Chapter 17
Are they playing war or something?
Children love war games by nature. It wasn’t all that surprising, having run into such scenes a few times during wartime.
“What? I hate Anderte. Then I’d have to get killed by the great mage Mephisto. I’m Raphaelo!”
However, my arms froze mid-transplant while replanting the seedlings.
‘I’ve died once before. But hearing it straight from someone else’s mouth makes it feel so strange.’
Yes, Anderte died. But somehow, I’m still alive.
The current me isn’t Anderte, but the Anderte inside me hasn’t died yet.
That gap between them sometimes hit me in a chillingly unfamiliar way. Not sometimes—often.
Even after the children vanished, the area stayed noisy the whole time I was transplanting the seedlings.
‘Is there a festival going on?’
A savory bread scent wafted over from the backyard.
After finishing my work, I headed toward the kitchen window flung wide open and took a cup of tea from the Head Maid.
“It’s noisy outside.”
The Head Maid, who had been leaning on the window frame, looked at me with fresh surprise in her eyes.
“Miss Daizy really is indifferent to the world. Today is Peace Day.”
“Peace Day?”
What’s that?
“It’s the day commemorating the victory in the Mado War. It’s the fourth anniversary today. It’s common knowledge, so make a note of it.”
The day the war ended.
So today was that day.
‘That’s why I had that sticky nightmare this morning.’
Sipping my tea while leaning against the wall, I spotted the daily newspaper splayed out on the kitchen table. Bold letters dominated the front-page headline.
『Peace Day 4th Anniversary Celebration, Raphaelo the Grand Duke Will Not Attend This Year』
『This year, Grand Duke Raphaelo Jenail Pen Rota will not attend the Peace Day 4th Anniversary Celebration. The Jenail family stated that the Grand Duke’s overseas schedule has been delayed…』
Raphaelo the Grand Duke.
I stepped into the kitchen, took a seat in a chair, and unfolded the newspaper.
It was a thoroughly impulsive move, and the moment my old comrade jumped out at me from the front page like that, I regretted the impulse.
‘He hasn’t changed a bit.’
From head to toe.
Exactly like the image nailed into my memory from four years ago.
‘Well, four years isn’t that long a time.’
Raphaelo.
Mulling over his name left a bitter taste in my mouth.
Truth be told, ever since waking up on Queen Island, I’d deliberately avoided news of my old comrades.
It wasn’t just a simple matter of like or dislike—it dragged me into all sorts of complicated, negative feelings.
‘Clothes make the man, they say. Wearing a suit that sharp, he looks every inch the noble right down to his bones.’
The Raphaelo in the paper hadn’t changed much from the way he was fourteen years ago, when we first met.
It’s one of the changes that come when someone who wields magic reaches an exceptional realm: their aging slows dramatically.
Dazzling golden hair like the sun. Deep crimson eyes flecked with black that shimmered scarlet every time they caught the light. Straight brows always rigidly set, eyes devoid of any hint of a smile, a nose of just the right size and height.
On his lean cheeks, dimples often sank deep like wells.
Was it those dimples? When he rarely burst into laughter, he gave off a soft, clear boyishness.
And those prominent cheekbones.
A smile utterly at odds with his solemn, old-man way of speaking.
“I can’t entrust my back to anyone but you, Anderte. You’re the only one I can trust. It might sound ridiculous, but sometimes I think that if I had a lost brother, it’d be you.”
On nights when he was drenched head to toe in demon blood, Raphaelo would get lost in such embarrassingly sentimental thoughts.
Brother, friend, partner, family, soulmate.
He had plenty of affectionate names for me, but sometimes that affection from Raphaelo felt like too much to bear.
Because if I shed the mask of Anderte, his affection would slough off with it.
“Stop it right now, Anderte! You can’t die! I won’t let you die like this!”
That scream of a shout was the last thing between us.
I remember not daring to turn my back on him, afraid it would weaken my resolve.
‘No matter how many times I revisit it, it’s a horrific memory.’
Reliving the past left me missing Raphaelo just a little.
And wondering.
How did the war wrap up after I died? Did you resent me for leaving without a word? If the resentment ran deep, would you ever forgive me?
Did those days linger as nightmares for you the way they do for me? Would even encountering you through a scrap of paper like this be agonizing enough to raise a cold sweat, to quicken your breath and weigh down your heart…
Thud.
