In This Life, I'll Assist You (Completed Main Story) - Chapter 5

The southern region, the Empire’s largest granary.

Before the Lahert main keep—whose domain encompassed an endless expanse of fertile plains—citizens had begun to gather in droves, eager to witness the Northern Grand Duke’s victory procession.

Although it was still early morning, the crowd already numbered roughly five hundred.

Though this was the busiest season for preparing next year’s crops, curiosity about the Northern Grand Duke—who had rescued the southernmost citizens from cruel barbarians—had drawn them here.

“People who wouldn’t normally come anywhere near this place…”

I muttered without realizing it.

Most of them were tenant farmers living on lands granted by the Lahert ducal house or its vassals. For such people to approach the main seat of a Grand Duchy required considerable courage.

They must be curious—about who these Northerners were who had nearly annihilated tens of thousands of barbarians.

The desire to verify rumors is a human instinct that transcends social rank.

Yet contrary to their inner yearning, the crowd remained utterly silent.

In my previous life, I only learned long after the silent victory parade had ended that this silence stemmed from threats issued by Lahert retainers.

Fearing their own subjects might do something to incur the ducal house’s displeasure, the vassals had preemptively issued warnings. Naturally, those warnings would have carried the Southern Grand Ducal house’s implicit approval.

I stood concealed atop the highest tower of the main keep, beside barrels of gunpowder and flower pouches.

‘It’s been five years since my return in this life.’

In my original life, he died on the very day I did. But in this reborn life, our paths crossed five years ago—the day I, at fourteen, crossed swords with the seventeen-year-old Grand Duke.

A shiver of tension crawled up from my fingertips through my body. Just then—

“His Grace Grand Duke Zion Belfast of the North! And the Northern Knights have arrived!”

The ducal house’s Chief Stewards, dressed in formal attire, stood scattered across the plains and hills and proclaimed in unison.

From afar, knights resembling the cold northern wind appeared. Countless onlookers swallowed silent gasps.

Their number barely reached a hundred—but every one was among the Empire’s finest elite knights.

The pounding of my heart struck my ears as loudly as the wind sweeping over the tower.

No imperial envoy sent by the Emperor was present. Had there been one, we would have seen banners embroidered with golden Lucella—but none appeared.

Yet even without such symbols, the procession radiated imposing grandeur—an overwhelming majesty perceptible even from a distance.

With hoofbeats shaking the earth, they drew close enough to be clearly seen.

Clad in armor forged from the light silver iron unique to the North, armed with long swords and lances, the knights maintained perfectly upright postures—untouched by fatigue despite what must have been a long and brutal campaign.

An oppressive silence greeted them. Occasionally, someone would wave toward the knights, but fearing repercussions, they quickly lowered their hands.

My gaze never left the man leading the procession. Even from atop the tower, I recognized him instantly.

His jet-black hair—the symbol of the Belfast bloodline—fluttered in the wind. Upon a black steed sat a man with eyes colder than sapphire blue. I closed my eyes, recalling how he had looked at this very moment in my previous life.

His elegant, elongated eyes; his beautifully shaped brow that barely twitched even in anger;

His jawline—masculine yet gracefully tapered, evoking the divine forms of Delphast and Belfast from the founding myths.

Opening my eyes, I looked down at him upon his black steed. His procession halted before hundreds of citizens.

The people stood pressed against both sides of the main road before the keep, clearing a path—but no one cheered or prostrated themselves in praise.

The same suffocating silence from my previous life settled over the scene. It was broken only by the sharp click of leather heels.

With focused attention, I could hear the sound even from the tower—a sensitivity honed in my past life as a Sword Master.

Dressed in a crimson gown as vivid as a red rose, Medea Lahert walked toward the Northern Grand Duke. Instead of Cramnel, it was his daughter Medea who represented the South in welcoming the Grand Duke.

Though she was the Southern Grand Duke’s eldest daughter, Medea held no formal title—this was no place for her to appear alone. Her very presence signaled a grave insult from the Lahert house toward Belfast.

“Turn back, Your Grace!”

