Chapter 4. Trauma
The door slammed shut, leaving Corvos behind. He relaxed his body once he was certain that Juwel would not turn back immediately. Corvos lay back on the soft bed, staring at the ceiling and muttering.
"Not good, Don't tell me I've gotten rusty?"
To be recognized so easily again…
Even thinking that, deep inside, Corvos felt no disappointment.
After all, this was Juwel, his enemy. Someone who, no matter what outrageous thing Corvos did, could remain calm and respond. Someone who would never back down if he knew the opponent was an enemy.
However…
Corvos recalled Juwel's expression from earlier.
Corvos' eyes had reflected many people: pilgrims, hired killers, decadent nobles, wandering children, and even those who believed he was God.
Juwel was the only one who made him want to follow to the very end.
A broken soul, sinking in the mud of darkness, yet still clinging to the last bit of light, refusing to become a monster. And someone who, step by step, became a pawn in the hands of a violent system where stability was bought with dirty tricks and bargaining with the vilest of people.
Even though he had every reason to kill him the moment he had the chance, Juwel still chose to trust in the law, in the general order of a civilized society, to let him be judged as a human being, not dealt with like a monster.
Among all the people who had crossed his life, he was the only one who carried a dignity that forced others to silence. A soul so resilient that even in its shattered state, it refused to fall.
This moment of weakness would pass. He was strong enough to overcome it.
Suddenly, Corvos chuckled.
"A~"
Letting Juwel calm down was truly a disaster, for him.
Meeting an enemy again was not exactly delightful.
Juwel had been reborn. The loop of hatred would turn once more.
Corvos guessed that Juwel was in the process of accepting the truth.
He could imagine the paths that someone so weighed down by revenge might choose.
Two possibilities could occur…
The first was that Juwel would continue on the path of revenge. This seemed hardly unpredictable. A deep-seated family grudge and the pain he had endured would not simply vanish.
But that did not mean another possibility could not occur in his mind.
Therefore, the second possibility existed: Juwel might choose a ceasefire, at least temporarily, until things stabilized. Perhaps until he gathered enough advantages to continue his revenge.
Corvos did not favor one possibility over the other. Both had equal probability.
Juwel choosing a ceasefire would not diminish his determination for revenge. Corvos believed that, no matter what happened, that resolve still smoldered inside him. But people tended to choose the safer path when they could not control all the variables, so it was not impossible for Juwel to choose the second possibility.
Juwel's character was not hard to guess. Corvos had noticed it from their first encounter.
Juwel was the type who placed principles above all, yet he was not rigidly inflexible. His caution and perfectionism made every action carefully considered. No excess, no lack.
Moreover, he was the kind of person who shackled himself to a chain of self-imposed rules, so he would prioritize choices according to personal standards.
He could not help but admit that he admired that person. Juwel was a formidable enemy and also a worthy rival. If not for the deep-seated hatred separating them, Juwel might have been the type Corvos would want to recruit into the Church, perhaps even the best candidate to become the next leader.
His qualities, abilities, and age were perfect. But there is no "if" in life, and Juwel had been marked for death from the moment he decided to confront the Wanderer.
If he was fully aware, he would not recklessly choose revenge at this time. Yet Corvos could not ignore the fact that Juwel's intelligence might be affected when facing his greatest enemy.
Humans could not always remain rational when their core was touched.
In fact, Corvos had already exploited his furious rage to uncover all his weaknesses.
However, Corvos also believed that his reason would pull him back from the edge of madness.
Just like in the previous life.
The bathroom was silent. Only the sound of dripping water remained somewhere, counting down the collapse in cold and steady beats. Juwel braced his hands on the sink counter. His silhouette stretched under the light behind him and pressed itself onto the white wall. There was moisture on his face and some wet strands of hair at his temples. He had probably washed his face. His eyes were empty now.
Although he was bending down, his back did not slump. Even from behind one could feel the tension in his body and the invisible pressure he was carrying on his own shoulders.
