TRFS 8

Chapter : 8

“…….”

A silver-haired boy sat in the dining hall—
the young heir of House Kurtzfel and its next lord.

“Huh? Isaac. Your cheek….”

Isaac rubbed a bruised cheek and glanced at the man sitting across from him.

The black-haired man blinked wide-eyed in surprise and tilted his head.

“Did you fall out of bed taking a nap or something?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how’d you get that bruise? No way you got hit by somebody.”

“…….”

Isaac frowned silently at his friend, who had absolutely no idea that that impossible “no way” was actually true.

What the—seriously? That Isaac got slapped?

The surprise on the black-haired man—Demilton—lasted all of a heartbeat before he burst into delighted laughter.

“Pfft—seriously? Not a joke? You actually got hit?!”

“Be quiet.”

“How am I supposed to be quiet? Isaac—Isaac—got smacked in the face! Who could stay calm?”

Ignoring Isaac’s order for silence, Demilton made a fuss for a good while, only stopping when a glacial glare forced him to sit down, lips pressed tight to keep from laughing again.

Propping his elbow on the table, Demilton jerked his chin.

“So? Who was it?”

“…….”

“Let’s see—how many people could bruise the cheek of the guy everyone calls a monster? No one in the knights, that’s for sure. Oh, wait, maybe one. Duke Eisenbold. Right?”

“…If I’d been hit by him, it wouldn’t be my cheek. My neck would’ve snapped clean off.”

“Okay, fair. If it were Duke Eisenbold, you’d be headless. So who was it? For your cheek to look like that, the other guy should’ve gotten a leg shattered at least.”

“…….”

Isaac stared at his wildly curious friend as though already exhausted. With a sigh, he turned away.

Demilton frowned at the lukewarm response.

What’s with that face?

He didn’t know, but Isaac was biting down on his lip—because he hadn’t so much as touched the other guy’s cheek. Not a strand of hair.

That punch…

Even though he’d been grabbed by the collar, the punch had come up in one fluid motion—arm raised, fist connecting with his cheek, smooth as flowing water.
That wasn’t brawling—it was sword technique.

Moreover, it wasn’t just the arm. Waist and torso moved together.

That meant the body was trained—deeply, habitually.

You don’t get that in a year or two.

Ten years—no, twenty—maybe even more. A lifetime’s worth of discipline.

Someone with technique that refined should have hurt from the counterblow—but didn’t.

That contradiction alone was enough to leave Isaac reeling.

Demilton stared, baffled, at his friend rubbing his cheek in silence.
What’s wrong with him? Is he sick?

“Isaac. Are you—”

“…I want to get hit again.”

“…?”

“Maybe I should ask him to punch me again.”

Demilton froze—then disgust clouded his eyes.

No way.
The young heir of House Kurtzfel is a masochist who enjoys getting hit?

Even after ten years of friendship, this horrifying revelation was new.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not into that.”

“…What?”

“I’m not hitting you. Find someone else.”

“…….”

He always spouted insane nonsense, but now he’d finally lost his mind.

Demilton firmly guarded his sexual dignity.
Isaac stood baffled at the absurd misunderstanding.

Their eyes met, full of mutual pity and disdain.

Pervert.

Psycho.

Clearly, the misunderstanding had taken deep root.

“No matter how I think about it, it makes no sense.”

What the hell is that bastard doing here?

Cleora could not believe her eyes—
a heir of House Kurtzfel walking freely through Eisenbold territory of all places.

Those two houses had never gotten along.

Both were warrior families—both high nobility.

Naturally they were compared, and Eisenbold always stood above.

The Empire’s supreme commander’s seat had been effectively monopolized by Eisenbold for generations, while Kurtzfel always stood one step behind.

Resentment festered for hundreds of years, finally erupting in war—with a terrible end.

At the time, Cleora had broken from the battlefield and marched straight for the imperial palace, intent on taking Ludius’s head.

If not for nobles clinging to her legs and the emperor’s frantic pleas to stand down, House Kurtzfel would have been annihilated that year.
Cleora’s fury was far beyond what that house could withstand.

The rift between the families was not something that could be mended.

“Don’t tell me Eisenbold took their subsidy too.”

If they had taken it, she would storm over immediately and overturn the house—lord included. Better to take money from traitors selling the nation than accept a single copper from Kurtzfel.

Damn money. Money ruins everything.

Grinding her molars, Cleora scowled—then paused as a thought occurred.
Brooding for a long moment, she smirked and stood.

She reached for the door—
and it burst open as if someone had been waiting.

“Hm?”

Cleora looked up to see the dignified steward, Reginald.

“Where are you going?”

Cleora stared blankly into the question and tilted her head.

“You came for me.”

“…….”

Reginald froze, mouth hanging open like a mute fish, before bowing hastily.

“There is a matter.”

“The lord wants to see me?” Cleora snorted inwardly.

So after only a day he comes running?
If you were going to fetch me so quickly, you shouldn’t have tried to lock me in the first place.
Changing your mind in a single day?

“Oh? Really?”

“Yes. So please come with—”

“Ah, but I can’t right now.”

“…Pardon?”

Reginald turned back, startled.

The head of House Eisenbold summoned her—and she refused? Maybe he misheard.

She stepped right past him.

Her movements were so natural that Reginald—and the guards posted at the door—could only stare, dumbfounded.

Anyone watching would think she lived here and visited her room freely—not someone confined.

A guard whispered to the steward.

“Shall we restrain her?”

“…Leave her.”

If she wouldn’t obey the lord of the house, what chance did guards have?
Reginald sighed and turned away.

Free of Reginald, Cleora wandered the castle—stopping when familiar scenery caught her eye.

A small inner garden.
A fountain long rusted and eaten away, unused for years.

Cleora stared silently at the statue of a winged goddess of victory at its center, then looked around.

Just as one would expect of a house with almost no staff, there were no gardeners, no servants walking by.

A ducal estate with no signs of life—not even in broad daylight.
There was a time Eisenbold had three hundred staff managing its main seat. What a fall.

“Guess they really are broke.”

She never imagined she’d live to see a noble house struggling because of money.

Cleora stepped into the fountain basin and clicked her tongue, reaching toward the stone statue.

“I hope this still works.”

Only a week to her senses—but seventy years had truly passed.

She could no longer assume things from the past still functioned.

With utmost care, she laid her hand on the statue.

Thunk.

Something dropped inside with a dull clunk.

Her shadow rippled—then flowed swiftly into her palm and vanished into the stone.

Silence weighed over the garden, wind whispering through bare branches.

A leaf—brown and brittle—fluttered down.

Rrrrrk—

A soft grinding echoed from within.
The floor of the fountain sank away where the statue pointed.

“Still working.”

Cleora smirked at the exposed stairs, glanced around once more, and cautiously descended.

Cobwebs choked the passage. Dust lay thick—proof the place hadn’t been opened for seventy years.

At the bottom, she faced the pitch-black dark.

With a snap of her fingers—