In the Courtyard of Blooming Hibiscus, ripples spread across the Lake, carrying desolation.
Raindrops falling into the pond scattered a chilling stillness.
What was a lively Noble’s Courtyard just yesterday now felt bleak as autumn.
The Prostitute Girl leading the way had been trembling the entire time, not from the autumn wind, but because of Jon.
Even though Jon tried his best to appear friendly, fear still poured from her in waves.
Jon suddenly had an absurd illusion—had he become a demon lord?
I came here for the Deadman, for the Disaster Victims outside the city.
Isn’t that justice?
But if I am justice, why is she so afraid of me?
The Rear Courtyard arrived.
At first glance, Jon saw the body on the ground covered by a white cloth.
He recognized the pair of Crocodile Leather Boots sticking out—a Young Noble who died in the secret chamber during yesterday’s grain raid.
The Lord of Rossi still sat in his usual place—at the Stone Table that had hosted many heroes.
He looked utterly haggard, and before Jon arrived, he had only gazed at the white cloth, lost in thought.
Only when Jon’s approaching footsteps broke the silence did he force himself to wake, a trace of his former sharpness returning to his eyes.
“Sit.”
The Lord of Rossi pointed at the opposite Stone Chair, personally poured Jon a drink, his face calm, not showing much fear—instead, he was as serene as a pool of stagnant water.
Jon did not sit as instructed.
He was about to speak when the lord suddenly interrupted.
“I know why you’re here—Hero, you’ve won, and beautifully at that. There must have been someone advising you from behind the scenes. I thought you’d follow the script I expected or just resort to brute force without caring about the cost.”
“But my Edward…my poor Edward…he was just a child. What was his crime? Why did you make him suffer such a painful death? Why did you suffocate him alive?”
“Jon, don’t you pride yourself on being kind? Why were you so cruel to my Edward?”
For the first time, the Lord of Rossi’s slick voice shed its disguise, revealing an old and brittle tone.
He glared, like any father sending off a child with hair yet unturned gray.
Jon, however, recalled his teacher Jonathan.
He did not defend himself with words like, “It wasn’t me who killed him,” but instead replied in the same calm tone his teacher once used:
“Now you understand—a father grieves for his son, a son mourns for his father.
So why did you forget this when making those cruel decisions?”
The Lord of Rossi gave a cold laugh, raising his now-dim eyes to stare fiercely at Jon.
“Hero, is that your answer? Do you think you can judge me with such righteous words?”
He laughed low, then burst into bitter laughter, mockery ringing out.
“I always knew you couldn’t be a villain, but I never thought you weren’t even a good person.
Look at you!
You wield a power we cannot resist, yet you’re still so young, so naïve, never having made a choice, never experienced sacrifice.”
“Do you think you can save everyone?
Do you believe that if everyone follows your so-called principles, the world will be happy, peaceful, and secure?”
“Don’t be foolish—seventeen years in the army taught me the greatest lesson: every person in this world acts by their own will, doing what they believe is right.”
“Do you think hatred creates the suffering of this world?
No, you’re wrong.
We don’t even have time to hate, except for idiots in high places like Princess Margaret, empty-headed and childish.
We, the ordinary people, have no time for hate.”
“All we have is love.
And it’s precisely our love—for our children, parents, wives, and lovers—that has turned the empire into this mess.”
“Who doesn’t want to live clean and innocent?”
“Who enjoys wading through muddy waters?”
“But to be innocent is to be poor! I couldn’t bear for my Edward to suffer in poverty!
Hero, if one day your dearest crawled to your feet, using a confused, hurt voice to ask: ‘Papa, why don’t I have that?’
‘Papa, why do they laugh at me?’
“—Could you still hold your head high with pride, as you do today?”
“Hero, you—a man with no family, no love, no burden of responsibility or expectations—what right do you have to judge me?”
Jon was silent, simply watching the lord’s roar, letting him pour out the grievances choked in his throat for decades.
This, too, was his final mercy.
The Lord of Rossi suddenly took off his coat, baring a chest covered in scars, like a chaotic chessboard.
Every knife wound was a badge of flesh and blood earned in loyalty to the empire.
He exhaled white breath, the tiny ice crystals within holding bottomless rage.
“Come on!” he taunted Jon.
“Come kill me! Take my life as you took Edward’s!”
“You can kill our bodies, but you can never truly convict us!
Even if your hands are stained with blood and you wipe out all the nobles in the world, I tell you—it’s pointless!”
“The best ending you can achieve is to become a ‘Ming Lord,’ living like an ascetic, suppressing the greed of a nation for decades.
Then, when the people die and power fades, your descendants and friends will build the next empire, giving rise to a new generation of nobles.”
Jon stared directly into the lord’s bloodshot eyes.
His face was calm, but inside, he was far from peaceful.
He reached out, through his clothing, and stroked “Lily” twice.
That damp, tender warmth brought him rare peace, slowing his racing heart.
Suppressing unnecessary emotions, Jon spoke slowly and earnestly.
“Maybe I’ve never married, never had children, so it’s hard for me to understand how you feel. Maybe I truly don’t have the right to judge you.”
“But I will take you to those who do.”
The Lord of Rossi froze for several seconds.
He asked tentatively:
“Those Dustfolk.”
“Mm.”
Jon nodded.
Then, a subtle, peculiar, helpless, and absurdly self-mocking smile flickered across the lord’s face.
“You really are adorably naïve, Hero.”
He said bitterly.
Jon raised an eyebrow in jest.
“I thought you’d continue shouting: ‘Those damned Dustfolk have even less right to judge me!’”
The Lord of Rossi seemed resigned.
He put his clothes back on, sat down in peace, and drank cup after cup—his last drink in this life.
“That’s the sort of thing only people like Princess Margaret would say.”
He said, not without sarcasm.
“An idiot?”
Jon asked.
“A person who’s been in power too long.”
The Lord of Rossi gestured for Jon to sit, raised his glass, and as always, began to speak freely with the Hero.
Freed from the fear of life and death, he spoke with complete abandon.
“You’ve never been to the Imperial Capital, so you wouldn’t know—every tile there drips with the golden honey of power, and the shop windows overflow with the empire’s wisdom and art.”
The Lord of Rossi sipped slowly, pouring and speaking as he went.
“Delicacies rare elsewhere are used to feed dogs in the capital.
Beauties hard to find become common wildflowers.
Nobles throw gold around not just to spend more, but to do so with style.
And talented, eccentric people are as common as dust in Rossi City.”
“After living in such a place for long, it’s easy to fall into the illusion that ‘only by living this way does one count as human.’”
“Princess Margaret, favored by His Majesty, yet not holding important positions like her brothers, has it even worse.
If she ever said, ‘Why not eat meat soup if there’s no grain?’ I wouldn’t be surprised.”