Editor 46

The Aser Family’s Dinner (1)

The source of the irritating sound was revealed.

The sword had broken inside its scabbard. The practice sword could not withstand the load of ether.

Blood was dried onto the scabbard and hilt, as well as the cuffs and collar of the dress uniform. The stains were so dark, Cleio was surprised he hadn’t noticed immediately.

[Perception] read that Arthur was tired and worn out. His breath was irregular, and there was no strength in the back leaning against the chair.

“Hey. Was it another assassin attack?”

“Haha, you’re sharp as ever.”

“What about you? Are you hurt?”

“…No. I’m okay.”

Cleio looked Arthur over, still skeptical.

‘If he had been seriously hurt, the world would have been shaken already. Is all this someone else’s blood? But the smell is so fresh…’

Despite the last grand failure, Aslan was still sending assassins.

Arthur was now a level 5 swordsman.

Even in the Capital Defense Force—the strongest in Albion—few reached level 5. Petty assassins wouldn’t be able to handle Arthur.

“Even the ones from last summer, who fought with the strength of level 5 swordsmen, couldn’t kill you. Aslan should know by now it’s useless to send a pile of mediocre assassins after you, shouldn’t he?”

To Cleio’s reasonable question, Arthur dropped a bomb of an answer.

“Aslan already knows the insignificant assassins he sends can’t kill me.”

“What? Then why doesn’t he stop?”

“He wants to force me to kill those weaker than myself. He wants me to be constantly soaked in meaningless blood, to suffer with it. It’s a fight with no honor or anything else.”

Cleio was appalled. The situation was more serious than he’d thought.

‘Aslan is merciless. If he can’t kill his brother, he’ll at least break his spirit?’

It would have been better if he simply wanted to take Arthur’s life. This was an even more twisted malice.

The suspicions Cleio had had, when Arthur talked about his ‘curse’, were becoming certainties.

‘That bastard must remember the previous manuscript too. Otherwise, why would he bear such insane hatred for a seventeen-year-old?’

“Where did you get that information?”

“From Hileida, the chief royal maid.”

Hileida, the second daughter of Viscount Sadele’s family, was a character from the previous manuscript as well.

She had witnessed the birth of all three princes and raised two of them, a woman who knew all the secrets and tragedies of the Riognan royal family.

“You trust what she says?”

“As far as I know, Hileida has never once told a lie. If she couldn’t answer, she chose silence instead.”

He always thought she was just an impartial woman loyal only to the royal family, but it seemed she showed a softer side to Arthur in the .

“Today’s attack was just outside the outer wall of the palace. After seeing that, Hileida finally spoke. In this situation, it seemed the most plausible explanation.”

Had something like this happened, Arthur would have had no choice but to seek Cleio out.

‘He couldn’t tell such messy and draining things to his loyal subordinates.’

“I figured Aslan would stop sending assassins once he realized I’d leveled up. But instead, ambushes have gotten more frequent. Where is he finding all these assassins? Even when I try to hold back, it’s like they’re trying to die, attacking without defense. They all have red eyes—I see them often in dreams. This has never happened before.”

Even before he officially joined the knights, Arthur had naturally been a knight in spirit.

Why else would Ishiel have chosen to stand with him? Fairness and righteousness were his core values.

He might accept fighting full strength against tough enemies, but he found it hard to deal with situations where he had to slaughter weaker opponents.

‘Aslan spends all his time scheming against his brother. He’s really pulled off a hell of a move.’

The protagonist’s wavering mental state was never a good sign for this world’s future.

Cleio left his bed and strode up to Arthur.

His long hair, nearly brushing his neck, was all tangled, and his nightshirt, down to his ankles, wrinkled, but he didn’t care.

Bending down, he looked at Arthur’s face even in the dark. Regret was etched in Arthur’s features.

Cleio deliberately raised his voice.

“Pull yourself together. What do you care what his intentions are? Aslan is at fault. Do you think any assassin who comes for a teenage boy just for money is an honorable human being? If you had been the weaker one, you’d have been killed. Don’t nurture weird guilt.”

