Chapter 8
Gororong, gororong…
Cyrus raised his head as he watched the faintly glowing feathers of the crow snoring with its head buried on the table.
Dawn was breaking.
“……”
As he shifted his gaze, a bowl of stew left on the table caught his eye.
The portion set aside for the wizard hadn’t moved an inch from where Cyrus had placed it and had grown cold.
“Hmm.”
He brushed the hair off his forehead.
There wasn’t a hint of drowsiness in his violet eyes under the jet-black hair.
— [Damn it, don’t you ever sleep?!]
Cyrus recalled the words the crow had shouted before collapsing onto the table after tirelessly trying to stay awake and keep watch. He let out a soft chuckle.
Then he immediately caught himself in surprise. The muscles around his mouth moved awkwardly, unfamiliar with smiling.
“……”
He’d only spent a single day here, yet something inside him was already changing.
A deep furrow formed on his brow as he realized that.
This place was strange.
Not just because animals could talk—but because emotions he never thought existed in him were surfacing here, unbidden.
A place distant from the looming threat of death.
The unfamiliar and disconcerting peace of the quiet cabin kept calling up forgotten memories and sensations.
Cyrus wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.
But for now, something else was more important.
“…Should I reheat this?”
His unnecessarily serious voice echoed softly through the cabin.
The wizard who had left with the rabbit the night before had yet to return, and the stew set aside for him had grown cold overnight.
Cyrus’s gaze naturally moved to the hearth.
A faint ember the size of a fingernail was barely clinging to life under the pot.
“……”
Despite all his training, Cyrus had never learned how to revive embers in a hearth. He raked a hand through his hair in frustration.
In the bluish dawn light, his cool, beautiful face glimmered.
The crow, who should’ve gasped at that beauty out of instinct, was unfortunately still fast asleep and snoring. But Cyrus noticed another movement.
[My stew!]
A mouse—the one who had cooked the stew that surpassed anything served in any noble house—was scurrying frantically around the hearth.
The mouse grabbed a pinch (barely a few grains) of ash-colored powder from a jar on the hearth and tossed it under the embers.
The dying coals flared up for a moment.
But a few seconds later, they died down again, and the mouse began pacing in panic, repeating the process.
“……”
Cyrus, watching quietly, slowly rose to his feet.
Clatter.
[Hmm, tomato.]
The crow stirred briefly at the movement, mumbled in its sleep, and then went back to snoring.
Cyrus, now standing calmly before the hearth as if it were nothing new, scooped a large handful of the powder the mouse had been so painstakingly using.
[No, just a little—!]
Before the mouse could stop him, he tossed the whole handful into the ember.
WHOOSH!
[Eek!]
The fire roared up the chimney. The mouse hurled itself to the floor in panic. Despite being startled himself, Cyrus didn’t show a trace of emotion.
The commotion woke the crow, who screamed when it saw the blazing fire.
[M-my Peratum powder!]
Peratum?
[You bastard! Do you even know how long it takes to collect enough wild magpie droppings to make that?! Just because it sparkles doesn’t mean you can—!]
Wild magpie droppings…
Of course he didn’t know.
As he stared blankly at the ash-colored powder on his palm, the door suddenly burst open.
Bang!
“Clear the table!”
A figure rushed into the cabin—Lizzie Atkins, the owner.
Cyrus instinctively looked up, feeling an unfamiliar twinge of relief—and immediately fell silent.
Lizzie looked like a wreck.
Her clothes were half-burned, as if she’d survived a bombing. Her carrot-colored hair was matted with mud and soot, now dark brown.
“Huup!”
With a grunt, she slammed something large onto the table that the crow had hastily cleared.
A blood-soaked deer.
“This is…”
“Oh, perfect timing!”
Before Cyrus could finish his sentence, Lizzie spotted the roaring hearth and brightened.
“Switch out the cauldron! Quick!”
It was a sudden order, but Cyrus didn’t ask questions.
He removed the stew pot and replaced it with an empty one. Then he stepped aside, letting Lizzie take over and went to check the deer’s injuries.
The whole process was fluid and natural—so natural that neither of them realized it.
“These wounds…”
Cyrus’s brow furrowed slightly.
The deer had multiple injuries. It wasn’t hard to guess the type of weapon that caused them.
“…A bomb.”
“……”
Lizzie didn’t respond to his confident assertion.
She just worked faster, preparing a hemostatic agent.
Cyrus applied pressure to the bleeding wounds, still frowning.
