Dinner at the Aser Household (1)
The source of the disturbing sound was revealed.
The sword had snapped within its scabbard — the training blade unable to withstand the strain of ether.
Dried blood crusted over the scabbard, hilt, sleeve cuffs, and the collar of his formal attire. The stains were so dark Cleio wondered how he hadn't noticed sooner.
Through Perception, Arthur appeared utterly exhausted. His breathing was uneven, and his back slumped weakly against the chair.
"Hey. Was it another assassination attempt?"
"Haha, you always know like a ghost."
"What about you? Are you hurt?"
"…No. I'm fine."
Cleio didn't drop his suspicion and looked him over carefully.
If he were seriously hurt, the world would've shaken first — so it's not that. But is all that blood from others? The smell's too fresh for that.
Despite his spectacular failure last time, Aslan was apparently still sending assassins.
Arthur was now a level-5 swordsman.
Even within Albion's strongest force — the Royal Capital Defense Knights — few reached level 5. No mere assassin should have been able to threaten him.
"Even those attackers last summer — the ones who had power comparable to a level-5 swordsman — couldn't kill you. By now Aslan should know sending weak assassins won't work, shouldn't he?"
At Cleio's sharp question, Arthur gave a bombshell of an answer.
"Aslan already knows that those worthless assassins he sends can't kill me."
"What? Then why hasn't he stopped?"
"He wants me to kill those weaker than myself. He wants me to keep suffering through the pain of shedding meaningless blood. There's no honor in that kind of fight."
Cleio was appalled. The situation was far worse than he'd thought.
That bastard Aslan is really twisted. Can't kill his own brother, so he's trying to destroy his mind instead?
If Aslan were simply trying to take Arthur's life, it would've been less cruel. This was a far more perverse kind of malice.
When Arthur had once spoken of his curse, the vague suspicion Cleio had felt then was turning into conviction.
That guy remembers the previous manuscript too. Otherwise, how could anyone harbor such insane hatred toward a seventeen-year-old?
"Where did you hear that?"
"From Hileida, the Chief Maid of the royal household."
Hileida — the second daughter of Count Seidel — had appeared in the previous manuscript as well.
She had witnessed the births of all three princes and raised two of them. A woman who knew every secret and tragedy of the Liognan royal line.
"Can you trust her word?"
"As far as I know, Hileida has never told a lie. When she couldn't answer, she chose silence instead."
So she wasn't merely a perfectly impartial maid loyal only to the crown — in the final draft, she must've shown Arthur a rare sliver of kindness.
"The attack happened just outside the outer wall of the royal citadel. Hileida saw it and finally spoke. Her explanation fit the situation better than anything else."
If something like that had happened, Arthur must have come to him eventually.
He wouldn't dump such heavy, painful talk on his subordinates — only on me, since I'm the one he actually trusts.
"I thought Aslan would stop sending assassins once he realized I'd advanced to level 5. But instead, the ambushes are getting more frequent. Where does he even find such people? Even when I try to restrain them, they fight like they want to die — no defense at all, just mindless attacks. All of them with red eyes. Sometimes I even see them in my dreams. It's never been like this before."
Even before being formally knighted, Arthur's nature had always been that of a true knight.
Why else would Isiel have chosen to stand beside him? Honor and righteousness were the pillars of his life.
Fighting powerful enemies in fair combat was one thing — but being forced to slaughter the weak was unbearable to him.
That Aslan bastard spends every meal scheming how to ruin his brother's life. What a devilish plan.
The protagonist's mental breakdown was never a good sign for the fate of this world.
Cleio left his bed and strode straight to Arthur.
His long hair was a tangled mess brushing his neck, and his ankle-length nightgown was wrinkled beyond repair — but this was no time to care.
Leaning close, he could make out Arthur's expression even in the dark — cold regret shadowed his face.
Cleio raised his voice deliberately.
"Get a grip. Who cares what his intentions are? The one at fault is Aslan. Those assassins — grown men who take money to go after a teenager — you think they're righteous? If you were weaker than them, you'd be the one dead. Don't twist yourself up with guilt."
