Previously
Killian finds that Eleanora's ginger candy miraculously cures his physical symptoms and notes that she lacks the repulsive scent of other women. His chief of staff, Owen Hughes, arrives in Oakbridge to inform him that his mother has threatened to withdraw her investments unless he stays to win over Vivian Ashford.
Eleanora Winter was, without question, an eccentric woman.
She had to know he disliked her, yet she replied to every word with an unfaltering, polite smile.
On top of that, she lived remarkably close by.
( ‘…Could we really run into each other again?’ )
No. He had no intention of stepping foot outside the estate in the first place.
So even if she passed by the gates every day, their paths would never cross.
Still, if they happened to meet by chance… should he ask her if he could have some more candied ginger?
( ‘No need for that. I can make it myself.’ )
There was no reason to speak with a woman over something so trivial.
Yet it was undeniably strange. Even this time, talking to her from such close quarters, he hadn’t broken into a cold sweat, his vision hadn’t blurred or blacked out, and he hadn’t felt nauseated in the least.
Why, exactly?
It would be ridiculous to credit the scent of disinfectant alone. What terrified him were “women” themselves.
Owen’s shout shattered his train of thought.
‘Right, she wasn’t actually that close…’
She must have been further away than he thought. He had been so caught up in talking that he only imagined she was standing nearby.
Yes, that had to be it.
Killian shook his head and stepped into the manor.
Owen spoke with an apologetic sigh.
Killian feigned more confidence than he actually felt.
Owen, however, shook his head.
Owen was one of the very few who knew Killian feared women. He also knew full well that keeping maids in his residences was merely a show for the public.
They said men born to the aristocracy didn’t even know how to wash their own socks.
Owen was not one of them. He had endured life at the military academy, where he had to wash, clean, and manage every little thing on his own.
He had also crawled through the mud of battlefields on the brink of life and death. What could possibly be too difficult for him now?
Killian pressed a hand to his throbbing temple.
Owen had a wife he loved dearly, who was currently seven months pregnant.
At a time when she needed the utmost care and attention, her husband found himself exiled to the countryside.
Killian could only feel guilty.
People might overlook his abrasiveness as an eccentric personality trait. But avoiding women for no apparent reason? That was considered madness.
In this world, madness meant complete social ruin.
One would either be locked away in a closed ward and subjected to electroconvulsive therapy, or spend the rest of their days treated as a beast rather than a human being.
Owen offered a sly grin. Killian looked away in embarrassment.
Owen’s gaze drifted into the distance, lost in memory.
Unconsciously, he rubbed his right thigh.
A red-hot, rusted shell fragment had torn into his thigh, shattering the bone and severing an artery.
It had been a fatal injury by any measure; surviving it alone was a miracle.
To keep the leg intact on top of that was nothing short of unbelievable.
With Owen’s words, Killian’s memories also drifted back to the front lines of the war against the Kingdom of Criel.
It was the day they carried out Operation Bird, which he had devised himself.
The moment they had nearly surrounded and decimated the enemy, the opposing forces realized their end was near and began raining down indiscriminate, frantic artillery fire.
( ‘Everyone, fall back immediately!’ )
Through the choking smoke and deafening blasts, Killian shouted at the top of his lungs, tearing his throat.
( ‘Fall back!’ )
After ensuring the last soldier had crossed into the safe zone, he was about to withdraw himself when his heart dropped into his stomach.
Owen was lying amid the rubble, drenched in blood.
Without a second’s hesitation, Killian charged into the flames. He threw Owen over his back and ran.
Explosions flared all around him, shrapnel grazing his body again and again. The blinding flashes burned his vision until it blurred into gray haze, refusing to clear.
His senses slipped away one by one, yet he never let go of Owen.
He threw himself through the flaps of the field hospital tent.
( ‘Medic!’ )
Killian roared like a wounded beast. A figure darted out from the depths of the chaotic tent.