Someone in the knightly order shouted toward the disrespectful crowd and the Laherts. Yet Zion Belfast neither turned his mount nor moved toward Medea.

He simply sat upright on his horse, watching as she approached.

From the tower, I couldn’t see Medea’s expression—but her red dress, encasing her pale skin, stood out vividly even from afar. A dress so red it would have shone brilliantly atop crushed lily-of-the-valley blossoms.

Before the black steed, Medea lifted the hem of her gown slightly and bowed her head toward the Northern Grand Duke.

You’re probably smirking inwardly, Medea—after all, the lily-of-the-valley firework is your handiwork.

I heard the hiss of a fuse being lit. Below, stewards lit the long rope connected to the gunpowder at the tower’s base and hurried away.

The flame raced rapidly upward—until it finally ignited the gunpowder.

A deafening explosion tore through the air. Simultaneously, gunpowder and flower pouches shot into the sky. Countless pouches burst open, and red jasmine rained down like a floral storm.

“Wooooah!”

That was when the citizens erupted into cheers.

Jasmine—the flower symbolizing Lahert, known even to three-year-old toddlers—was being scattered from the heavens to honor the Northern Knights.

Perhaps they now believed the Lahert Grand Duke truly welcomed the North, contrary to rumors of enmity.

Hundreds began showering the Northern Grand Duke and his knights with praise and acclamation.

I gazed at the red petal rain, then slowly lowered my eyes—and froze. The Northern Grand Duke had lifted his head and was looking directly at me.

‘Is he looking at me?’

But before I could be certain our eyes had met, he lowered his gaze back to the crowd.

My heart began pounding fiercely.

His black steed slowly lifted a hoof and stepped onto the crimson petals scattered on the ground. Trampling the jasmine-strewn path, the Northern Knights entered Lahert.

This was the true victory parade—unlike the one in my previous life.

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“Aaaaaaah!”

After the Lahert Grand Duke’s advisor departed, Medea’s furious scream erupted from beyond the reception room door. Cramnel had surely rebuked his daughter.

Once I confirmed the advisor had fully left, I approached the reception room. Teacups adorned with silver and gold lay shattered—evidently hurled by her.

The moment she saw me, she grabbed my arm and shouted,

“Bella! We must find them! We absolutely must discover who switched the lily-of-the-valley for jasmine!”

I replied courteously,

“Understood.”

Her agitation hadn’t subsided.

“Could there be a spy among the stewards? Arrest everyone involved with the gunpowder and flower pouches!”

Medea ordered Lady Berk, her handmaiden—who would later become her most trusted confidante. Lady Berk gave a brief, dutiful “Yes.”

I quickly spoke up,

“This is the tallest tower here. There are witnesses who saw lily-of-the-valley originally packed in the pouches. This isn’t something an ordinary person could have swapped overnight by climbing to the very top.”

At my calm statement, Medea’s eyes narrowed sharply.

“What do you mean ‘no’? It’s already been changed!”

“The culprit was likely someone trained. Judging by the lack of witnesses, they moved with speed and precision—highly trained.”

“…”

“I merely mean they must be of exceptional skill.”

I didn’t want unrelated stewards to suffer or die for this. Knowing Medea’s temperament, I spoke even more calmly.

“My lady, your servants are ordinary folk born and raised here. You are always careful to choose only those you can trust—so this cannot be your mistake. Therefore, I merely suggested it must be the work of someone… not ordinary. Of course, judgment isn’t for someone as lowly as myself.”

“…That’s plausible. Though merely one opinion.”

“Indeed. Just a brief thought from someone who relies on physical skill. As you wish, my lady.”

After a moment’s thought, Medea’s voice softened.

“We must be especially cautious now—particularly with the Northern Grand Duke so near. They must not find out. Understood, Bella?”

“I am ashamed.”

Medea gave orders to Lady Berk,

“We must tighten surveillance throughout the main keep—the culprit is surely within. If necessary, I’ll have you contact my father’s people.”

“Yes.”