“Guilt… It feels more like disappointment in my own carelessness. I thought I’d woken up after my mother died, but maybe I’m still lacking.”

“Carelessness, sure. Try living more guarded—your life will only get shorter. You didn’t choose this, so why regret it?”

Maybe Cleio’s clear words struck a chord. Arthur’s clouded face lightened just a bit.

Without waiting, Cleio unfolded a circle at its minimum size. Even that lit up the entire room like a lamp.

“Hold still.”

The closer he got, the clearer it was—the scent of blood was thickest around Arthur’s left upper arm.

Worried he might slip away, Cleio gripped Arthur’s shoulder firmly. Arthur noticeably flinched more on his left side.

‘So it is the arm.’

With no embarrassment, Cleio lightly modified Zebedi’s incantation and recited it.

‘An incantation will work as long as a single character is different, right? As long as it works, who cares.’

“[Stop the leakage of life.]”

With ether condensed in a narrow range, gold-bright ether—like molten metal—instantly wrapped Arthur’s left arm.

With Cleio’s ether surrounding him, Arthur appeared like a god wreathed in fire—a fitting image for the power he deserved to wield.

He didn’t control ether as delicately as Zebedi, so it looked excessive, but it got the job done.

[Perception] told him that the bloody scent was gone. The wound was gone.

Even Arthur, quite used to magic, seemed surprised, unconsciously rubbing his left arm.

Cleio added the most important words.

“It doesn’t matter if ten or a hundred assassins die; the important thing is that you survive. Just because they’re weak, doesn’t mean they’re not evil.”

‘If you mess around out of needless guilt, the world will be destroyed!’

If you own property worth fifty billion, you absolutely want the world to keep spinning safely.

Unaware of Cleio’s true feelings, Arthur looked relieved, and thanked him with a lighter face.

“…Alright. Thank you.”

Perhaps it wasn’t just for healing his arm, but Cleio didn’t pry further.

“Now go get some sleep. Don’t come here again at this hour.”

.

.

.

Because of the dawn commotion, Cleio was still tired despite sleeping in.

The incessant ringing of the telephone disturbed him as he tried burying his head in his pillow for more rest.

Bleary-eyed, Cleio asked Madam Canton to unplug the phone.

“I didn’t know the bell could be heard up on the second floor. Until yesterday, people withheld contact out of concern for your condition, but now that you’re awake, they’re all desperate to get through.”

“Who do I know that would call me, anyway?”

With a troubled face, Madam explained.

It turned out everyone—from journalists, politicians, nobles, to busybodies—was burning up the lines begging to visit him. The front hall was packed with messengers bringing letters as well.

Of course, Cleio was dismayed.

‘Wasn’t everything that happened yesterday enough! Is my house a meeting place? Why come to visit?’

Now understanding the situation, Cleio gave firm orders.

“From now on, all visitation is refused. No one is to be admitted.”

“Yes, young master.”

But peace didn’t last long.

Three days later, in the afternoon, even her skills couldn’t stop a visitor who flung wide the estate’s main gates.

Her employer and Cleio’s father, Gideon Aser, baronet, had arrived.

---

Gideon Aser arrived unusually without warning.

He said he’d called the house, but couldn’t get through, and even though he’d sent a telegram, he arrived faster than the telegram itself.

Who could blame him?

Cleio, who had been fast asleep until the afternoon, scrambled into his clothes and rushed downstairs to the parlor at this bolt-from-the-blue.

While only worrying if his tie was straight, Cleio couldn’t avoid the big hands that suddenly lifted him up.

“Cleio! My brother! It’s been so long!”

He was so caught off guard he couldn’t even make a sound.

The man who lifted up seventeen-year-old—though he’d thinned out—Cleio as if he were a child, was a tall young man. He was fairer complexioned and more robust than either Gideon or Cleio.

“Let’s see, have you grown? Still light, though. Just like when I carried you on my shoulders roaming the countryside!”

“…Did you?”

When Cleio didn’t lose his icy expression, the young man put on a sheepish air and set him down again.

Calling him “brother” made it clear this was Gideon’s eldest son, Vlad Aser.

