Translator: Nox

Chapter 3

The man was clearly unhinged. What else could you call a person who hijacked a carriage if not a criminal?

Classie didn’t bother with a verbal response; she simply hurled her perfume bottle at him. The stranger, though drenched in blood, caught the projectile with effortless precision.

Refusing to back down, Classie reached into her bag and produced a small blade.

The man pivoted toward her, his gaze flickering with uncertainty as he ground his teeth in frustration. He demanded to know what she kept in that purse, questioning if it was actually a mobile armory.

Classie unsheathed the weapon and held it high, ready to strike.

“Look, I’m a member of the palace guard,” the man blurted out, his voice tinged with desperation. “I had no choice but to take this carriage for official business. I’ll make a formal apology later, but please, put that away! You’re actually frightening me!”

Classie didn’t lower the knife. She tightened her fingers around the hilt, her skepticism clear as she asked for proof of his claims.

Reaching into a pocket with his free hand, the man produced a black wallet and tossed it into the carriage.

Without lowering her guard or bending her back, Classie leaned forward and snagged the item. Upon opening it, she found the official crest of the palace guard, complete with an authentic anti-forgery engraving. A monochrome photograph was tucked into the opposite side.

However, the image was grainy, and with the man’s features currently masked by a layer of gore, it was impossible to confirm if the face on the identification belonged to him.

The name on the card read: Knight Hayard.

The man seemed to realize her dilemma but merely let out a weary sigh rather than arguing further.

The carriage continued its frantic pace for several minutes before finally grinding to a halt. Classie kept her eyes locked on the space beyond the driver’s bench, her grip on the knife never wavering. She was prepared to bury the blade in him the moment he showed any sign of being a common thief.

“There is a passenger inside,” the man called out, though he didn’t even look back at her. “Stay put.”

He leaped from the seat and vanished into the shadows of the surrounding trees.

Classie peered out the window, realizing they were parked at the edge of a dense forest. The man was sprinting into the thicket as if in pursuit of a target. Yet, as far as Classie could recall, there hadn’t been another soul or vehicle on the road ahead of them. She wondered who he could possibly be hunting.

She decided that lingering was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Ignoring the man’s instructions, she scrambled out of the carriage.

She climbed onto the driver’s box and began shaking the unconscious coachman. She pleaded with him to wake up, urging him to move, but the poor man remained limp.

A quick check confirmed he was still breathing.

Realizing she couldn’t revive him, Classie abandoned the effort and seized the reins herself. Had she been able to verify the man’s identity through the photo, she might have found the resolve to wait. Without that certainty, staying put was a gamble she wasn’t willing to take. He could be a legitimate knight, or he could be a murderer returning to finish the job.

“Move!” she commanded, snapping the leather.

The horse lurched forward. Classie kept the animal at a brisk pace, terrified the stranger might emerge from the woods at any moment. To her immense relief, the journey back to her estate passed without further incident.

“My Lady? Wait, what is happening?”

The coachman finally groaned and opened his eyes once the carriage had come to a stop in front of the house. He looked around, utterly disoriented. He asked why she was sitting in his seat, mentioning a vague memory of seeing her on the sidewalk earlier.

“You lost consciousness,” Classie explained simply. “I had to take over.”

The man seemed to have no recollection of the bloody intruder. Classie used her hand to surreptitiously wipe away a few stray crimson spots on the bench before nodding. She told him he had simply fainted out of nowhere.

Once she was safely inside, Classie retreated to the privacy of the bathroom, carrying the stolen black wallet.

She stared at the identification photo again. The man pictured there was strikingly handsome. In the chaos of the ride, she hadn’t been able to appreciate his features, but the image revealed a face of breathtaking beauty. In all her twenty-five years, she had encountered only two men who could rival such looks.

A brief flash of regret washed over her. She wondered if she should have waited for him in the forest. If the man in the woods truly was the man in this photo, it might have been a providential meeting.

She quickly scolded herself, dismissing the thought as foolishness. It didn’t matter how handsome he was; a man who steals carriages is no gentleman. With a firm shake of her head, she dropped the wallet into the laundry hamper.

---

Meanwhile, Dernick remained deep in the woods.