"Guilt, huh. It feels closer to disappointment in my own complacency. I thought I'd changed after Mother's death, but maybe I'm still lacking."
"Complacency, my ass. Live any tenser than you already do and you'll drop dead early. It's not even something you chose — what's there to regret?"
Something in Cleio's blunt assurance seemed to reach him. Arthur's clouded expression cleared slightly.
Without waiting, Cleio unfurled a small circle — just large enough to light the room as if a lamp had been turned on.
"Hold still."
Up close, the scent of blood was strongest around Arthur's left arm.
To stop him from pulling away, Cleio gripped his shoulder firmly — and felt him flinch harder on the left side.
Bingo — the arm.
Without hesitation or embarrassment, Cleio slightly altered Zebedi's incantation and muttered it.
They say even one wrong syllable breaks the formula, right? Doesn't matter, as long as it works.
"[Cease the leakage of life.]"
Wind condensed into a tight spiral, and ether gleamed like molten gold, enveloping Arthur's left arm.
Swathed in Cleio's ether, Arthur looked almost divine — as if he'd taken hold of the power that was rightfully his.
The spell was excessive due to Cleio's lack of Zebedi's fine control, but that only made it more potent.
Perception confirmed it — the metallic scent of blood faded, the wound sealed.
Even Arthur, familiar with magic, seemed startled. He rubbed his arm as if to check it was real.
Cleio added the most important words.
"Whether ten assassins die or a hundred, who cares? What matters is that you live. Weak doesn't mean innocent."
If you ever get soft with guilt, the whole damn world goes under!
Anyone who owns land worth fifty billion naturally becomes desperate to keep the world from ending.
Arthur, unaware of Cleio's true motives, looked visibly relieved and gave a light, sincere thanks.
"…Got it. Thank you."
He probably wasn't only thanking him for healing the wound, but Cleio didn't pry further.
"Then go get some sleep. And don't you dare show up at this hour again."
***
Because of the commotion in the night, even sleeping in didn't cure his fatigue.
The endless ringing of the telephone interrupted Cleio's attempt to bury his head in the pillow.
With dark circles under his eyes, he asked Mrs. Canton to unplug the line.
"I didn't realize the bell could be heard all the way up to the second floor. Until yesterday everyone held back because you were in critical condition, but now that word's out you've woken, they're all anxious to call."
"Why would anyone even call me? I barely know anyone!"
Mrs. Canton looked troubled as she explained.
It turned out the phone had been ringing nonstop — journalists, politicians, nobles, and gossip-mongers alike were all clamoring to visit, begging to be let in for a "get-well visit." The front hall, too, was packed with errand boys carrying messages and gifts.
Naturally, Cleio was on the verge of a breakdown.
One day of chaos was enough! What do they think this place is, a public square? What are they all coming for?!
Once he understood the situation, Cleio issued a firm command.
"No more visitors. No matter who comes, don't let them in."
"Yes, young master."
But peace didn't last long.
Three days later in the afternoon, a guest whom even Mrs. Canton's formidable competence couldn't stop pushed open the mansion's main gate —
Sir Gideon Aser, baronet, Cleio's father and her employer.
***
Gideon Aser's arrival was entirely unannounced — a rare breach of his own formality.
Apparently, he'd tried to call the house but couldn't get through, and though he'd sent a telegram, he arrived faster than it did.
Whose fault that was, Cleio couldn't say.
He'd been fast asleep until late afternoon, and the sudden summons sent him scrambling to dress properly and rush downstairs to the parlor.
He was still fussing over whether his tie was straight when two large hands suddenly lifted him off the ground.
"Cleio! My dear little brother! It's been too long!"
He was so startled he couldn't even make a sound.
The man who'd just picked up a seventeen-year-old like a child was a tall, broad-shouldered young man with the same reddish-blond hair as Gideon — clearly healthier and stronger than either Gideon or Cleio.
"Let me see, have you grown? Still light as ever! Just like when I used to carry you on my shoulders through the hills!"
"…Did you now?"
When Cleio didn't even try to hide his cold expression, the young man awkwardly set him down again.
