After the war with the barbarians ended.
Amid the hectic post-war cleanup in the mansion, a strange rumor had recently begun to circulate.
There was talk of a maid with striking red hair and an incredibly voluptuous figure wandering around the annex, where hardly anyone ever set foot—a place that was filthy and poorly cleaned, and where she apparently had a foul mouth to boot.
Of course, the long-time servants knew better.
They figured that illegitimate bastard had brought another whore back from some brothel and was fooling around, ignoring everyone as usual.
But as if mocking those thoughts, the servants lately had to witness a rare sight they'd never see in their lifetime every time they passed the corridors.
"...No, you don't handle dishes like that."
"Wh-what! Isn't wiping them like this enough?"
Crash!
"Please...!"
Anna clutched her head. Right before her eyes,
Imir was smashing a set of fine china she'd just cleaned into pieces.
If it were just once or twice a day, she might have let it slide.
But this nonsense had been going on for weeks now.
Just the plates this woman had broken were too many to count on both hands.
Watching it all, Anna felt like she was going mad and jumping out of her skin.
She wanted to slap her across the face and scream at her to get out... but how could she?
"What? It's not my fault. What am I supposed to do about these stupidly fragile plates!"
To this monstrous woman who crushed a plate in one hand like she was grabbing tofu, all with an innocent smile.
"Please... I'm not asking for anything difficult. Just listen to me."
Following Evan's orders, Anna had begun maid training for Imir and was tasting hell every single day.
Ask her to clean, and she'd snap the broom. Ask her to do laundry, and she'd rip the clothes. It was par for the course.
Even an elementary school kid—no, a kindergartener—could manage better than this.
This woman must have shit for brains; she just wouldn't learn, no matter what.
Every day teaching her was dreadful, but the worst was mealtime etiquette training.
"You don't use a fork like that... Agh! Not on my hand!"
"Th-the meat won't cut! What do you want me to do about it!"
At her absurd outburst,
Anna's pent-up frustration finally boiled over after just two weeks of patience.
"Please, focus for once!"
"Wh-what! What am I supposed to do if it won't cut!"
"You don't even have the will to learn!"
"...Of course not. Why the hell should I have to do this crap?"
"Sigh. Take it up with Evan... Young Master. Clean up what you broke by the time I get back."
Anna, who rarely lost her temper, stormed out of the messy kitchen in a huff.
Left alone, Imir stared blankly at the shattered plate pieces with a puzzled look.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Whoosh!
The sound of a sword slicing through the air broke the silence of the training grounds.
Like a snail crawling across the ground, I swung my blade at a terribly slow speed.
Drenched in sweat, I repeated the sword forms etched in the Black King's memories.
'I thought I'd finally gotten the hang of it.'
I recalled his movements from memory and mimicked them,
but...
Whoosh!
something was still missing.
No matter how precisely I copied, it didn't feel like the motions I remembered.
"..."
As I wiped the sweat dripping from my hand and reset my stance,
a figure caught my eye not far away.
Huddled in a corner of the training grounds, Imir was scribbling meaningless doodles in the dirt with a stick.
She looked completely drained from the Spartan maid training.
Otherwise, she would've piped up with something by now instead of quietly watching me.
"...Master. Do I really have to do this?"
Finally, as I kept swinging without speaking first, she grumbled timidly.
I pitied her a bit—how tough must it be to whine like that—but I shook my head.
"Your tribesmen are doing fine now. Stop whining."
"Ugh. Those guys... th-they're weaker than me!"
"This isn't a battlefield anymore. Pathetic for a former chieftain."
"This fu—"
As she started to curse, I stopped swinging and stared at her blankly.
She glanced at her own feet nervously—maybe they were numb—and clammed up.
"Why's that bitch making such a fuss over a few broken plates? Just make new ones."
"One of those plates feeds a dozen of your tribesmen."
"...For real?"
Obviously.
Even for a border noble, we're a count's house—that says it all.
As she gaped with her mouth wide open at my nod,
Clank. Clank.
the sound of metal clashing echoed from the training ground entrance.
"...Huh?"
Turning that way, I saw several knights approaching tensely toward me.
Leading them, even after some time had passed,
was Galen, his face still marred by bruises.
I'd caused it, but he looked ridiculous, like a panda. I addressed them.
"What is it?"
At my question, Galen hesitated with a complicated expression before bowing his head.
"...The Family Head is calling for you."