Lady Berk bowed her head. She always gave short answers to tasks she knew she could handle.

“Berk, the reception room is a mess. I’ll change into a silver dress—like the snow falling in the North.”

Medea said.

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In some ways, Medea Lahert surpassed her father. She could humble herself endlessly before her enemies if it meant securing ultimate victory.

If Cramnel Lahert was a serpent, then she—though a villainess—could perfectly impersonate a saintess.

Siren.

The sea spirit that came to mind whenever I thought of her.

A goddess who lured men to their deaths with beautiful song—only in their final moments did they realize she wasn’t a beautiful being, but a demon.

In hypocrisy imperceptible to ordinary people, she surpassed even her father. Even I failed to grasp her true nature until she killed me.

The White Grand Duchess.

The nickname bestowed on her by the Emperor.

At the mere thought of the Emperor, a dull ache crept into a corner of my heart—the weary old man with snow-white hair, glimpsed once from afar just before my death.

I shook my head, dispelling the looping thoughts.

‘For now, I’ll focus only on the Northern Grand Duke’s safety.’

Whenever I remembered I was a princess—and wondered how to reveal my identity—a nameless guilt would overwhelm me.

I was complicit in the death of the Empire’s only truly just noble. I was the villain who assassinated his loyal retainers.

During this visit, the Northern Grand Duke Zion Belfast’s right hand, Sir Arcadia Nugent, would meet his death—because of me.

He wasn’t someone a nineteen-year-old like me could easily defeat. I’d sensed it clearly when our blades crossed in my previous life.

‘He’s been poisoned.’

The Black Worm had sent me as an assassin purely because my existence remained unknown—and because they believed I could win after poisoning Arcadia.

I never learned when or how Arcadia Nugent had been poisoned. His face hadn’t changed color; he hadn’t coughed blood. Yet the moment our blades met, he’d shown agony so intense his knees buckled.

I remember his beautiful platinum hair clinging to his pale cheeks, soaked in cold sweat.

He parried my blade, then fell from his chamber’s terrace to his death. His death was ruled a ‘suicide.’

Officially, it was said he despaired over the death of his father, Count Hern Nugent, who had served as acting Northern Grand Duke.

Arcadia’s death shook House Nugent—the second great family of the North—and thus began the North’s fracture.

That tragedy must never repeat.

I alternated between watching Medea’s office and the reception room.

Though I hadn’t known it at the time in my previous life, shortly after turning twenty, Medea once told me,

[You may find it hard to believe, Bella—but I have a garden of poisonous herbs.]

Having already taken lives, I’d felt little reaction at the word ‘poison’—I’d anticipated it.

She explained that while some poisons melted one’s entrails instantly, others remained dormant for days until specific conditions triggered their effects.

She also spoke of poisons that weakened or shattered the mind, regardless of physical vitality.

The reason she needed no other assassin besides me was that she herself wielded ‘poison’—a weapon capable of placing her exactly where she wanted to be.

For vital, secret matters, she handled them herself—calling her underling who managed the poison garden.

The potency of freshly extracted poison varied based on storage conditions and duration, so its keeper—someone deeply knowledgeable—always delivered it to Medea personally.

Disguised as a dress designer, gardener, or bookseller, he’d enter unnoticed—but I remembered his face clearly.

Will he come again this time? Or has he already arrived?

Worry gnawed at me.

Given Medea’s habits, she never let important items out of her sight. So even if he’d come, the poison surely hadn’t passed into anyone else’s hands yet—after all, the Northern knights had arrived less than half a day ago.

The first banquet would be tonight.

The knights were lodged in the outer keep, slightly removed from the main castle—I’d heard the entire area was reserved for them.

‘Arcadia died on the second night after their arrival here. So when was he actually poisoned?’

Just as that thought arose—

A middle-aged man with a shaved head entered Medea’s office, dressed in steward’s attire. But I recognized instantly he was the poison garden’s keeper.

The same pattern as my previous life.

This time too, Medea would use poison against the North—and send the Yellow Caterpillar to kill Arcadia.

My heart began racing violently.