170. I’m Divorcing You

2024.03.18.

Clade clenched his two hands stained with blood.

The woman would not die.

He would ensure it.

“Do you still love me?”

An answer like “I love you”—he was glad he hadn’t heard it.

A roaring crimson sea filled his hollow eyes, violently shaking his mind.

In the midst of that tide.

Engraving in his heart a scene as perfect as a masterpiece, he slowly pulled his body away.

The sword within his heart, honed over ten years, the very blade that had lost its direction and cut into himself.

It had ended its wandering, now pointed solely at the true monster it was meant to strike.

For the first time, he fully understood Yuan Pelliese.

The heart that leaves in order to protect.

Even if it meant giving up one’s life.

The resolve to walk a path one must take, enduring all suffering, throwing oneself forward regardless.

Even the hearts of those who spoke of love until their last breath, urging happiness.

***

When Clade leaned his weary head against the carriage wall and closed his eyes, Lancelot’s gaze immediately fixed upon him.

Clade had come straight to the carriage, as if he already knew Lancelot had secretly followed.

Lancelot, who had frantically wondered what excuse he’d make if Clade snapped at him for following, was inwardly surprised to find Clade far more composed than expected.

As the carriage raced along with the setting sun, and darkness finally settled completely across the floor of the carriage.

From Clade’s mouth—cleaned thoroughly yet covered in wounds—came a firm voice.

“I’m divorcing you.”

“!”

“From Yuan Pelliese.”

Though Clade had spoken, Lancelot’s face turned deathly pale.

He cautiously observed Clade, who seemed to exist as lifelessly as a coffin loaded onto a baggage cart.

Even Eddie, who had joined midway, could no longer unleash his usual tirade on Clade.

Because the atmosphere around Clade—once flailing helplessly with desperate eyes, then smashing his own body like a madman—had now become as still as a dawn lake.

The two brothers, their eyes sunken from exhaustion, took turns watching over Clade for days, only closing their own eyes when they confirmed Clade remained calm all the way into the northwestern region.

The brief peace shattered just as the carriage headed toward the White Forest of Roxenhardt, taking the shortest route to Marquis Rev’s territory.

At the entrance of the White Forest, where the funeral procession paused briefly for rest, the Emperor’s red hawk circled noisily overhead, screeching before dropping a single letter and vanishing.

The atmosphere of the procession, which had lit a fire to warm the chilly air, instantly turned cold.

Clade picked up the letter that had fallen before him.

A thick golden envelope. A purple wax seal stamped with a wolf insignia at the opening. Undoubtedly, it was from the imperial household.

And the Rev brothers noticed it too.

While autumn reigned in the east, the northwest already had early winter weather. A cold wind swept once through the fir forest piled with perennial snow.

His firm, long fingers, as if they had never paused, naturally peeled back the wax and examined the contents.

Dark violet eyes quickly scanned the brief message. For a fleeting moment, a brief streak of light like a shooting star flickered in those night-colored eyes before vanishing.

To the Rev brothers, who watched him with anxious eyes, Clade gave a short reply.

“My uncle has personally invited his nephew.”

The invitation extended to them bore only a single line, scrawled as if hastily written, along with a date exactly one month from now.

An annual winter event in the north, this was an invitation to the grandest occasion of the Euphris family.

Anger flashed in the eyes of the brothers, who had just lost their father to a monster’s hands.

But Clade, the one actually invited, wore a face not just calm—but resolute.

Eddie’s suppressed hatred, barely contained by anxiety over Clade, surfaced in his twisted expression.

He muttered meaningfully, as if unafraid of the Emperor’s invitation.

“Send word to both the south and the east.”

A brief commotion erupted. Maxim, Eddie’s secretary and aide, along with senior aides, hurried with tense faces toward the baggage cart carrying messenger birds.

The Rev brothers were on the verge of losing their minds over the invitation that had arrived before even holding their father’s funeral.

While Eddie, behind them, scrutinized the procession with sharp eyes as if preparing for war or hunting spies—despite no conflict being imminent—Clade walked through the white forest, adjusting the neatness of the clean clothes he had changed into during the break.

Lancelot swiftly reacted, following a careful distance behind.

Clade, fully aware of his stalker, simply allowed him to follow. His gait was strangely indifferent, as if it mattered not at all who saw him or didn’t.

Eventually, Clade’s footsteps stopped at the small graveyard chapel at the entrance of the White Forest.

At Clade’s feet, still holding the golden invitation, lay a small mound thickly covered in soil.