Cold sweat gathered on his forehead and his chest rose and fell with brisk, uneven breaths. Juwel gripped the edge of the sink with both hands. His head was lowered. His breathing had steadied, the sour taste in his mouth had been washed away, but his throat still burned. The nausea had withdrawn but left a hollow ache in his chest.
Disgusting.
Disgusting with himself.
"What did I just do? Did I run away?"
His heart was still racing.
Why did he react like that? It was only one gesture, one reaching hand, nothing more.
That hand, Corvos's hand, had reached out without hostility. It had been a simple reflex when seeing someone about to fall. A gesture so kind that it felt fake if judged by everything Juwel knew about him. And that was exactly what made it worse. A demon should not make gestures like a human being.
His hands were shaking not from cold but from the sensation of losing control. His emotions had surged too fast, too deep. They had overwhelmed his reason before he could raise any walls.
He lifted his head.
In the mirror appeared a pale face, hair wet with sweat, eyes reddened. Not from crying but from his body's panic response.
That reflected face twisted suddenly into the face of a child.
A surviving child, never healed. A sorrowful child.
Corvos.
"He saw it..."
He saw his true emotions, his weakness.
He had truly...
The nausea surged again up his throat.
Truly... wanted to die.
The thought tightened his chest once more.
He had seen the thing Juwel had buried so deeply that even the closest people to him had never glimpsed it.
The thing he did not allow to exist.
[Trauma.]
Juwel Rosabrella was the son of an old count family. Because the power of House Rosabrella had been stable for many generations, this family no longer appeared actively before the public eye. In common perception, House Rosabrella was often mentioned as a family devoted to charity, discreet, and uninterested in competing for fame or profit.
If one did not dig deeper, very few people knew that behind many companies operating under different legal entities, there were connections to House Rosabrella. However, this family did not directly intervene deeply in the commercial world, because they maintained their position mainly through political power and influential votes within councils.
In general terms, Rosabrella was a noble family that chose to remain hidden. They focused more on preserving what they already possessed than on expanding their influence. By ordinary logic, a family like this would continue to exist as a familiar legend, a name everyone had heard but few had ever truly touched, and then pass that position on to the next generation.
But an incident shattered that order.
A massacre that occurred in the night caused the name Rosabrella to resound everywhere. Even though this family was discreet, they were still a grand count house that possessed immense wealth and power. The entire direct bloodline of Rosabrella was slaughtered in the same night. The main estate, where the family head and the children lived, was burned down to erase all traces. In the eyes of the world, the bloodline of Rosabrella ended there.
Yet by a method difficult to explain, the one who needed to live the most survived. The eldest son of House Rosabrella escaped death in a near-miraculous way. That child was named Juwel.
The perpetrator was quickly identified. It was the Church of the Wanderers, a criminal organization that lived outside all frameworks.
Some people called this church "The Goats", "Demons", or "Restless Ghosts" with contempt, because in general, their power was not worth mentioning compared to mafia organizations with long histories and massive scale.
However, this was still a mysterious organization considered quite dangerous. Some information suggested that they came from low origins, had no powerful backers, no wealth, and no good reputation.
That meant they also did not operate under a moral disguise like some terrorist or reactionary organizations.
In reality, they had no fixed headquarters, so their movements were unpredictable and extremely difficult to track. Their individual strength was formidable and hard to deal with.
The targets they usually aimed for were nobles, wealthy merchants, and those belonging to the upper class. At a glance, they looked like ordinary petty anti-rich vigilantes. However, Juwel knew their methods of operation, so this information was inaccurate.
Because there was not enough benefit and it was rather troublesome to capture them, this had created favorable conditions for "The Wanderers" to develop up until now.
In the eyes of those in power, they were nothing more than a lowly rabble, lost losers, people without proper education, without family background, with nothing in their hands yet harboring ambition to touch things that never belonged to them. Because they lacked ability and were lazy to make effort, they chose the path of crime as a matter of course.
But clearly, after their attacks on the nobility, the level of danger posed by the Wanderers was reassessed and raised.
Therefore, while most public opinion leaned toward the idea that there might be someone behind the scenes manipulating and using the Wanderers as a strategic weapon, others believed that the Wanderers themselves masterminded everything to elevate their position in the underworld.
