"Kashchey… you actually know how to raise a child?"
"Theresa, would you just shut up? You'll be resurrected by those Confessarius soon enough—so stop meddling."
"Sorry, I didn't mean to read your memories… but really, you were the one who tried to ambush me first. This is just the natural consequence."
"…You're insufferable."
"Oh? So it's fine for you to needle me with your words, but I can't fight back?"
"…"
"Theresa, the Confessarius' ritual is ready."
"…What a deliciously inescapable trap."
"Of course. After all, a noble soul like you wouldn't want to see your dear brother turn the Sarkaz into a complete disaster, would you~?"
"So tell me—what do you really think of Talulah? Can you still bring yourself to destroy her?"
"…Get out."
Tch. So keeping their consciousness unified has its drawbacks after all… she can actually sense the duke through Satan's body.
No matter. Gains and losses—always two sides of the same coin. Those memories are trivial anyway.
What matters now is making Theresa hold off Theresis.
---
Talulah had always carried a single, persistent frustration—
that her entire life seemed to have been mapped out by her foster father long before she even understood what freedom meant.
An endless cycle of carefully arranged lessons, dull and pretentious social gatherings, and even her "hobbies," neatly scheduled and chosen for her.
It was suffocating.
She was an adult now—perfectly capable of taking responsibility for her own choices, of pursuing her own ideals.
But Kashchey's influence was absolute.
Everyone who approached her cared not for her as a person, but for her title—the chosen successor of Duke Kashchey.
No one wanted to know what she truly thought or felt.
They only wanted to read her actions like coded messages, trying to divine the duke's will through her every move.
Even the most trivial decisions she made were dissected and reinterpreted as Kashchey's hidden orders.
I'm Talulah! Not Duke Kashchey!
So, in the heat of youthful rebellion, Talulah made a bold decision—
She would become a philanthropist.
Not for fame, nor for politics, nor for the family name.
Simply because she pitied the infected.
Outside Kashchey's domain, most of Ursus's infected lived short, harsh lives—
dying namelessly in the mines, their bodies discarded like tools dulled by overuse.
It infuriated her.
She felt she had a duty to help them.
Kashchey, for his part, was delighted—
believing that Talulah had finally come to her senses.
He thought this "charity" would serve as the perfect stepping stone:
a way to build a public image, to gather prestige,
to pave her path toward the bureaucracy and, eventually, the duchy itself.
So, with a wave of his hand, he granted her a generous sum of money.
But when he came to inspect her foundation's progress—he discovered that Talulah's so-called "charitable organization" was running deep in the red.
---
"You idiot! You mean to tell me you just gave them all the money!?"
In a cramped, shabby office, a white-haired Phidia man stood towering over a seated Talulah, his voice sharp with fury.
"But… they were suffering. They had no way to pay it back," she murmured, lowering her head, her tail swishing nervously.
"Did you even remember anything I taught you? The infected are poor—they have no money. But that doesn't mean you can't profit from helping them!"
"…Easy for you to say," she muttered under her breath.
"…"
Kashchey stared at the foolish Draco girl before him, both exasperated and begrudgingly amused.
Yet, as always, his mind was quick to uncover the opportunities hidden beneath her naïveté.
Without hesitation, he pushed Talulah to the forefront as a charming public figurehead—
then quietly moved his own people into the foundation's operations,
taking control of everything behind the scenes.
Before long, the charity foundation's reputation spread like wildfire. Its influence among the infected grew rapidly—so much so that even a few nobles, once too lazy or fearful to involve themselves, began voluntarily donating money to the foundation, allowing it to manage their "infected problems" for them.
To most of Ursus, the infected were nothing more than vermin—pests to be swept out of sight and mind.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Still, a small number of nobles, those less fanatical or cruel, were willing to pay to keep the peace. It was easier to part with a bit of money than to dump the infected into the mines—or have them executed outright.
And that was exactly how the foundation made its profit: by taking money from the few uninfected who still had a shred of conscience left.
---
Talulah said nothing.
Watching her so-called "secretary"—one of Kashchey's subordinates—handle negotiations on her behalf, openly assigning prices to the infected as though they were livestock, filled her with quiet disgust.
She couldn't quite explain it, but it made her heart ache.
Yes, those "purchased" infected were at least kept alive under the foundation's management.
But that was all—bare survival.
They were penned in and sustained at the barest minimum cost, treated little better than cattle.
And the cruelest irony of all—
even so, the infected were grateful.
In Ursus, simply being allowed to live was already considered mercy.
Talulah had tried to reason with Kashchey, to ask for his cooperation, to convince him to help change the infected's wretched fate.
But he refused without hesitation.
Kashchey had never been one to harm himself for the sake of others.
---
Inside the Reunion camp, three people who each knew Kashchey in their own way sat discussing him.
"…He could change Ursus if he wanted to."
Talulah's voice faltered with sorrow.
She still longed, somewhere deep down, for her foster father's approval.
"Talulah, you still don't understand your foster father," Patriot interrupted, his tone calm but firm.
"Your foster father has already done enough."
Patriot spoke in Kashchey's defense.
After all, setting aside the matter of how Kashchey had saved his own son—the standard of living for the infected within the Duke's territory was far higher than anywhere else in Ursus. All three present knew that well.
"…Maybe so."
Talulah didn't want to argue with Patriot.
Who understands Kashchey better—you or me?
In truth, there was little point in such debates.
Hellagur listened in silence to Talulah's story.
Perhaps even Talulah herself didn't realize it, but when she mentioned how Kashchey had once baked her a birthday cake with his own hands, a faint smile had crossed her face—
a mix of genuine happiness and quiet sorrow.
After all, she believed she had already severed all ties with him.
But Hellagur didn't think so.
During his time as a general of Ursus, he had once seen classified intelligence—fragments of the empire's analysis on the elusive Duke Kashchey.
"Kindness may be the only thing capable of wounding the Duke of Kashchey."
But is that really true?
Rather than finding an answer, Hellagur's doubts only deepened.
Could that immortal truly have grown soft?
…No. Perhaps even that was part of his performance—an act carefully crafted for others to see.
After all, a Kashchey who had weaknesses and limits was a Kashchey the world could tolerate.
In the end, everything they thought they knew about Kashchey—
was merely the tip of the Black Snake's iceberg.