150. Should You Be Drinking Instead?

2024.02.27.

Clade pushed away Lancelot’s hand, which was firmly gripping him.

From between the Rev brothers, Clade’s voice suddenly burst out.

“Keep them locked up. Deal with them later—interrogate or put them on trial, whatever you see fit.”

His voice was hoarse, as if he had caught a cold.

Yet despite his order, Federico hesitated instead of leaving.

“I conducted a brief interrogation, just in case they were pirates or spies from Torca.”

“So what’s the problem? If they’re pirates, execute them on the spot. If they’re spies, interrogate them further. Isn’t that straightforward?”

Clade pressed his fingertips against his suddenly sharpened eyes. He looked extremely tired.

“You were supposed to handle the aftermath yourself, weren’t you?”

“Well, that is…”

Federico hesitated slightly before answering.

“They claimed they came here to meet His Highness, the exiled crown prince of Euphris.”

At Federico’s words, the Rev brothers exchanged glances.

They simply couldn’t understand why someone from the Torca Islands would make such a statement.

“It seems the pirates they were imprisoned with mentioned a handsome man with golden hair and violet eyes.”

“Does the Torca physician want to admire my face now? How amusing.”

“I didn’t want to bother you, so I wasn’t going to mention it…”

“Then don’t. I don’t wish to see anyone right now.”

“But… they insist they know His Highness, and say they have something urgent—something vital!—to tell him about the exiled crown princess.”

“…”

“They’re making such a fuss about it…”

“They’re not even worth a reply.”

Instead of Clade, Eddie—who had been silently listening—responded coldly.

“You’re being played by these Torca spies, Acting Marquis. Why would someone important stoop to such tricks?”

“I thought the same. But one of them has gone on a hunger strike, causing quite a disturbance. Judging by their belongings and appearance, they don’t seem like ordinary pirates. Upon investigation, one of them appears to be quite well-known within the Torca navy. I was about to send someone back to Torca for a deeper inquiry, but since they mentioned His Highness, I came here first to ask.”

“If they were spies, would Torca even acknowledge them? Honestly—”

“The name.”

Clade, who had quietly perched himself on the edge of the bed, folded his arms and asked quietly.

Eddie flared up, incredulous that Clade would fall for such a trick, but Clade’s gaze remained silently fixed on Federico.

Federico answered, sweating as if his life depended on it.

“I can’t reveal the name… but if I say ‘the optician,’ ‘the stilt-walker,’ or ‘the trouser boss,’ I’m certain you’ll understand.”

“You’re seriously going to be swayed by such childish nonsense?”

“Hire Hatarun.”

Following Eddie’s heated outburst, Lancelot murmured blankly.

“The escaped physician. It’s Hire Hatarun, isn’t it?”

Eddie froze in shock and glanced at Clade.

His expression suggested he had already figured it out, even without Lancelot’s explanation. Lancelot’s dazed voice continued.

“So he fled to the Torca Islands. But why suddenly return to Euphris and seek out Clade? He could be punished for escaping. And he claims to have something important to say about Yuan Pelliese—”

Eddie glared at Lancelot with a terrifying expression. Startled by that fierce aura, Lancelot quickly looked away.

Speaking about Yuan in front of Eddie was nearly taboo.

At that moment, a faint light flickered in Clade’s otherwise empty eyes.

As everyone stared at his lips, Clade suddenly let out a quiet laugh.

“Then there’s even less reason to meet him.”

His voice twisted bitterly as it turned toward Federico.

“Is a fugitive here to make excuses for another fugitive? After all this time?”

“What… what should we do, Your Highness?”

“Follow procedure. Don’t release them until their true affiliations are confirmed. Interrogate them thoroughly—find out exactly where they’ve been using my name and spreading foul rumors.”

With those final words, Clade fully rose from the bed.

***

Southern anti-Imperialist nobles gathered in a secret chamber deep within the townhouse.

Clade presented the severed head of Carsos in a wooden box before them, his face perfectly composed and cold, as if he had never been unconscious at all.

In response, the people raised their goblets filled with red wine high into the air.

Federico watched the scene with shimmering eyes.

Though not as rigidly structured around military dominance as the North, authority in the South still depended on one’s martial prowess.

The reason a few Southern houses, cleared of rebellion charges, still trusted Federico more than Harol Companni—

And the reason Harol Companni had entrusted Federico with the authority of acting lord—

Wasn’t, as others assumed, merely due to Bolonico’s orders. The truth was different.

