Chapter – 32
The tea, still warm, poured over Count Bekdelreyes’ crown and dripped onto the floor.
The round-faced count froze, unable to even react properly to such unprecedented rudeness.
Viretta barely managed to keep hold of her teacup, while Ranken spilled his drink all over his trousers.
“Knowing that Miss Viretta has me as her fiancé and still attempting to flirt with her is a challenge directed at me.”
“Ah, no. It was merely a polite remark…”
“Th-that’s right. Just an ordinary compliment. I’m sorry, my lord. Miss Iola is a foreigner, you see.”
“I-is that so? Well then, it can’t be helped. I should be understanding!”
With his hair soaked in tea, the count laughed awkwardly and slapped his knee.
Under normal circumstances, he would have every right to explode in anger. But his opponent was the son of the infamous Dusk Mercenary Company.
Knowing the reputation of Najin’s mercenaries, the count forced a servile smile and wiped the tea from his head with a handkerchief. Viretta joined in, laughing brightly as she helped.
“Oh my, Miss Iola. The count truly meant nothing by it. It was just a slip of the tongue.”
“I see. I shall take that into consideration. Still, I do have my dignity as a fiancé.”
“You don’t need it.”
That very dignity was plunging everyone into endless awkwardness.
“Look. Ranken is practically in tears.”
“Oh God, why did You create both Viretta and Iola…?”
Ranken had begun sniffling. After everything he’d been through in just a few days, his stomach burned.
He had thought he’d grown accustomed to the chaos Viretta caused—but Iola’s brand of trouble was entirely different.
Picking fights with bandits without blinking.
Words that scraped at people’s insides.
Throwing tea straight into a count’s face.
This man had a sharp tongue and no hesitation about making enemies.
Unlike Viretta’s eccentricity, he possessed the recklessness unique to someone truly skilled.
Talented mercenaries and mages often ignored powerful nobles altogether—just as Moslin showed no fear toward the count. Iola was the same. A high-level mage and an excellent swordsman, he feared no one.
And as the nephew of a ruling lord back home, he had no reason to feel inferior in status either.
That temperament kept causing trouble.
By now, even Viretta realized the issue. The incident may have begun with her, but lately it was Iola who escalated things.
“Miss Iola may not understand as the niece of a lord, but Ranken is intimidated by nobles. Every time you treat one harshly, he gets anxious. See?”
She pretended to flick the count’s forehead. Ranken trembled violently.
“H-hiik! Don’t joke like that!”
“Is that so…? Then—”
“Aaaagh!”
Iola pretended to stab the count with a fork. Each time the fork neared him, Ranken shrieked and bit down on his teacup.
“Please… that’s enough. Miss Viretta’s mercenary looks pitiful, trembling like that.”
After several repetitions, Count Bekdelreyes intervened. Viretta and Iola cleared their throats and stepped back.
Iola lowered his brows and bowed his head.
“My apologies. I lost myself for a moment. Even knowing it is a form of social courtesy, seeing someone approach my fiancée unsettles me. My thoracic cavity… the inside of my ribs feels uncomfortable.”
“You mean your heart?”
“It seems to be a temporary episode of angina. I have no chronic condition, so it’s rather sudden.”
“So… your heart is racing?”
Viretta immediately grasped the essence of his scholarly wording. Her habit of paying attention to every word he spoke paid off.
“Academically speaking, yes.”
“My heart races when another man approaches me… Could that not be some special emotion?”
Blushing faintly, Viretta clasped her cheeks and asked demurely.
Iola’s expression was utterly serious.
“Indeed. It is likely a sense of deprivation at the possibility of losing my status as fiancé.”
“An emotion that begins with ‘L.’”
“Looming existential crisis.”
“It might begin with ‘Lo—’ as in love.”
“Love? Ah. ‘Lobular cardiological stimulus.’”
“…”
Viretta gave up pressing further. Dragging the single word love out of him would likely be harder than slaying a dragon.
Across from her, Moslin—seated beside the count—patted her shoulder.
Consoled, Viretta trembled with humiliation.
