Oscar had expected it.
The informant’s identity was not only certain but impressive, and his military background was not merely sufficient—it was abundant.
Still.
“Did you think it would happen?”
It was not a question thrown out expecting an answer.
Because the questioner’s boot was mercilessly trampling the man’s neck.
His face showed against the black sky. A person who could completely sever another’s leg and one arm without so much as changing his breathing. The one who had tried to lead Oscar to death—only to be driven into death instead.
Beneath the tangled black hair, a chilling blue eye was visible.
“Well.”
The man smiled as he took out a cigarette, and his beauty struck like something unreal—too clean, too calm. Almost inhuman.
Oscar Reinhardt.
He laughed, wrapped in smoke.
“If I had known it would turn out like this, would you have come? Right?”
“Cough, cough….”
Watching the painful struggle of someone at the end of his life, Oscar simply smoked.
Behind him, a wasteland reeking of blood spread out. Men moved the assassins’ bodies in silence, while a scavenger bird circled overhead, already drawn by the smell.
“Two were captured alive, and the others were confirmed dead.”
Oscar lifted his foot from the nape of the one who had breathed his last. He wiped the blood from his shoe on the hem of the dead man’s clothes, then spoke without looking back.
“Bury the dead, and make the captured speak.”
“Understood.”
“What will you do with the remaining schedule?”
Oscar leaned on one leg in a slouched posture. He took a few puffs, carelessly tossed the cigarette to the ground, and removed his black gloves. Then he turned to the man beside him and lifted the corners of his mouth—thin, controlled.
“You have to keep your promises, Simon.”
As he took a step forward, he added in a lower voice—more to himself than anyone else,
“Of course, that foolish kid would have wanted me to die here, but you know.”
As Oscar crossed the wasteland strewn with corpses, men in black suits approached from all directions, each attending to his own task. They lined up in an instant along the road leading to the carriage and bowed their heads in time with their master’s steps.
Inside the carriage, Oscar wiped his hands with a wet towel as if brushing off inconvenience, then dragged it over his face. A few drops of blood had splattered on his cuff, but he was too lazy to change. There was no reason to.
He tossed the blood-stained towel into the corner and turned his gaze toward the window.
The sprawled deaths were tiresome.
To be freed from messy, frustrating things, there were only two ways.
“Either behead King Leopold of Luxembourg, or I will die.”
But there was not the slightest intention to die.
Moreover, there was no intention to suffer a loss. He had no interest in giving up limbs and taking his own neck.
Oscar took out another cigarette and put it in his mouth. The fishy smell seemed to thin under the smoky haze, and he drew in slowly.
The blue eyes, revealed through the smoke, were solid and cool.
What he wanted was not just an ordinary victory.
He wanted an overwhelming victory.
A victory so overwhelming and perfect that not a drop of blood would be shed.
—
In Felpe, no one failed to know the splendid stone mansion that sat along the Daube Riverbank.
A century ago, the ownership of the mansion—the one the king had gifted to his mistress, whom he fondled like a buttered flower—passed from one person to another over the course of a hundred years. Sometimes it was used as a theater, sometimes as a summer villa for a certain family.
The mansion regained its original name in the year that marked exactly fifty years since the death of the king’s concubine, the original owner.
Amant Rose.
If there was a tuberose in Herod, there was an Amant rose in Felpe.
The most popular place of pleasure in Felpe, where prostitution is legal, was this place: the Amant Rose Mansion. A place with an atmosphere unlike the ordinary back-alley brothels. Most of the customers were royalty or nobility from the Norfolk continent, so a single night with the least famous Amant Rose could amount to the living expenses of an average middle-class family in Felpe for two months.
So on the day when big names—names you would recognize the moment you heard them—came to visit, the overnight revenue easily surpassed the monthly revenue of an average business.
And today was that day.
“Finally, they are coming!”