Judging from the "little brother" remark, this had to be Gideon's eldest son — Vlad Aser.
"Hm. Not falling for it, huh? They said you lost your memories after nearly drowning, so I thought I'd try teasing you a bit."
Do you really look like the kind of guy who'd sweetly play with a brother eleven years younger than you?
"Vlad, enough nonsense," Gideon said, having just hung up the telephone.
He was dressed impeccably as always — the very picture of a men's fashion plate.
"It's been a while, Father, Brother."
"Yes, it has."
"Why so stiff between family? Cleio, you sound like an old man. Stop being so formal and sit down already."
Vlad was irritatingly genial.
His bright strawberry-blond hair and light gray-blue eyes clearly came from his mother — he looked almost identical to Thelma's portrait hanging in the Aser estate.
A moment later, Mrs. Canton brought in light cocktails — an aperitif to enjoy while waiting for dinner.
"This takes me back! Mrs. Canton's Cynar cocktails are the best."
"Thank you, young master."
Taking the crystal pitcher, Vlad poured for his father first, then turned to Cleio.
"Cleio, will you have one too?"
Music to his ears.
"Gladly. Pour generously, please."
"Must be the memory loss — you've grown more mature. You wouldn't touch alcohol before."
"As you said, Mrs. Canton's skill as a bartender is extraordinary."
Once the drink hit his system, Cleio's mood lifted considerably.
Gideon called his name as he savored the taste.
"Cleio."
"Yes, Father?"
"I've heard all about your recent accomplishments."
"Yes."
"At first I thought you were stirring up pointless trouble, but in the end, you've brought honor to yourself and to our family name."
The baronet hadn't touched his drink, watching his son with a complicated expression instead.
It made Cleio's back prickle. He awkwardly kept sipping his cocktail.
After a short silence, Gideon continued.
"I'll acknowledge it. You've kept your word — more than enough."
Straight to the point, as always — but with no context, Cleio had no idea what he meant.
…What did I even promise this man again?
The last time they'd met had been three months ago. It took him a moment to recall.
Ah! I told him I wouldn't disappoint him! So this is his way of saying 'well done'? Pretty stingy praise if you ask me.
"You're the first in House Aser to receive a decoration of merit equal to that of a knight."
"I see."
Gideon's expression stayed stoic, but his tone had softened. He was clearly proud of his younger son.
After all, he'd always dreamed of turning Cleio toward politics — and what better foundation than fame in the capital?
If Arthur became king someday, Gideon's ambitions would indirectly be fulfilled anyway, though Cleio doubted he'd like the means of getting there.
Well, the mood's good right now. Maybe I can use this chance to sweet-talk him into giving me the mansion deed…
Cleio's mind began whirring.
Then Vlad, who'd been standing and drinking, broke the rhythm by ruffling Cleio's hair like he was a child.
An utterly infuriating gesture.
"The Commander of the Capital Guard is a title that hasn't been granted in a century, and you're the youngest ever recipient! I'm proud of you, little brother!"
This guy hasn't written me once in years — now he's acting all brotherly?
"Tone it down, Vlad. You're messing up your brother's appearance."
"Haha, sorry, Father. It's just been so long that I can't help being affectionate."
"Cleio, for dinner, I've invited Viscount Greyer and his niece Dione. Go freshen up and dress properly."
"Yes, Father."
As Cleio turned to leave the parlor, a spark went off in his mind.
Wait—Viscount Vasco Greyer is coming?!
Dione's uncle, Vasco Greyer, was the head of the Greyer Trading Company and a genius in restoring magical artifacts.
Right, Dione and I had been discussing artifact restoration before — but I got too busy buying land and dropped it. The treasures in the Greyer Company's vaults are no joke… Since Dione hasn't formally inherited the business yet, I'll need Vasco's approval to get involved anyway.
If Vasco was coming to dinner tonight, it was the perfect chance to make a strong impression.
Annoying wake-up aside, Cleio had to admit — sometimes a father's meddling worked out quite nicely.
His lips curved into a sly, satisfied smile.
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