Night hung over the Pembroke estate like a curse. A horse-drawn carriage idled just outside the front steps, its mana lanterns illuminating the darkness. One of the horses let out a soft, uneasy neigh, as if it too sensed what was to come.
Inside the master bedroom, chaos unraveled. Lord Ignatius Pembroke was hunched over a trunk, sweat pouring down his brow as he stuffed it with everything his greedy hands could grab—jewels, sealed documents, gold, fine coats.
His movements were erratic, panicked. Every few seconds, he barked orders at his trembling wife and son. "Pack faster, damn you! We need to leave now!"
His wife, pale and shaking, clutched a pearl necklace with both hands as tears welled in her eyes. "Ignatius… what's happening? Why are we abandoning our home in the middle of the night?"
Her voice was gentle, confused—but that was enough. He turned and struck her across the face with the back of his hand. She collapsed with a cry, eyes quivering with dread as she cupped the stinging bruise.
"Do not question me!" he snarled. "You'll do as I say or I'll have you gagged like a sow! Get up!"
She whimpered and began gathering clothes with shaking hands, blood staining her lip. In the corner, their son, a small boy with ash-blonde hair, clutched the bedpost.
"Papa…" he whispered. "I-I can't find Hootie. He's gone. Can I look for him?"
"Hootie?" Ignatius roared, faintly recalling the child's Owlbear plushy. "That damned owl-rag? Forget the wretched thing! I'll buy you another when we get to safety!"
He stormed to another wardrobe, yanking it open and tossing its contents about. He was rambling under his breath now—about the Mhaledictus, about the Absolution Guild, about Lumielle.
The man had long coveted the fertile farmlands of Zorno. Absorbing them into his own estate would have expanded his holdings tenfold, and he'd seen in that opportunity a path not just to wealth, but to power.
Desperate to prove his worth and curry favor with the Mhaledictus, he personally commissioned the assassination of Lord Alaric and his family, orchestrating the bloodshed that would clear the way for his annexation. It was meant to be both a bold gesture of loyalty and a calculated power play.
But now, with the Absolution Guild moving under the king's banner, he realized the scale of his miscalculation. Even the Mhaledictus, for all their reach and menace, would not—could not—shield him from the dark guild.
Why would they?
Aside from his loyalty, what else had he offered them?
Tonight. This hour. Now. He had to flee before the guild arrived and discovered the truth. Before they dragged him from his bed and carved him open like a hog in a butcher's stall.
"She's ruined everything," Ignatius muttered with absolute loathing. "She's signed my death warrant. That conniving wench. If only I could wring her neck myself."
His wife had risen to her feet, her expression hardening as she clutched her son's hand. "I knew it," she said, trembling but defiant. "You've gotten tangled in something again. I won't let you drag us into it this time."
The man froze, turning his bloodshot eyes on her. "What did you say?"
"I-I said I'm done," she snapped. "I'm taking our son and leaving. I'm tired of your secrets. Tired of your lies. And I'm done being physically abused by you."
"You think I'll let you take my heir?" he hissed, hand raised to deliver another punishing blow.
But it never landed.
A gauntleted hand seized his wrist mid-air. The cold steel threatened to crush bone and flesh alike. Ignatius turned with a gasp, his eyes locking with the icy, pale glare of a man he should never have crossed.
Fully clad in plate armor, the former commander stood like a phantom of vengeance, gripping the lord's wrist with what little restraint he could muster.
The color drained from Ignatius's face. "Y-You…" he stammered. "What are you doing here? Who sent you?!"
Leopold's silence was suffocating. Then his grip tightened, effortlessly fracturing bone.
Ignatius squealed like a pig, falling to one knee.
"You know why I'm here," Leopold uttered, voice like the cold edge of a guillotine. "Don't insult your soul with lies. Not now."
"P-Please," the corrupt noble whimpered. "Take my wife. Take the boy. Just… let me live. I can pay. I have coin, favors, land—"
"No shadow, no bribe, no title will shield you now," Leopold said darkly, an echo of what he had promised before. "The hour of reckoning has come."
With one swift motion, he kicked the bastard across the room.
CRACKK!
His body slammed into the bedframe before flopping onto the sheets. He groaned, coughing up blood.