The guard watching beyond the main gate spoke as he turned around. Catherine, the owner of the Amant Rose Mansion, quickly extinguished the cigarette she had been smoking one after another—too quickly. Her hand trembled slightly as she crushed it out.
“How is the Grand Duke doing?”
The man who approached with a quick, low question shook his head.
“It’s already a mess. The door is locked and cannot be opened. The Grand Duke’s secretary is asking us to please buy some time.”
“……”
“It has been several decades since I rolled in this field.”
Catherine had a gut feeling something was going wrong.
Today, the person who was supposed to visit the Amant Rose Mansion was a big shot known to everyone in East Norfolk.
The Grand Duke of Baden, the half-brother of King Felpe and president of Felpe Bank, was indeed significant—but he could not be compared to Marquis Reinhardt of the Kingdom of Luxen.
The strange feeling had begun when the Duke of Baden arrived earlier than scheduled, bringing uninvited guests. He drank alcohol worth at least fifty million to one hundred million Kerte per bottle like water and played billiards with the guests he brought in at will.
Moreover, despite the approaching appointment time, there was no preparation to welcome the guest who was supposed to arrive. Instead, they were simply enjoying the party.
It was rude.
Not ordinary rudeness.
So, for that behavior not to be rude, there was only one way.
The Marquis Reinhardt—who was supposed to meet with the Grand Duke—was not coming.
But hadn’t that person just arrived?
Catherine swallowed hard and turned to the woman standing next to her.
A dress with a deep neckline that revealed the chest. Even a woman would want to touch those luscious breasts just once; there were many who were desperate to suck on them. But it wasn’t only the chest. A beautiful face that never grew old no matter how many times you looked at it. A silly smile that made one forget worries, yet didn’t feel superficial—helped, surprisingly, by a voice that carried weight.
In all her decades in this field, there was no gem like this in Catherine’s eyes.
“Anna.”
The sound of the wagon wheels slowed. Catherine tidied her clothes with neat composure. The classic dress with the collar raised to her neck made her look more like the head maid of a palace than the owner of a brothel.
Catherine took a step toward the wide-open front gate and whispered to Anna.
“He is a man who could spend five years’ worth of Felpe’s budget in a single night.”
Anna’s eyes, once full of foolishness, sharpened in an instant.
A man who could spend five years’ worth of Felpe’s budget in one night.
He was not a mere manager.
He was the owner of the railway that crossed the continent, the owner of a massive steel company known as the furnace of the Norfolk continent, and the head of the historic Reinhardt marquis family. Though he had built it all with his own hands, he was still young.
“If handled well, it wouldn’t even compare to the concubine of King Felpe.”
“……”
“So, you should stall for some time. Until the Duke acknowledges that the Marquis has arrived.”
As soon as those words ended, the carriage came to a stop.
Catherine’s serious expression, held the entire time, turned bright as if it had never existed. She stepped out to greet the Marquis like someone welcoming a long-lost relative. Anna remained by the door, waiting for the right moment.
“Welcome, Your Excellency. I was waiting.”
Even with Catherine’s warm greeting, the Marquis gave no response. Only the sound of heavy footsteps filled the space.
Anna cautiously peeked out.
With her uniquely innocent expression, she covered her chest with one hand as if embarrassed by the deep cut of her clothing, preparing to block the young Marquis’s path as if by chance.
Catherine had met nearly everyone of status during her years at Amant Rose of Felpe. Last month, even the king had visited in secret—so what did it matter if a young marquis from another country came?
But Anna did not dare.
She could not bring herself to step into the path of the young man who swept past without hesitation. She only followed his movement with her eyes, dazed.
A height far exceeding the average. Broad shoulders. A slim waist in contrast.
She could not remember the features of the man who walked away without slowing. Only an afterimage remained.
Even so, she could have bet her entire fortune that among all the people she had seen in her life, no one equaled him in beauty.
At that moment, Catherine poked Anna—hard—in the waist.
—