The count?
I'd heard he'd taken a serious wound, but he'd already recovered enough to move.
'No. Weeks have passed—maybe he's late to wake.'
I'd forgotten all about it, having zero interest.
"He's awake?"
"Yes. He regained consciousness late last night. And... the moment he woke, he asked for you first."
'Me?'
My first thought was, Why the hell?
I figured he'd call for Celine or Heron first.
Excluding them, I couldn't think of any reason to seek me out.
After nearly dying, he wasn't suddenly feeling pity for his discarded bastard or some long-lost fatherly love.
'Did one of them blab?'
Linn or Heron.
Celine hadn't been hurt, so maybe her—but I shook my head.
'The Celine I know wouldn't bother mentioning it.'
She wasn't oblivious enough to miss my bad feelings toward the Family Head.
'Heron must've opened his mouth.'
He'd been unconscious but aware when our eyes met.
He'd recovered by now, no doubt.
He must've told the Family Head about my feats when he woke.
"..."
I wondered what he was thinking.
Toward me, who'd defeated Imir—someone even the Northern Shield himself couldn't beat.
Was he planning a belated apology? Or praise for my merits?
Either way, it'd just be disgusting hypocrisy.
Thud.
"Got it. Let's go."
"Huh? You're really going, Master?"
"Yeah."
I was curious what he'd say.
I sheathed my sword and stood.
"Imir. Get a towel."
"Oh, yeah. Here."
At my outstretched arm, she jumped up from her crouch, grabbed a towel from the corner, and brought it over.
Without a word, she deftly wiped the sweat from my neck and face with skilled hands.
Who knew the hellish weeks of training would pay off here.
'Repetition learning is key for a reason.'
"Master. Can I come too? I'm bored to death."
"Go back and finish your training quietly. Cause trouble again, no dinner."
"You sneaky bas—...!"
Ignoring Imir's grumbling, I followed the knights to the main building.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
"Where's Father?"
Creeak.
"He's inside."
Arriving at the Family Head's bedroom in the main building, more than ten knights stood guard, eyeing me warily as if expecting trouble.
"Open it. I'm going in."
"Open the door."
"...Yes, Lord Count! We'll allow Evan Young Master entry now!"
No reply came, but the silence was approval.
Galen nodded to them, and the guarding knight pulled the heavy door handle.
Creeeak.
The massive bedroom door swung open, and I stepped inside slowly.
The room reeked thickly of medicinal herbs for treating the Family Head's wounds.
'So this is Count Dreadnote's bedroom.'
Stepping into a place I'd never been before for the first time, I scanned the surroundings with a strange feeling.
"..."
On the bed, a white-haired man with bandages wrapped tightly around his upper body leaned back, gazing out the window.
The majesty of the Northern Shield was gone. Just an old, weary man remained.
Even though I'd been there a while, he kept staring out the window without a word.
'Trying to psych me out or something...'
Irritation started to rise just as he slowly turned, his ashen eyes fixing on me.
"You're here."
His voice held no warmth or discomfort toward long-lost kin—just dry detachment.
I stared at him silently, offering no reply.
"...Sit."
I sat wordlessly in the chair he indicated.
No one spoke first; only awkward silence filled the room.
I had nothing to say to this Family Head I barely knew.
He probably expected me to speak first. Or not.
"I heard from Heron."
Finally bored of the long quiet, he spoke again.
"That you saved everyone."
"..."
"Hard to believe. My son... you."
"...Heh."
Oh. I had to hold back a laugh.
His ridiculous act, like a one-man play, was getting harder to endure.
Son.
After abandoning me in that remote annex for years, now he calls me son.
"...So, what's this about?"
I crossed my legs and asked flatly.
Not the way one talks to a father after ages apart—but we were never that anyway.
'Of course not. Our bond broke long ago, if it ever existed.'
His eyebrow twitched faintly at my rudeness, but age brought restraint; he quickly composed himself.
"All this time... I've been too neglectful toward you."
Neglectful.
"I feared your existence would stain the family and turned a blind eye. Forgive my foolishness in not recognizing your talent."
His voice almost sounded sincere at first glance.
If I were the old pathetic Evan, I might've teared up at the count's display—craving his recognition his whole life.
Too bad I wasn't.
"Forgive?"
I tilted my head slightly, so he could see clearly.
And slowly, very slowly, curled my lips into a smile.
"Why should I?"