body? Are you sure you hit him?”
“I-I did! I saw it pierce his shoulder and the blood flowing… But…”
“But?”
“If he really is…”
Looking around nervously, the assassin whispered so quietly it barely registered:
“…the monster that ‘can’t be killed’…”
“You’ve gone mad, haven’t you?!”
Malon exploded.
“Famous guild, the best in the capital—what a joke! Do you even know what Morghillen is? Or are you just making excuses because you couldn’t take out that cursed bastard even with all our preparation?!”
“I swear I shot him! But he vanished—nowhere to be found…!”
“So now you’re telling me the guy poisoned by Morghillen is still alive?!”
“I-I’m sorry…!”
Malon stared at the groveling assassin, barely holding back his fury by clenching his fists.
This wasn’t the time for punishment.
What mattered now was finding Cyrus Blanchard—as soon as possible.
After a deep breath, he spoke in a steadier tone:
“…Three days. You have three days to find him.”
“Y-yes, sir…!”
“If you can’t find him, grab some random black-haired peasant and bring him in. No one will know the difference. We need a body for the funeral…”
So we can hold the succession ceremony.
Malon swallowed the last part of the sentence and waved his hand dismissively.
As the assassin rushed out, a short, scrawny man slipped through the half-open door.
“Still no sign of him?”
Malon sighed irritably.
“Damn it. No matter how much I pay, I never get results. That so-called top guild? Just a relic of the past. How many failures has it been now?”
“Well, this time they really did hit him.”
“They better have. We poured that expensive Morghillen into the arrow.”
“Then where the hell did he die?”
Malon was silent for a moment, then looked out the bright window, as if the storm had never happened.
“Wherever it was… I hope it’s hell.”
His voice was a twisted mix of rage, fear, anticipation, and unease.
* * *
[No! You broke the stem too! I said just pick the tomato! Just the tomato! Ugh, you’re hopeless! Being a noble doesn’t mean you’re good at anything!]
“….”
Watching the crow flap its wings furiously like it was about to grab his collar, Cyrus Blanchard came to a conclusion:
This is hell.
—If you’ve got nothing else to do, go clean up the cabbages lying around.
That’s what the carrot-haired magician had first asked him to do.
A small, trivial task—not something a Duke would normally do.
But Cyrus nodded without complaint.
Of course, Cyrus had his own reasons.
He had long trained himself to find strategic vantage points, assess defensive locations, and secure escape routes when placed in unfamiliar environments.
He also needed to confirm how far the assassins had followed him. Observing the surroundings outside the cabin was far better than staying inside.
Though he had no intention of leaving before the appointed day, he needed to be prepared.
What Cyrus hadn’t anticipated, however, was that even something as simple as moving cabbages wouldn’t be as easy as he’d expected.
—Cabbage…
Wasn’t that what she said?
Standing before a cabbage larger than the decorative pumpkins used in autumn feasts, Cyrus went speechless.
It made him realize just how dangerous it had been to collapse in that field during the storm.
If he had been hit by one of those, he’d have ended up under the field, not on it.
Shaking off the thought, Cyrus lifted the massive cabbage with surprising ease—it wasn’t as heavy as it looked.
Thankful for that, he trudged toward the cabin, unaware that…
[…]
…the crow watching him had its beak hanging wide open in shock.
Grown by a druid, the cabbage was not only huge but also dense and sturdy.
Even mountain-climbing hunters had trouble lifting them, yet this man—whose beauty could stun even a mole—picked it up without effort or technique.
[Strong… and handsome…]
Unaware of the gleam in the crow’s eye, Cyrus continued scanning the area as he carried cabbages.
Though the cabin was small, the surrounding fields and garden stretched out endlessly.
Even compared to his own estate, it was impressive.
The land was surrounded by ancient hazel trees—forming a natural fence, as if they’d always known a farm would be built there.
They looked hundreds of years old.
Oddly, there was no forest visible beyond the trees—only a foggy mist hanging between the hazels.
‘I don’t remember seeing that on the rainy day…’
While recalling that unclear memory, Cyrus returned to the cabin after moving twelve cabbages.
The woman—engrossed in a brick-thick book—looked up the moment he stepped inside.
—Oh, also, fix the stakes for the collapsed seedlings.
“…”
Without a word, Cyrus went back outside.
The fact that the Duke of Blanchard was doing farm work at a single word of command—
Anyone in the empire would think it unbelievable.
But Cyrus didn’t hesitate.
The longer he observed the area, the better.
He returned later carrying broken stakes—cracked from missing the nail. Lizzie asked him to dig a water path where it had pooled.
After bringing in broken shovels, she asked him to board up a shattered window.
After fetching a bizarrely bent nail, she asked him to pick tomatoes.
And so, now with the sun hanging on the hazel tree tops, Cyrus found himself picking tomatoes with a nagging crow—all because he missed the timing to say, “I can’t do this.”
[No! That’s not how you pick it! Ugh! You’re so strong but so clueless!]
Ignoring the crow’s shrill complaints, Cyrus glanced at the next tomato and recalled a fundamental question that had been with him since he arrived.
“…”
Are these really tomatoes?
Even with his large hands—bigger than most people’s—he couldn’t fully hold it.
They resembled tomatoes… but he suspected they were a completely different species.
He couldn’t voice that, though.
He had no idea what that tomato-obsessed crow would do if he said that.
Though only two days had passed, Cyrus had learned a fair bit about this place.
For example, the crow following him like a guard was obsessed with tomatoes. The magician in the cabin had vast farmland but didn’t seem to enjoy working it.
Most importantly…
[Hey! You listening? Well, not that you can understand me—but at least pretend you’re listening!]
The crow and magician assumed he couldn’t understand animals.
As expected, the magician, who introduced herself as “Lizzie Atkins, healer and part-time gardener,” didn’t speak to the crow in front of him.
She pretended not to hear it.
But Cyrus noticed her head would nod or shake in response whenever the crow spoke.
“….”
He remembered her talking openly to the crow while treating him.
She was clearly hiding the fact that she could understand animals.
Cyrus considered revealing that he could understand them too—but hesitated.
“I can understand animals.”
How ridiculous that would sound.
It was probably best to keep pretending he couldn’t.
He was already used to tuning out the crow’s endless chatter—just a bit more caution and he’d be fine…
[What are you doing?! Hurry up and pick it!]
The crow’s screech cut off his thoughts.
“…”
Without turning to look, Cyrus muttered quietly—as if to himself.
“…These tomatoes really are absurdly big.”
[They’re robust!]
The crow, mortified, shrieked in outrage.