( ‘Good heavens!’ )
The shape that appeared before Killian’s eyes was impossibly small and frail.
Was this person truly a military doctor?
When the doctor moved to take Owen, Killian violently shoved their hands aside.
‘Get back! You’ll only get in the way!’
‘You’re wounded too! Do you want to lose your arm for good?!’
The doctor snapped back without shrinking away. Only then did Killian realize all feeling in his left arm was completely gone.
Did that even matter right now? What if he handed Owen to this scrawny fellow and the treatment went wrong?
‘I don’t have time to argue with you, you…!’
Killian swayed on his feet. In that instant, a small hand caught his uninjured arm and held his staggering frame upright.
Even through his hazy consciousness, a strange question crossed his mind.
( ‘How can such slender hands support me?’ )
A crisp, commanding voice rang out over the surrounding chaos.
( ‘Is anyone free here?!’ )
Orderlies quickly rushed over from inside.
As they laid Owen and Killian onto separate cots, Killian summoned the last ounce of his strength.
( ‘…Save him, no matter what.’ )
His low murmur sounded like an order—and a plea all at once.
Without looking back, the doctor replied in an unwavering tone.
‘Don’t worry. I will save him, whatever it takes.’
What an absurd thing to say.
To guarantee the survival of a patient with such catastrophic wounds? No one could promise that.
His mind rejected it outright, and yet, before succumbing to darkness, Killian felt an odd sense of relief settle over him at that reckless promise.
How much time had passed since then?
When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing. His hands felt over his face, fingers brushing against coarse bandages.
‘Don’t worry. We bandaged your eyes because shielding them from light will help restore your sight.’
Killian started at the unfamiliar voice, but quickly realized it was one of the medics.
( ‘How is Owen?’ )
‘The sergeant is recovering. The surgery was an astounding success. Yours was as well, Major. Some scars will remain, but there won’t be any permanent complications.’
Good heavens… Had that miracle truly come to pass?
Killian felt the tension drain from his entire body.
( ‘I see… Thank you.’ )
( ‘I hardly deserve the praise. All credit belongs to Doctor Winter. I did nothing more than wrap your bandages. Now rest.’ )
As his consciousness slipped away again, Killian turned the name over in his mind.
( ‘Doctor Winter…’ )
He couldn’t recall a face. The only remnants in his memory were that small, slight frame, the clear and ringing voice, and the firm hands that had braced his arm.
( ‘I will see him again.’ )
Once the war ended, he swore he would find the doctor and repay the debt. Yet Killian could find no trace of him.
He had vanished into thin air, as though he had never existed.
Even his service volunteer records were completely wiped clean.
How could that be? That man had saved countless soldiers’ lives.
At the very least, Killian and Owen were living proof of it.
Unable to let the matter rest, he began seeking out Doctor Winter’s former colleagues to ask about him, confirming that he had indeed been there.
Oddly enough, almost no one knew anything substantial about him.
( ‘He was always alone. Even when eating or bathing.’ )
‘And he didn’t talk much. Elliot Winter was truly a strange fellow.’
Hair color. Eye color. Height…
Relying on the few testimonies he gathered from Elliot’s colleagues, Killian searched for “Elliot Winter” with everything he had.
Yet from then until now, he hadn’t managed to uncover the slightest lead.
Not even a single hair.
Killian muttered under his breath. Owen merely shrugged.
Killian knitted his brows. Nothing in his life was going the way he wanted.
Perhaps from the mounting stress, his stomach began to ache again.
He let out a sigh.
Owen’s eyes went wide with shock. Killian, on the other hand, looked supremely confident.
How hard could it be? All one had to do was soak ginger in sugar, wasn’t it?
Yet that evening… Killian succeeded in charring two whole pounds of ginger, four pounds of sugar, and two entire copper pots to a crisp.
Killian stared in silence at Owen, who was coughing uncontrollably through the thick cloud of black smoke.
Then, he gave a quiet nod.