The Southern nobility was remarkably solid.

“*The South never forgets kindness.*” This single phrase, a blood oath passed down through generations, was deeply engraved in the hearts of warriors who had long defended the Southern seas together.

Harol Companni couldn’t flaunt nonexistent military strength here, so he was forced to remain stuck in the capital.

He hoped—more than anyone else—that memories of the previous Marquis Companni would be swept away by time like sand on a beach.

That, without a capable leader, the Southern nobles would struggle among themselves against relentless pirate attacks, suffer defeat after defeat.

That, eventually, even the hope of salvation would dissolve like foam.

And in that process, they would become completely subservient to the overwhelming power of the Imperial court.

For Clade, the sword tournament had been his final chance.

A moment when the eyes and ears of every Southern noble were focused on him.

He had to prove, beyond doubt, that he was still alive and capable.

And he had done so perfectly.

Despite his injuries, he had willingly thrown himself into mortal danger, crushed the South’s enemies, and protected the Southern warriors who accompanied him.

This was the complete opposite of Bolonico, who had fled in panic during the pirate ambush.

Now, truth flowed from Clade’s mouth—and from Federico’s.

The truth long buried beneath the label of “rebellion.”

The truth that their fathers or brothers had not committed treason.

The truth of how cunningly Emperor Igor had concealed facts and crushed the South.

“The South never forgets kindness!”

“The South never forgets kindness!”

They roared the oath as if vomiting blood, clutching their chests, their faces filled with fierce loyalty, bloodlust, and regret—exactly the same expressions that had recently flickered across Federico’s face.

Overwhelmed by the endless pledges of loyalty, Federico placed a hand on his chest, overcome with emotion.

Inside his coat, the pocket watch—his father’s—had begun ticking again, clicking steadily after ten years of silence.

Even the Rev brothers had no choice but to acknowledge Clade’s method—gaining supporters through his own strength, without relying on Ariesta.

They looked at the back of the lord they would now gladly follow, their hearts swelling with emotion they made no effort to hide.

***

Clade shook hands with each of the many people gathered in the secret chamber and shared drinks with them.

Though the occasion was serious, the Southern nobles’ characteristic cheerfulness was impossible to suppress, and as Clade accepted drink after drink, his head began to feel as if it were drowning in alcohol.

But Clade didn’t slow down—he poured entire bottles down his throat.

Neither Lancelot nor Eddie tried to stop him.

They, too, had been led by the Southern people, listening to a decade of pent-up sorrow.

Clade left the noisy secret chamber and wandered out of the townhouse.

Under a star-strewn night sky, he passed beneath unlit gas lamps, walking aimlessly with no destination.

Still wearing the blood-stained mask, he staggered on until he arrived at the entrance of the underground prison where the pirates were held.

Two knights, recognizing the masked Clade, saluted in unison and stepped aside.

They were men who had fought with him on the island.

He began rationalizing why he had come here.

He wasn’t drunk enough to pass out—but if he fell asleep like this, he would inevitably be trapped in nightmares.

Horrifying nightmares. Vivid ones that brought even greater torment.

Nightmares of endlessly slashing at empty, cold air, unable to forget that past summer.

Nightmares born from fleeing the hellish emptiness that came when he realized he could no longer inhale warm breath, when he understood the skin touching his own was false.

There were plenty of targets for his rage down in this underground prison.

The pirates who had tormented the South for years.

And Hire Hatarun, who had fled from him, yet now brazenly used his name.

Passing through the pirates’ murmuring behind bars, he stopped before the darkest cell in the corner.

A man crouched in the corner, hugging his head, slowly raised his face at the sound of footsteps.

Seeing the masked man, he flinched in surprise—but when golden hair peeked from beneath the mask, his eyes widened.

“You said you had something to say.”

Golden hair, shining beautifully even in the dark.

Beneath a flawless, marble-white forehead, a pair of bloodshot eyes burned like those of a madman who had just beheaded a prisoner.

“Speak.”

Hire Hatarun, his face dazed as if dreaming, hesitantly stepped forward.

Then his expression darkened sharply.

“Damn it. The stench of alcohol!”

The overwhelming, pungent smell of liquor radiating from Clade snapped Hire’s dazed eyes into sharp focus. All the anger he had been building up poured out.

“Should you be drinking instead?”