Iola sighed and sipped his now-cold tea.
“Once again, I apologize. I became overly absorbed in Miss Viretta and behaved discourteously.”
“N-no, no. One must be understanding of foreigners. Customs differ between nations, after all. Ha ha.”
“Indeed. In Saha, if one said such a thing to a woman with a lover, their head would be split open immediately.”
“No—! That’s unfair! I only have Elena! I wouldn’t take Miss Viretta even if she were given to me!”
“Is that an acceptable statement in Phillion? With respect, may I split your head?”
“There’s no escape route! Help me, Miss Viretta!”
Driven into a corner, the count grabbed Viretta’s skirt and clung to her.
Watching him wail like a child lifted her spirits. She raised her chin.
“Really, Miss Iola. The count was only clumsily trying to say he would keep proper distance from me. You mustn’t get angry over poor phrasing.”
“If you say so, I shall accept it. He does not seem malicious.”
The count, wondering why he was suddenly the one being forgiven, was struck again.
“However, such a manner of speech may have contributed to discord with your wife. You should be careful.”
“You dare say that?! As if the divorce proceedings weren’t painful enough! Elena loves me! She does!”
At last, the count snapped and lunged at Iola—only to be easily subdued again.
Moslin had begun eating snacks, clearly entertained. Occasionally she glanced around and muttered, “When does this end?”
“You’re not on bad terms with your wife?”
Viretta helped the count up from where his forehead had met the table.
From what she’d heard, he still harbored overflowing affection for his wife, Elena.
No wonder he’d shut himself indoors for three months over the divorce and custody trial, yet still called her name.
Rubbing his reddened forehead, the count spoke hoarsely.
“I still love Elena. That’s why it hurts. I love my wife and my child, yet I’m about to lose them both.”
“Then why divorce? Surely not…”
“Now, Miss Viretta. Do not speculate wildly. Elena is a virtuous woman. We merely have severe differences regarding how to raise our child.”
He straightened immediately, rejecting her suspicion.
“Specifically?”
“I only wish for Lucy—our eldest daughter—to grow up healthy. If she becomes an ordinary lady, that’s enough for me.”
Healthy. The habitual wish of parents.
“Elena believes our daughter will become a great mage and insists we must support her to the fullest. But she goes too far.”
“Does she force her to study all day?”
“Not exactly. She ensures proper rest and lets her do what she likes. But… how should I put it? She is utterly convinced of our child’s future success—to the point it would be unacceptable if it did not happen.”
He frowned, eyes squeezed shut in thought.
“Even at meals she says, ‘This is what archmages like to eat.’ When singing, she says, ‘A great mage can cast spells while listening to music.’ If I were Lucy, I’d have developed a neurosis.”
“Ah, so in short—‘excessive and relentless expectations.’”
“Miss Viretta, you’re a genius! That’s it!”
The count clapped enthusiastically—until his expression grew troubled.
“When I said it might be too much for the child, she declared she couldn’t live with someone who doesn’t consider their child’s future. After six months of fighting, she left.”
He sighed deeply.
“There is no compromise in matters of child-rearing. Whenever I speak with Elena, I end up feeling like a wholly unqualified parent. She speaks so persuasively that I’ve lost every hearing so far.”
“Mm-hmm, yes, I understand perfectly. Leave it to me. I’ll do my utmost at trial—and even if we fail, I’ll return your child to your arms.”
“Even if you fail? You don’t mean… eliminate Elena, do you?”
The count eyed her nervously. Given their history of daylight abductions and head-splitting threats, he could not relax.
Viretta smiled brightly.
“Ha ha. My, Count~.”
“That’s not what you mean, right?”
“Ha ha. Oh, Count.”
“Not what you mean, right?!”
As he began to panic, Viretta rose gracefully from the parlor sofa.
“We should rest in preparation for tomorrow’s trial. We may need our strength.”
“Miss Viretta, you don’t mean it, right?!”
“Hee hee, Count. I am a daughter of Medlidge, after all.”
“The second daughter of Medlidge the money-devil…”
Receiving her wink, the count staggered and collapsed in a faint.