The trail had gone cold. He scanned the trees, but the subtle presence he had been tracking had evaporated. Despite the extreme measure of seizing a carriage to close the gap, the target had escaped him once more.

The thought of Sister Mary flashed through his mind, and he bit his lip in frustration, glaring into the dark void where his quarry had vanished. He tried to settle his nerves; he was young and his skills were sharpening every day. He was prepared to spend his entire life hunting this person down.

When he finally returned to the road, the carriage was gone. There was no sign of the vehicle, the driver, or the sharp-tongued woman. He knew he hadn’t lost his way; his internal compass was too precise for that. The deep ruts in the soft earth confirmed exactly where the carriage had been idling.

Dernick clicked his tongue as he inspected the tracks. He realized he had left his identification with her, and she had bolted. Then again, it wasn’t actually his ID.

He pictured the woman again—the one who carried a dagger in her purse. The shadows of the night had obscured her face, but her fierce, piercing eyes remained burned into his memory. She clearly wasn’t the type to follow orders from a stranger.

With a heavy sigh, he began the long trek on foot, following the carriage’s path. He worried about the consequences; the woman had the ID, and the real owner would be livid when he found out.

It took three hours of walking to reach his residence. His legs felt like lead as he scaled the wall and slipped through his bedroom window. He hated having to sneak into his own home like a burglar, but he wanted to avoid a scene.

As soon as his boots hit the floor, he realized he wasn’t alone. His friend was there, leaning against the wall with an air of cold elegance.

Kishin reached out and tugged the lamp cord. The sudden light flooded the room, highlighting the bloodstains covering Dernick’s clothes.

Dernick offered a weak, apologetic wave and a forced smile. Without waiting for Kishin to explain his presence, Dernick bolted toward the washroom.

A long arm shot out, blocking the doorway before he could enter.

Dernick stopped, his hand hovering over the knob, and squeezed his eyes shut. He took a stabilizing breath before looking up at Kishin’s stony, unreadable expression.

Kishin didn’t bother with pleasantries. He demanded his identification immediately.

Dernick began to stammer, his voice trailing off into a mumbled apology. Kishin’s gaze turned frigid as he repeated the demand, clearly uninterested in excuses.

Realizing he wouldn’t be allowed to wash up yet, Dernick pulled out a silver handkerchief to wipe the grime from his face. As the cloth cleared away the blood, his sharp, refined features emerged. When he finished, he revealed a face so stunning it would leave any observer breathless—and it was a face that looked nothing like the one on the ID Classie currently possessed.

Dernick dropped the soiled cloth and began patting down his pockets as if searching for the wallet. He started to explain the situation, but it was merely a ruse. Seeing a momentary lapse in Kishin’s focus, Dernick pivoted and lunged back toward the window.

Kishin was faster. He grabbed Dernick with bone-crushing strength and repeated the question. The coldness in his voice had shifted from mere annoyance to genuine fury. Dernick knew his friend well enough to recognize the different shades of his temper.

“I’m sorry,” Dernick finally admitted, opting for the truth. “A woman took it.”

Kishin didn’t buy it. He told Dernick to be realistic, noting that a man of his skill doesn’t just get pickpocketed by a random woman.

Dernick let out a nervous cough and reached out to pat Kishin’s arm. He insisted he was telling the truth, describing a woman who used a weaponized handbag to threaten him with a knife before making off with the wallet.

Kishin’s response was a threat to inform Dernick’s parents.

“Wait, no! I’ll be completely honest,” Dernick pleaded. He explained that he had handed the wallet over voluntarily to prove he was an official, never expecting her to drive off with it. He swore that she had simply stolen it.

Kishin shoved Dernick toward the floor. Dernick managed to keep his footing, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture. Kishin was clearly struggling to maintain his composure.

The timing couldn’t be worse. The biannual public duel was scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Even though everyone at the palace recognized Kishin’s face and prowess, the formal submission of his ID was a mandatory requirement.

“Go find it,” Kishin commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. “Retrieve my ID.”

Dernick gave a sheepish laugh. He admitted he had no idea who she was, though he noted she had the bearing of a noblewoman.

When Kishin snapped his name in warning, Dernick tried to promise he would track her down.

Kishin turned away, his back cold and dismissive. He told Dernick he couldn’t trust his word anymore and decided he would handle the search himself.