Chapter 101

The drunkard ran his finger over the back of my hand once more. I jerked my hand away, a shiver of revulsion crawling down my spine.

 

I didn’t even want to tell him my name. Regret washed over me for seeking refuge on the terrace just because the banquet hall was too noisy. It was then that it happened.

 

“I’m asking you. What is your name?”

 

The drunkard grabbed my wrist with a grip so violent it felt like he might crush the bone. My face contorted in pain.

 

“Ah, it hurts!”

 

A groan escaped my lips as his hold tightened further, shackling my wrist. Reason had long since vanished from his bloodshot eyes. He stared at me with glazed, unfeeling pupils and demanded again.

 

“Tell me! Your name!”

 

“Le-let go of me!”

 

I struggled fiercely to wrench my arm away, but my strength was no match for a man fueled by alcohol. My resistance only painted a look of loathing across his face.

 

“How can you do this to me? Is my hand dirty to you…?”

 

He began to fly into a rage while still pinning my wrist.

 

“Am I dirty?! Answer me!”

 

Things had been going too well lately. It felt as if the world was trying to balance the scales of luck and misfortune by throwing me into this disaster. I should have run the moment this man approached me with that grin.

 

‘If the door is open, maybe someone will come if I scream.’

 

Enduring the pain in my wrist, I glanced toward the terrace doors. My hope collapsed instantly; the doors were firmly shut.

 

‘What do I do now…?’

 

No one was likely to come looking for me on this secluded terrace.

 

“It hurts.”

 

I winced as the pressure on my wrist increased. Seeking an opening to escape, I glanced at the man’s face. His eyes were unfocused and watery, and his mouth was stretched into a grotesque, split-lipped smile. I squeezed my eyes shut, overcome by horror.

 

“I said, let go…”

 

The piercing tone of his voice, the throbbing pain in my wrist—the sheer absurdity of the situation brought tears to my eyes.

 

“Don’t cry. It breaks my heart when you cry…”

 

The drunkard looked at me with a sudden, worried gaze. The abrupt shift in his demeanor was so startling that my tears retracted instantly.

 

“I’m sorry. I hurt you too much, didn’t I?”

 

He was stark raving mad. He actually began to look pitifully at my wrist, which was now swollen red in the shape of his hand. A hollow laugh bubbled up. More than the pain, I just wanted to deal with this lunatic.

 

‘Strength won’t work.’

 

I vaguely recalled seeing a self-defense segment on a broadcast once. It was so long ago the memory was fuzzy. Did they say to grab the wrist and flip them?

 

I should have paid more attention. Just as regret surged again, a desperate plan flashed through my mind. Was this really the only way left for a civilized person? As I hesitated.

 

“It hurts a lot, doesn’t it?”

 

The moment I saw the madman leaning in to blow on my swollen wrist to “cool” it, my head cleared as if I’d been doused in ice water.

 

‘There’s no other way.’

 

They say a stick is the only medicine for a madman who won’t listen to reason. I took a deep breath, clenched my fist, and shut my eyes tight, putting all my strength into a powerful kick.

 

“Agh!”

 

I heard the heavy thud of a man collapsing and a scream. But something felt strange.

 

I hadn’t felt the unpleasant sensation of my leg connecting with anything. It felt like I had swung at thin air. How did he go down so easily?

 

‘Did I use too much power?’

 

Perhaps my leg had gone numb from the sheer force. That scream definitely sounded like the agony of something—like an egg—being crushed.

 

I cautiously lifted my eyelids to check, only to see the drunkard rolling on the floor.

 

‘I guess I did take him down.’

 

…Or so I thought as I examined my freed wrist. But the drunkard wasn’t yelling at me; he was shouting toward another spot.

 

“Agh! You… You! Do you know who I am?!”

 

I turned my head toward the source of the familiar yet strange voice. There stood a man draped in a black cloak.

 

“I am Matte Dalman, the eldest son of the Dalman family from the Kingdom of Pearc…!”

 

The cloaked man didn’t spare me a glance. He took a step toward the man writhing on the ground and spoke again.

 

“And?”

 

“If you come any closer, hundreds of my knights won’t stand for it!”