Leopold's gaze flickered to the wife and child. For a moment, his steel-clad figure stood in silence. He thought of another woman and child—Lady Rosalind and young Elias. Along with Lord Alaric, he'd found their bloodied corpses in a bed not unlike this.
For a moment, he considered slaughtering them in front of the writhing snake.
Then—
"Take the child," he said at last. "Go. Hurry."
Lady Pembroke didn't hesitate. She grabbed her son and fled the room without a word, the door slamming shut behind her.
Leopold frowned as his gaze shifted back to the fiend. I'll spare your wife and child. I'm not a monster like you.
Ignatius wheezed, clutching his ribs. "This… this isn't justice. I was only trying to—"
"To what?" Leopold cut in. "To steal land? To prove your worth to traitors? To watch your neighbor's blood run down his walls while you toasted with their murderers?"
He stepped forward. Mana surged in the air, chilling and furious. Four swords of pale blue light formed above the bed, suspended like blades of judgment.
"I am Leopold Gremont, former knight of House Alaric," he said solemnly, unsheathing his steel sword and holding it before his face. "By my honor and by their memory, I deliver retribution."
The mana-swords shot downward.
Two pierced Ignatius's palms. Two more drove through his feet, pinning him in place like a crucifixion. His scream was raw and primal, reverberating through the manor.
"For the death of Lord Alaric," Leopold said, summoning another blade and driving it through the man's thigh. "For the murder of his wife." A sixth sword impaled his shoulder.
"For the young and innocent Elias."
A seventh blade pierced Ignatius's side.
Blood soaked the white sheets, painting them in slow, expanding blotches of red. The man thrashed, sobbed, begged—but Leopold's eyes never softened.
"For the pact with the Mhaledictus and betraying our great nation," he said coldly. "For the decades of abuse your wife endured." A sword slammed into his forearm.
"For every lie you told, every back you stabbed, every drop of innocent blood on your hands—"
Each crime came with another blade.
By the time the final sword of mana hovered above his neck, Ignatius Pembroke was no longer a lord—only a quivering, broken husk of a man.
His once-proud frame was mangled beyond dignity, skewered from shoulder to shin, wrists nailed down like a heretic, feet pinned to the mattress as if crucified in linen. He sobbed, not from regret, but from fear—an infantile, pathetic wailing that echoed like the cry of a dying beast.
Leopold stood motionless, his expression carved from stone, eyes unwavering. "May your name rot," he said coldly, voice devoid of pity. "And may their spirits rest."
The final sword dropped.
Silence followed. Heavy. Absolute. Only the creak of the bedframe under the weight of the cooling corpse dared to speak.
Leopold lowered his sword. His breath came slow, his shoulders heavy. He gazed down at the ruin he had wrought—not with satisfaction, but with solemn duty.
"Rest now… Lord Alaric, Lady Rosalind, young Elias," he murmured. "Your justice has been done."
He turned, leaving the room and its silence behind.
***
"So?" Daisuke's voice cut through the stillness, his eyes fixed on the healer. "What's wrong with her?"
The man didn't respond at first. His gaze lingered on the unconscious girl lying on the treatment table. A rare spirit he never imagined he'd be fortunate enough to meet.
Finally, he let out a quiet sigh and turned to face the silver-haired youth. "There are signs of trauma to the head," he said. "Likely inflicted by the slavers. But it looks like someone used a potion on her—one strong enough to close the wound."
Daisuke folded his arms. "Then why isn't she waking up?"
The healer hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Sometimes… the mind retreats where the body cannot. A person suffering extreme grief or shock can fall into a catatonic state—shutting themselves off from the world as a way to survive the pain."
Daisuke narrowed his eyes. "In other words?"
"After the injury, she entered a grief-induced coma. Her body's intact, but her mind shut down from emotional overload. She's… not gone, but lost. And only she can find her way back."
Daisuke's jaw tightened. "So, there's nothing we can do until she decides to wake up."
"She's stable," the man informed calmly. "But there's nothing more I can offer medically. When you take her home, tell her parents to keep her somewhere cool and humid so that her body doesn't lose too much moisture.
Make sure she gets lots of fluids, and food if she can swallow. But if not…" He paused. "Three to five days. That's all she has."
Daisuke lowered his gaze to the girl, his eyes glum. Her parents, huh? Except… she doesn't have anyone left.