Chapter 118
The Uninvited Guest (2)
Mamon Leonar, a knight of House Leonar and a member of the Royal Guard, sat in the drawing room of the baronial residence, staring blankly at the ceiling.
His eyes were dull and vacant.
He felt empty inside.
‘Father, am I doing the right thing?’
Mamon had always heard the same words from his father, Marquis Leonar.
—Whatever the circumstances, act fairly and honorably, without the slightest cause for shame. That is how a knight of House Leonar must conduct himself.
Mamon had engraved his father’s words deep within his heart.
To him, that teaching was his creed.
Until now, Mamon had lived without ever betraying his convictions.
But things had been different lately.
He had committed quite a few shameful acts.
It was because of the King’s orders.
The King’s personality had changed considerably of late.
A king who had once shown no interest whatsoever in politics had suddenly begun behaving like a seasoned old monster of the political world.
He resorted to covert operations and schemes against the nobles.
As a knight of the Royal Guard, Mamon had no choice but to participate in the King’s machinations.
To obey the King’s command, he had been forced to set aside his principles.
Today was no different.
Despite being a knight, Mamon had laid a trap like a hunter.
He had personally fashioned the shackles that would bind the Watcher of Narak.
There was nowhere for his quarry to escape.
Without swinging his sword even once, Mamon would tighten a noose around his opponent’s throat.
Such methods did not suit a knight who bore the Leonar name at all.
Mamon groaned quietly.
As he wrestled with his thoughts, a knock sounded.
The drawing-room door opened.
Johan entered, dressed in formal attire.
“Sir Mamon, thank you for waiting.”
Mamon immediately composed his expression.
He could not allow Johan to see his inner conflict.
His voice came out stiff.
“His Majesty has been waiting longer than I have. Let us depart at once.”
He slowly looked Johan up and down.
Their gazes met.
Mamon was overcome by a strange sensation.
Something about Johan’s presence had changed.
More precisely, the gravitas that had surrounded Johan was completely gone.
Only moments ago, Mamon had unquestionably felt a certain degree of respect for Johan.
Whenever their eyes met, an inexplicable sense of reverence had welled up within him.
Johan might have been young, but his bearing was perfectly suited to the head of a noble house and the Watcher of Narak.
Now, however, it was different.
The Johan standing before him was nothing more than an ordinary child.
He wore a solemn expression, but his eyes lacked depth.
It was as though he were an entirely different person from before.
A completely different being wearing the same appearance.
Mamon instinctively sensed that fact.
Johan spoke calmly.
“Understood. I cannot continue being discourteous to His Majesty. Let us go.”
He stepped out of the drawing room.
Mamon stared at Johan’s back and murmured,
“As expected, it seems you used Verdan.”
That Johan was a fake.
Mamon was certain of it.
Mapheltan remained hidden within his authority, Deep Night, observing the entire situation.
He listened to the conversation between the false Johan and Mamon, catching even the subtlest changes in the knight’s expression.
Mamon knew that the Johan before him was Verdan.
Mapheltan clicked his tongue from within the darkness.
‘So it was a trap after all.’
He could now roughly piece together what was happening.
The King had deliberately handed Verdan over to Johan and was now maneuvering Johan into using him.
Why in the world was the King doing this?
Mapheltan could not be certain, but he could make an educated guess.
The King was attempting to place shackles upon the Watcher of Narak.
He would likely pressure House Myatro under the pretext that Johan had dared send an impostor in response to a royal summons.
The moment the false Johan’s identity was exposed, Johan would have no choice but to pay the price for mocking the royal family.
He probably would not receive any formal punishment.
Instead, his crime would undoubtedly be repaid with political shackles.
The King had revealed his political ambitions, and the Watcher of Narak was the most useful piece on the current political board.
That raised one question.
How could the King be certain that Johan would use Verdan?
In truth, that was the wrong question.
The King was not certain of anything.
He was merely testing Johan.
The King had first planted in Johan the suspicion that a trap had been prepared.
If Johan took the bait, he would undoubtedly respond in some way.
If Johan found the nighttime invitation to the palace suspicious and used Verdan, the King would use it as a pretext to place Johan in political shackles.
On the other hand, if Johan went to the palace personally—whether without suspicion or after seeing through the entire plan—the King likely intended to persuade or recruit Johan, who belonged to the noble faction.
In short, the King would benefit if Johan fell into the trap, but he would lose nothing even if Johan did not.
Johan, however, had only one option.
He transformed into a demon at night.
He had no choice but to use Verdan.
Regardless of the King’s intentions, Johan was forced to walk into the trap.
Mapheltan clicked his tongue.
‘What a damned situation.’
The moment the false Johan entered the royal palace, House Myatro would fall into the King’s grasp.
He could not allow events to unfold that way.
Nor could he simply keep his head down and wait for an opportunity in the future.
Mapheltan had always lived under constant pressure from time.
He had no leisure to spare on politics.
He needed a solution immediately.
Mapheltan’s mind raced.
A certain face immediately came to mind.
‘Ilea.’
A conversation he had once shared with her flashed through his mind.
—I developed this spell using Belzarak’s illusion. It’s flawless, isn’t it?
To cover up the disappearance of Third Prince Gawain, Ilea had developed a particular spell.