Lancelot, realizing what lay beneath, quietly held his breath.

Clade stood silently before the tiny grave for a long while, then knelt on the frost-covered ground, pulling out weeds.

Then he removed his dark outer coat, like a black night sky, and gently laid it over the grave.

He remained there for a long time.

Until Eddie Rev and Maxim finally arrived at the chapel entrance, having finished all communications as night fell.

He stood before it, unmoving.

His eyes, silently fixed on the small grave, showed no tremor.

Yet down his back flowed countless emotions—hatred, rage, resignation, sorrow, and ultimately, an apology too painful to utter aloud.

Moments of greatest happiness and brilliance they had shared; yet for over ten years, he could not hold, caress, or whisper love.

The fear that the name he had personally given might reach the ears and eyes of his enemy had made him tremble, avoiding even the vicinity of the Crimson Pavilion—those past days now returned as regret, striking his grown cheek.

Tears burned in Lancelot’s eyes as he watched him.

Clenching both fists, he gazed at Clade’s firm, broad shoulders, motionless as ever, and thought, as he always did, that he wished Clade would just break down and weep bitterly.

***

The funeral of Duke Mosan Marquis Rev was held modestly, relative to the honor he had earned.

The Rev marquisate refused all visitors and merely repeated to the press: “He died a glorious death protecting the people of the northeast from monsters”—as was routinely said of every noble slain while defeating monsters.

After the funeral, Clade and the Rev brothers returned to Roxenhardt.

The brothers were entirely absorbed in preparing for the upcoming Monster Hunt Festival. They were relieved that Clade no longer seemed intent on harming himself.

Even Ariesta, who had strongly wished to pay respects at the funeral, came and went frequently to Roxenhardt under the excuse of belated condolences on behalf of Grand Duke Drietter, but nothing particularly changed.

Since Yuan Pelliese’s departure, the Black Mansion had once again reclaimed its bleakness and dryness, now busily preparing for the approaching winter by drying and pickling food.

Even though they were far wealthier than before, storing food across this northern land remained the most important annual event.

And it was exactly ten days before the Northern Monster Hunt Festival when Eugene Kimfri arrived at the Black Mansion, leading a group from the Count Kimfri estate.

Eugene Kimfri safely handed over the people who had come to teach the distribution of the previously discussed “full-belly tea” and methods for preparing winter-stored foods to steward Gustav.

Stepping down from his warhorse, facing the iron fence he had just passed, the neatly maintained garden, and the imposing Black Mansion before his eyes, he briefly shivered, a sudden chill running through him.

It wasn’t only due to the cold northern wind, where the first snow wouldn’t be surprising, unlike the east, which still maintained a mildly cool temperature.

Though the Kimfri manor boasted a grand scale, it was incomparable to this Black Mansion.

Once called the Red Brick Mansion, this estate was black as the inside of a chimney uncared for in centuries—except for the Crimson Pavilion, the sole red structure remaining.

Moreover, the massive vines climbing its outer walls, though slightly faded in winter, still covered the entire main building, looming over the guests.

Even the softest breeze, if it touched those dense leaves, could not avoid evoking their eerie moaning.

Somehow, the scene felt sinister.

“This way, please.”

Only after steward Gustav, whose appearance was somewhat gloomy, had escorted the group Eugene brought to the head chef, did he finally approach Eugene.

He stepped into the interior of the infamous Black Mansion without letting his guard down.

Suddenly, Yuan came to mind.

Her face, asking firmly with determined eyes to teach her dagger techniques, even as she visibly weakened day by day.

Her gaze lingering on the delicate flowers blooming at the Kimfri manor, or on the ivy climbing sturdy stone walls, then turning her head, forcing up the corners of her lips.

Her small gestures—blushing and flustered at Noel and Tasha’s affection, though she had grown accustomed to their warmth.

As he climbed the stairs toward the master’s study, scanning the interior’s antique decor, so different from the gloom outside, he imagined how Yuan, with her gentle and warm light, must have once filled this beautiful yet lifeless place.

Somehow, his chest felt tight. Yet as he passed the innocent-looking servants, he suddenly thought that perhaps Yuan, in the past, hadn’t been as unhappy as the rumors suggested.

***

Finally, the heavy door of the third-floor study opened under the steward’s hand.

Eugene Kimfri, bowing politely upon entering, saw a man leaning against the corner of the large window facing him, gazing at the places he had just passed.

A man whose features, catching faint light, were sharply shadowed.

Clade, once so sharp-edged that one feared being cut merely by approaching, had grown remarkably calm in his absence.