“Hm. You’re not falling for it. They said you lost all memory after falling into the water, so I thought I’d tease you.”

‘Do you look like the type who tenderly played with an eleven-years-younger sibling?’

“Vlad, enough nonsense.”

Just having ended a phone call, Gideon turned toward the pair.

As always, Gideon Aser was impeccably dressed—like a men’s wear model.

“It’s been a while, Father. Brother.”

“Yes. It has been some time.”

“Why are you both so formal? Cleio, you sound like an old man. Enough of that, let’s just sit down.”

Vlad was an oddly easygoing man.

His clear strawberry-blond hair and bright gray-blue eyes seemed inherited from his mother, as he closely resembled the portrait of Telma hanging in the Aser estate.

A moment later,

As the three men took their seats, Madam Canton brought out simple cocktails. It was time for light aperitifs before dinner.

“This too is a treat I haven’t had in a while! Madam’s Sinard cocktail is the best.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Accepting the crystal pitcher from Madam, Vlad poured the cocktail himself, first handing it to his father, and then offering Cleio his opinion.

“Cleio, won’t you have a glass?”

Music to his ears.

“Yes. Please pour generously.”

“Is it because you have no memories? You seem all grown up these days—you never touched alcohol before.”

“As you say, Madam Canton’s mixing skills are simply excellent.”

Once he’d had a glass, Cleio felt much better.

With tasty alcohol, Cleio’s lips started to loosen, and Gideon called him.

“Cleio.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I’ve heard all about what you’ve been doing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“At first I thought you were just making pointless trouble, but in the end, you’ve brought honor to yourself and the family name.”

The baronet, who’d barely touched his drink, watched Cleio with strangely complex eyes.

It made Cleio’s back itch. Embarrassed, he just kept sipping his cocktail.

After a brief silence, Gideon spoke again.

“I’ll acknowledge it. You’ve more than kept your word.”

Getting straight to the point, but so abruptly he couldn’t follow.

‘…What promise did I make this man again?’

The last time they’d met was already three months ago. He barely remembered their conversation.

After racking his brains for a bit, Cleio finally recalled their talk before the summer break at school.

‘Ah! I promised not to let Father down! Is this his roundabout way of returning that? Not exactly generous with the praise, is he.’

“You are the first in the Aser family to be awarded an honor equivalent to knighthood.”

“I see.”

Gideon’s expression remained flat, but his tone softened markedly. He was clearly proud of his decorated younger son.

Well, he was ambitious to have the second son enter politics from the start.

Once Cleio was knighted and gained fame in the capital, he probably thought his own dreams would easily come true.

If Arthur became king someday, this man’s great dream would be realized indirectly—though he wouldn’t likely enjoy the journey.

‘Anyway, the atmosphere is good now. Should I try coaxing him into giving me the manor?’

Cleio’s mind began to race.

At that moment, Vlad, who’d been standing and drinking, suddenly butted in and broke the mood by ruffling Cleio’s hair.

An irritating, childish gesture.

“The Capital Defense Medal is being awarded for the first time in a century, and you’re the youngest ever to receive it. I’m proud of you!”

‘This guy never even wrote once until now—why the sudden friendliness?’

“Stop, Vlad. You’re messing your brother’s clothes.”

“Haha, Father, it’s been so long I can’t help acting friendly.”

“Cleio, for dinner, I’ve invited Viscount Greyer and his niece Dione. Straighten yourself up.”

“Yes, Father.”

As Cleio left the parlor, his mind sparked.

‘Vasco Greyer is coming?!’

Dione’s uncle, Vasco Greyer, was the president of the Greyer Company and a brilliant restorer of magic devices.

‘Right, Dione and I never finished our talks about magic device repairs because I was busy buying land. The Greyer Company’s warehouse is full of treasures… since Dione hasn’t fully inherited the business, if I want to do something big, Vasco’s approval is needed.’

If he was coming to dinner tonight, it was the perfect chance to make a good impression.

Annoyed at being woken up, but after all, what a father does for a son is never a bad thing.

Cleio’s lips curled into a sly smile as he turned away.