In his last memories, Juwel was pursuing the truth behind the death of Corvos.
Corvos, the leader of the Church of the Wanderers, was also called by fanatics with titles such as "Holy Father", "Black Crow", and by some others as "the Head Goat". A figure at the head of crime, a name associated with indictments so long they could be stacked higher than an adult person.
Mass murder, organized armed violence, heresy, robbery, sexual assault, fraud, brainwashing, kidnapping, smuggling, black market trading. With a list of crimes this long, the authorities would not even need to interrogate him before sentencing him to death the moment he was captured.
But he was dead. Juwel did not believe it. He did not believe that Corvos's death could be so light and simple. Juwel needed to verify it. He needed to touch the body. He needed to ensure that no deception was taking place. That was why Juwel came all the way here, solely because he heard that the Church of the Wanderers was present here.
Ridiculously, before he could do any of that, he fell in a filthy place because of a moment of carelessness. His own death was not grand at all. It was not even as dramatic as Corvos's death. Truly pathetic.
Thoughts circled around Juwel, and the atmosphere around him grew heavier.
He had lived too long in a state of vigilance, defense and rationality. Every collapse symbolized failure. And he needed to get up immediately, keep running toward his destination.
Juwel turned the faucet. Cold water flowed into his palms. He bent down and submerged his face in the stream.
When he raised his head again, the weakness in his eyes had been replaced by the usual firmness.
His gaze swept the marble‑tiled bathroom. The polished surface glowed, each delicate vein reflecting gentle light from the tall window. The space carried a coolness that was not too distant, perhaps because of the small personal items scattered around: body wash, shampoo, and so on across the shelves. Along the wall hung a row of towels, thick and soft, arranged neatly, showing the owner's carefulness.
A rectangular soaking tub occupied one corner. On the left, a crystal-clear glass cup held two toothbrushes, one red and one blue.
Juwel took a breath.
He did not understand what was happening.
Why he was alive, why he was here.
What he had done was unforgivable. He had accepted his end long ago. Therefore he had never hesitated in the face of death and had always been ready to pay for his sins in hell.
But this... this was beyond all possibilities. In all scenarios he imagined, none had been like this.
He could not ignore the clearest truth: this body was not his.
It belonged to someone else. A person who once existed, had a name, had memories, had a life of their own.
To live again was not a miracle. It was a theft. A self erased, replaced by another. What did that mean? Had he killed the real owner of this body? Or were they still here, trapped, robbed of the right to control their own flesh?
The mere thought made his breath choke.
Disgust spread through every fiber.
His hand clenched the fabric of his shirt. He could not accept this.
A restless surge rose within him. Juwel wanted to tear himself out of this unfamiliar body, but that was impossible.
Unconsciously, a person surfaced in his mind: Corvos.
The mere thought of him ignited anger in his chest, burning away the confusion.
He had killed Corvos.
But now the man had come back to life. Damn it, he had come back. And he was not in hell paying for his sins.
When Juwel had captured him and put him on trial, that man had still provoked him as if he wanted to die sooner, even acting as though he had long awaited death, claiming that his death would have consequences so profound that Juwel should think carefully before killing him.
A man like that. Alive again.
If there was anyone who did not deserve rebirth, it had to be him.
...But the moment he thought that, Juwel felt uneasy with himself. That was not what he wanted to believe.
"Clack‑clack."
The soft sound of the door opening echoed, pulling him out of his thoughts. And the moment he saw who had stepped in, his whole body froze.
Corvos.
Every line on that face was unmistakable. But that was not his body.
The same situation. The same paradox. He too was no longer fully himself.
This truth stunned Juwel, his hands clenched instinctively. He could kill him right now. Once again. No one could stop him.
But his hands did not move.
Corvos looked at him silently. Time seemed to stop for both of them, just staring at each other endlessly, though Juwel's eyes were on Corvos, his mind was probably somewhere else.
Corvos broke the silence. He tilted his head and gave a faint smile, hiding subtly behind a hand covering his mouth.