Judging by the injuries, the explosion hadn’t occurred far from here.
‘But I didn’t hear any explosion…’
His gaze shifted out the window.
The hazelnut trees around the field suddenly looked like towering fortress walls.
[Lizzie! What happened?!]
“…I’ll tell you later.”
Lizzie whispered to the worried crow flying beside her, her eyes lingering for a moment on Cyrus, who was also staring out the window.
— [Whatever they’re looking for, it doesn’t matter if it dies.]
The rabbit’s words from last night suddenly resurfaced in her mind.
But Lizzie refocused on the cauldron.
“We need a lot of hemostatic agent. Right now.”
There was no time to worry about anything else.
Her words were like a declaration as she silently continued working.
Normally, she would’ve been giving instructions to Garrett while making the medicine, but not this time.
Because Cyrus Blanchard was fully focused on saving the deer’s life.
It was strange to see a man who would one day kill countless people trying his best to save a single deer. Strange, but familiar.
Because that was the Cyrus Blanchard she’d seen here.
“…That’s probably why I’m doing this.”
With a sigh, Lizzie added ice crystals to the nearly finished mixture.
The assassins who came for the duke were closing in.
If she just gave them the right directions, they’d kill the world’s worst villain for her.
But instead, Lizzie planned to go destroy those assassins herself.
She still didn’t know what kind of person the real Cyrus Blanchard was.
But—
‘At the very least, I know I don’t know everything.’
“All done.”
She poured some of the finished medicine into a large bottle and packed it in her bag.
Then she pulled a red potion from the cupboard and added it to the bag as well before turning to Cyrus.
“Pour the rest of this over the wounds.”
“What’s goi—”
“Hunting.”
She cut off his question with a firm answer, wiped her dirty hands, and headed back to the door.
[L-Lizzie! Where are you going again?!]
“Just for a moment. You all stay here.”
Thud.
The cabin door shut, and Cyrus and Garrett were left in heavy silence.
Her final words were barely a whisper, but both the sharp-eared crow and the highly trained human heard it clearly.
— Because it’s dangerous.
[What the hell is going on…]
As the stunned crow muttered to the closed door, Cyrus silently sprang into action.
He knew Lizzie’s story about being attacked by a hunter was a lie.
No real hunter would use bombs—preserving the prey intact was key.
Still, he had no intention of following her.
He had his own role. And right now, it was stopping the deer’s bleeding.
He easily carried the pot to the table and began pouring the milky-white medicine over the deer’s wounds.
Pink foam bubbled over the wounds, and a faint voice emerged from the seemingly unconscious deer.
[Help… please, help me…]
“……”
Cyrus didn’t stop pouring the medicine, even at the pitiful plea.
But his face darkened more than ever.
It felt strange.
An emotion he’d never experienced before in all his brushes with death stirred in his fingertips.
Overwhelming fear and terror.
But it wasn’t his emotion.
He worked faster, eager to shake off the emotions rushing into him.
After finishing one side of the wounds, he turned the deer over and started treating the rest.
Then—
“……”
His hand stopped.
Among the bomb wounds, he spotted one that was distinctly different—and oddly familiar.
A small, deep puncture wound.
After staring for a moment, Cyrus reached into it without hesitation.
[Ack! What are you doing?!]
As the crow screeched, Cyrus pulled something out of the wound—his face going rigid.
A high-quality bolt, decorated with a red feather of a distinct design.
He knew exactly where he’d seen it before.
The Nelmar hunting grounds.
“…Damn it.”
A rage he’d long forgotten struck him like a tidal wave as his grip tightened around the bolt.
Now he knew.
Whatever Lizzie had called a “hunt”—it wasn’t a hunt.
[Why are you so worked up… wait, hey! Human! Duke! Blanchard!]
The crow tried to stop him, but Cyrus was faster.
After pouring medicine over the last wound, he went straight to the corner of the cabin, rummaged through dried herbs, and found his hidden sword.
[How did you even know it was there?! Hey!]
The crow shouted frantically, but Cyrus was already out the door.
He didn’t stop.
He pushed through the dense artificial fog and past the hazelnut trees surrounding the field.
They were looking for him.
“If that’s the case…”
…Then he had to go.
As the mist thinned and the sword—still stained with the past—gripped tightly in his hand, Cyrus finally heard it.
A massive explosion.
BOOM!
Without hesitation, he ran toward the sound and bit his lip.
That’s where they would all be.
The wounded animals.
Lizzie Atkins.
And the assassins who came to kill him.