The magic she had created possessed the power to imitate its target perfectly.
At first glance, it resembled the Schemer authority, but there was one crucial difference.
Ilea’s spell could not be forcibly dispelled by another person.
Verdan’s authority would stop working if someone tore off the skin of his face, but Ilea’s magic could only be dispelled by the user’s own will.
Mapheltan needed Ilea’s power immediately.
He had to bring her to the capital.
Flying at full speed, he could reach the Count’s domain in roughly an hour.
Mapheltan picked up a piece of paper.
He quickly scribbled something on it.
Then, from within the darkness, he passed the note into the false Johan’s hand.
—Buy time. As much as possible.
The false Johan inclined his head toward the empty air.
He was already one of Mapheltan’s minions.
Mapheltan immediately left the manor.
After concealing himself within Deep Night, he soared through the skies above the capital.
The holy barrier surrounding the entire capital briefly obstructed him, but it posed no significant problem.
Mapheltan was no longer an adolescent demon.
He was a two-horned demon and the Twelfth Apostle of the End.
He could easily tear apart such a weakened barrier.
Mapheltan ripped through it and raced into the darkness.
***
The lord’s castle in the Staviana demesne.
Having finished dinner, the Count was drinking black tea.
Its subtle yet rich fragrance spread throughout the dining room.
Ilea, seated across from him, savored its aroma.
“It smells wonderful, Father.”
She had officially become the Count’s adopted daughter.
Myra de Staviana.
She was now the daughter of the most powerful noble house in the kingdom.
The Count opened his mouth.
“The taste will be different. The first time you drink it, you will find it nothing but bitter. There is a sharpness hidden beneath its sweet fragrance. Perhaps it is somewhat like first love.”
He was remarkably fond of metaphors and topics related to love.
Ilea and the Count had spent the past week in frequent conversation, most of which revolved around love.
Ilea did not dislike the subject.
If anything, she found it fascinating.
It felt as though she were giving concrete form to something unknown and abstract that could never be grasped.
In some respects, it resembled learning magic.
Ilea took a sip of black tea.
“...It certainly is a little—no, extremely bitter. It’s completely different from its sweet fragrance.”
The Count chuckled.
“Is your relationship with Sir Johan not much the same? The closer you draw to him, the farther the fragrance recedes, leaving only the bitterness behind.”
Ilea slowly nodded.
Whenever she revealed her feelings, Johan always left her disappointed.
The sweetness vanished, and bitterness welled up in its place.
Ilea frequently ended up sulking.
She sighed.
“You’re right. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.”
The Count smiled gently.
“Even this bitterness is part of the charm of black tea. If you take your time and savor it, you will eventually taste its sweetness. Love is the same. Even bitterness is part of the process of understanding love. Do not give up. Continue knocking on your beloved’s heart. But you must not rush. Leisure and patience are essential to both tea and love.”
Ilea stared quietly at the tea before taking another sip.
It was still bitter.
“This is difficult. I still don’t understand.”
The Count smiled broadly, deepening the wrinkles on his face.
“Naturally. It is something that requires considerable time and effort.”
Ilea carefully considered the Count’s words.
Their meaning was simple when summarized.
Be patient.
That did not suit Ilea’s temperament.
Whenever she wanted something, she had always striven to obtain it as quickly as possible.
She found the Count’s advice difficult to accept.
Still, she intended to keep it in mind.
The Count was exceptionally clever by human standards, and love was the field he had spent his entire life studying.
Ilea smiled softly.
“I’ll remember your advice and do my best.”
The Count nodded.
“Before that, conquer this black tea. The art of tea is fundamental to noble society.”
Ilea was studying the etiquette of the nobility.
She had already mastered most of it.
She learned exceptionally quickly.
In truth, she could already mingle with noble ladies without seeming remotely out of place.
All that remained was refining her palate.
Ilea lifted her teacup.
“I’ll keep trying.”
Just as she brought it to her lips, her brow furrowed slightly.
It was not because of the taste.
Ilea’s senses had detected a presence.
The Count chuckled.
“It will remain bitter for now. Let us stop here for today.”
Ilea smiled with her eyes.
“I think we should. It seems we have a guest.”
The Count looked puzzled.
“What are you talking about? A guest at this hour?”
Before he had even finished speaking, something pitch-black shot past his eyes.
Crash—!
The sound of shattering glass followed a moment later.
A violent gust of wind swept through the room.
The Count’s white hair stood out in every direction.
The tableware had been completely shattered.
The Count stared straight ahead with a blank expression.
Ilea had vanished.
Only a single note remained where she had been sitting.
The Count read its contents.
—I’m borrowing Ilea for a while.
He looked toward the window on the opposite side of the room.
Its glass had been completely shattered.
At the same time, numerous soldiers stormed into the dining room.
“Your Excellency! Are you unharmed?!”
“Are you all right?!”
“What in the world happened?!”
An uproar erupted throughout the room.
The Count spoke expressionlessly.
“A guest merely stopped by for a moment. There is no need for a commotion. Everyone, return to your posts.”
The night wind blew through the shattered window.
Gazing into the darkness, the Count leisurely brought his teacup to his lips.
The soldiers merely exchanged uncertain glances.