 

Whether it was his erratic behavior or his empty threats, Dalman seemed to strike a nerve; the cloaked man’s voice dropped to a chilling frost.

 

“And where are these knights?”

 

Dalman’s eyes darted around rapidly; it had clearly been a bluff. His shouting had been so loud that a crowd of nobles had gathered near the entrance to the secluded terrace to watch.

 

“Wh-what are you looking at! Is this a show?!”

 

Embarrassed by his pathetic state, Matte screamed and frantically pulled a silver object from his pocket.

 

“Stay back!”

 

The cloaked man paused when he saw the silver blade. Matte, regaining some bravado, dusted off his clothes and brandished the knife.

 

“Are you scared? Come on then! If you come near me, I’ll put a hole in you! Hahaha!”

 

Sensing the stranger’s hesitation as fear, Matte grew bolder.

 

“If you won’t come to me, I’ll come to you!”

 

“…”

 

“Run away if you’re so scared!”

 

Matte approached the cloaked man, swinging the knife. However, instead of retreating, the man took a step forward. Finding himself within striking distance of the blade, Matte stammered in panic.

 

“Get lost! You think I won’t stab you?”

 

Just as Matte Dalman lunged with the knife—

 

Snap!

 

The cloaked man snatched Matte’s wrist. With a powerful twist of his grip, Matte’s hand buckled, and he dropped the knife.

 

Clang—clink!

 

The blade hit the stone floor with a sharp metallic ring. Matte’s unfocused eyes began to tremble.

 

“Agh!”

 

Matte’s expression soured as the pain intensified. He grabbed his pinned hand with his free one, struggling against the overwhelming strength.

 

“Let go! Le-let me go!”

 

“One should be careful who they swing a knife at.”

 

“Call the knights! Right now!”

 

Trembling, Matte finally slumped to the ground and begged.

 

The hand held in that iron grip began to turn red, then a bruised purple as time passed. Matte, who had been thrashing in agony, eventually looked as though he were on the verge of tears.

 

“Pl-please, let go!”

 

“You must take responsibility.”

 

“…Pl-please!”

 

His voice was a pathetic plea.

 

The cloaked man narrowed his eyes, hidden in the shadows of his hood, at the shivering Matte. Finally, he released him.

 

Matte scrambled backward, his hands scraping against the floor as he fled. After a quick, wary glance, he scrambled to his feet and burst through the crowd of nobles at the exit, vanishing into the hall.

 

The madman was gone, but my anger hadn’t subsided. A surge of frustration bubbled up; I felt like I should have chased him down to settle the score.

 

‘I should have let him have it!’

 

To think he left like that—without an apology—after what he did to my wrist. Just as I was about to grab the hem of my dress to pursue him:

 

“Are you alright?”

 

My senses returned as the cloaked man spoke. His soft, inquiring tone made my heart skip a beat.

 

“Freyer?”

 

Was the reason Freyer appeared in my dreams so that we could reunite like this? At the sound of his voice, I hurriedly looked up to face him. But my relief was short-lived, replaced by a wave of confusion.

 

The face, previously obscured by the hood, was now clearly visible.

 

Deep black hair that shimmered like the starlight. Golden eyes peering from beneath the cloak. A voice that sounded cold but carried an underlying warmth.

 

“You are…”

 

Even the way he addressed me as ‘you’ was the same.

 

‘But it’s not Freyer.’

 

The eyes, the bridge of the nose, the curve of the lips—it was a face that was hauntingly similar yet subtly different. And there, beneath one eye, was a small black mole that Freyer did not have.

 

He was a man so similar to Freyer he could pass for a doppelgänger.

 

“Your wrist.”

 

Even the touch of his hand as he reached for my reddened wrist felt like the touch I had known from Freyer.

 

But it wasn’t him. Freyer was currently in the Kingdom of Oneren. I must have been so desperate to see him that I mistook a stranger for him. As I was lost in thought: “Take your hands off her.”

 

A hand snatched my wrist away, breaking my reverie. My arms were now held by two different sets of hands—one a stranger’s, and the other a thick, familiar grip. Standing before me was Siphiel, his brow furrowed in a deep scowl.