I drew in a deep breath.
Steaming stew splattered onto the newspaper.
A shadow stretched long behind me before vanishing as it passed by, a voice saying,
“Mealtime is for eating.”
Had Lu’s voice ever sounded this pleasant?
‘…There’s meat in it.’
In a daze, I thought that as I picked up my spoon.
Before I knew it, the Head Maid had taken the head of the table, Lu sat across from me, and they were both dipping bread into their stew.
“Ugh.”
Scorching hot.
Nursing my burned palate from the steaming stew, I turned to the Head Maid.
“What do people do on Peace Day?”
“Peace Day is a public holiday. Families eat commemorative Peace Day bread, the Chapel holds public blessing prayers, and the square hosts a flea market. All the proceeds go to Mado War refugee shelters. The merchants donate some of their profits too.”
Nice holiday. Perfect chance to swing by the pub.
After the meal and cleanup, I ran over to the Head Maid, who was smoking in the backyard, and stuck out my hand.
“Errand.”
“…”
“Please.”
“You’re just thinking of slacking off. Luckily, the sewing room’s thread is all used up anyway.”
Perfect. Now I can pretend I’m heading to the market and sneak over to the pub.
The market was quieter than usual.
Probably because it was a holiday—no sign of the Potato Old Man. I needed to check if he’d gotten all his stall rent back properly.
I browsed the sundries shop, killing time slacking off, then stepped up to the counter.
“<Cost-effective sewing thread set for maids> one, please.”
The sundries shop owner pulled out the item smoothly as if he’d been waiting, took my money, and said,
“That’s it for today? If you’ve got time, hit up the other shops too, miss. All the market stores are doing huge discounts all week. Fresh fruit, veggies, meat—all cheap. Stock up while you can.”
“Peace Day discounts?”
“Huh? Oh, no, not for Peace Day. See, the thugs who’ve been hounding us for years suddenly repented.”
The tailor shop owner from the building next door, who’d been chatting with the sundries owner, chimed in from the side.
“Yeah, yeah. Handed back four years’ worth of stall rent all at once, they did?”
“Not just one or two folks who nearly went bust because of them. Word is, some righteous soul stirred up a storm at <Pub Piece of Land> just a few days ago at dawn. Looks like that person gave them a proper scolding. Who do you reckon it was?”
Me.
“A hero, that’s what! A real hero for the likes of us. Who could it be? One of our own locals, maybe?”
It’s me, I said.
“Wish we could get a look at his face. Everyone’d be lining up to buy him a meal.”
“I’d spring for a fine custom suit…”
“Photo shop kid said he’d snap a picture too? How about we all chip in and run an ad in the paper? What do you say?”
Afraid it’d actually end up in the newspaper, I pretended not to hear and slipped out of the sundries shop.
Now, stroll toward the pub and drop a casual line.
“Ah. Lost item at the pub. Slipped my mind.”
Nice and natural.
‘…But doesn’t the pub open in the evening?’
I’d started to hang back at a distance when I checked the sign on the door and froze.
『Lunch Available』
‘The pub’s serving lunch?’
The Butler Assassin’s doing.
‘Makes sense. If it’s open during the day, a maid coming and going won’t raise eyebrows, and info will flow in plenty.’
Ding-a-ling.
The pub inside was as deserted as the sign made it seem—not.
As the former headquarters for the thugs who’d thrown their weight around demanding stall rent, it was no small feat drawing customers overnight.
“Lost item.”
Leaning against the bar, I held out my hand.
The bartender, polishing glasses, fetched a chocolate from the display shelf, pulled a note from his pants pocket, and handed them over.
“Here. Note left by the butler captain, maid captain.”
His whisper carried real gravity.
Looks like the Butler Assassin trained them thoroughly. Experience counts for everything in this line of work.
Just then, the executives who’d been sweeping the floor clustered together, passing naturally behind me as they whispered,
“You’ll be shocked. We spread the kids far and wide around the neighborhood to gather intel.”
“We’re a covert guild, operating in the shadows. Heh…”
Something’s off with these guys.
Pushing away from the bar, I gave them a warning.
“Don’t call me captain.”
The executives bowed their heads.
“Understood.”
“Understood.”
You’ve got them hooked now.