"Could it be that you intend to apologize?"
Even if the words were teasing or just a simple question, they startled Juwel into alertness.
Apologize? For attacking him earlier?
Juwel's face went cold, his voice dropping lower, refusing to answer him.
"Get out!"
He grabbed the doorknob, decisively trying to make him vanish from sight, but Corvos was quick and intercepted him.
"Wait. This is the only bathroom. You cannot stop me from this, can you?"
At those words.
The sound of the door slamming echoed together with Juwel's command: "Hold it in!"
Corvos was no longer in sight. Juwel calmed down.
He took a deep breath, trying to stabilize his breathing, and stepped forward slowly.
Juwel stood before the mirror, looking into the reflected eyes. A very soft sigh escaped.
"…Alright, I will not disappoint you."
That he had died was an undeniable truth, regardless of the current state.
Being "granted the mercy to live again", if he could call it that, was not something he believed would last forever. So instead of wasting time on meaningless thoughts, the best he could do now was face reality.
The reality was that he was using someone else's body, someone who shared his face, in a world completely beyond his imagination, alongside the existence of Corvos, whose role in this world remained unclear, but 'they' were together.
He still remembered the morning's situation vividly, even though he desperately wished to erase it.
The truth was that his life had ended while the life of the original body's owner continued.
He knew that his story had nothing to do with the owner of this body. His revenge, his past, needed to be clearly separated from the present.
Perhaps the greatest duty for him, as someone borrowing a body, was to protect the life of the real owner during this borrowed time. That was the only way to repay this debt, even if he never intended to be indebted.
His mind began to analyze the current situation.
A new identity required him to face new relationships, new rules, a whole society he had never known. Surviving and adapting was the first task.
Juwel glanced around the room, which seemed to be the private space of the original owner. The arrangement was meticulous and tidy, reflecting the real owner's personality.
He walked to the bookshelf and pulled out a random book. Flipping through a few pages, he recognized the Latin script, although in the delta region where he was from, no similar script existed.
Yet Juwel noticed he could understand the language here.
Seeing the lines of text and hearing conversations drifting in from the window, he immediately made judgments. Even if the language was not his mother tongue, he recognized it.
The language belonged to a country on the other hemisphere. Combined with the script, Juwel could estimate where this was, as very few places in these regions did not use pictograms.
He had never set foot there, but had cooperated multiple times with merchants from that area and read many of their books.
So, even if it felt somewhat unfamiliar, Juwel was confident that he understood and could use this language fairly fluently.
However, although the script resembled that of his old world, some words had changed significantly, probably to suit societal developments. There were also entirely new words he could not comprehend.
Meanwhile, the textual conventions reflected differences in culture and lifestyle of this world compared to his previous one.
Juwel frowned. He would need to relearn knowledge from scratch to fully understand what was happening here. Familiarity with the writing system was an advantage but not enough to operate smoothly in this society.
He returned the book to its place and scanned other objects in the room. One item on the desk caught his attention. It was a compact, shiny object with modern, sleek lines. Juwel did not touch it, just stood observing.
"The level of scientific and technical advancement in this world is at least 100 years ahead of the old world," he thought.
Next to the strange item was a clock, the only object that felt familiar. Despite its modern design, it retained the basic structure: numbers, hands, round face, like the pocket watch he had once owned.
Juwel felt time pause as he looked at the clock. A strange sensation crept into him, as if the thread connecting him to his past still existed, fragile but unbreakable.
He stepped to the window and gently pulled the curtain aside to look outside. The view still stunned him as it had initially: skyscrapers with modern architecture, flying vehicles in the air, and light from countless brilliant signs.
Once Juwel was no longer occupying the bathroom, Corvos was allowed to enter.
"Shhh," Corvos applied ice to the wound Juwel had punched. Earlier it had been unclear, but now the bruise had turned dark purple.
"That really hurts."
Corvos threw the towel aside and then started brushing his teeth and rinsing. After shaving, he glanced at himself in the mirror once more before turning to leave.
Before disappearing, only the reflection in the mirror showed Corvos's smirk.