Chapter Eight: Jealousy, Hatred, and the Way Out

The tip of the blade flashed, reflecting the light in the room; the sword itself was pointed straight at Ignac Naivey, who had fallen backwards into a sitting position on the carpet. The flame of envy burned even brighter than hopelessness in his eyes, as he glared at the blade’s wielder. “Why do you always—?!”

Octavian Aldis accepted this accusation. The knight, whom his master called Oran, coldly stared back at his former friend. While Oran had managed to maintain a calm demeanor, his master could sense the fire of hatred roaring within him. The only thing stopping Oran from slicing Ignac’s head from his shoulders right now was his master’s command.

“That was easy. I thought this would be more of a challenge.” Marx, sitting next to Herscherik, leisurely sipped from his cup of tea. Only moments ago he’d been wearing a woeful expression that seemed to carry the collective hopelessness of the entire world, but he’d entirely banished that. Now he was watching Ignac with something akin to amusement.

I certainly didn’t overestimate my brother. Herscherik recalled the events that had just transpired. As soon as their target entered the room, Marx immediately seduced him with a smile that could have taken down an entire nation. Of course, Marx hadn’t “seduced” him in that sense of the word... but the way Ignac blushed like he was being approached by the woman of his dreams might have suggested otherwise. Herscherik had begun to imagine his brother and Ignac in a more compromising situation, but he immediately quashed that particular daydream. Since Herscherik hadn’t been that into the genre in his former life, it seemed that he’d only entertain the thought when both participants were good-looking—both in this world and his last.

At first, Marx glanced over Ignac with a dubious expression. In fact, the prince looked like he couldn’t scarcely be bothered with any of this. In turn, Ignac threw everything he had at Marx in order to worm his way into his good graces. He mixed in compliments with sympathetic words, pleading to be allowed to help him.

Marx had pretended to gradually grow more friendly toward Ignac. The prince had put on such a convincing act that Herscherik was secretly sweating bullets the entire time, worried that Marx’s agreement was genuine. If not for Marx’s stellar performance—almost good enough to convince those who knew he was acting—Ignac might have grown suspicious at some point. He wasn’t an idiot. If Ignac had the slightest hint that something was up, he could have easily abandoned the whole deal and walked out the door.

But he did not. Instead, he produced a glass bottle... filled with his “merchandise,” disguised as individually wrapped hard candy. That instant, Herscherik called for Oran to charge into the room and detain Ignac.

“It’s just candy, Prince Marx! This is an illegal arrest!”

Seeing that Ignac was still attempting to weasel out of this, Marx set his cup down on the table and sighed. “You were just telling me a moment ago that these will make me forget my hardships. Brighten my mood and outlook. That I simply wouldn’t be able to stop taking them... You’re saying those statements aren’t describing an addiction?”

“I never said they were drugs!” Ignac continued to ramble, despite the sword pointed at him.

Herscherik and Marx both let out a sigh, visibly exasperated that he was still trying to maintain the charade.

“That’s enough.” Oran’s low, angry growl reverberated through the room before either of the princes could speak. “Admit it. You’ve been peddling this drug. That much is irrefutable now. You can’t talk your way out of this.”

“You’re the one who needs to admit the truth.” Ignac tauntingly stared Oran down. “You make a couple of royal friends and suddenly you’re flaunting your newfound power...? Oh, wait. No. I get it now. You’re still confused about what happened and think it was my fault your fiancée died.” Ignac’s lips twisted in a grotesque smirk. “You’re the one who pushed her to it. Not me.” At this point, Oran’s expression faded completely. Both Herscherik and Marx knew that was a red flag. On the other hand, Ignac was too busy insulting Oran to notice. “It’s because you abandoned your girl to go stoke your ego that she turned to drugs and died! I had nothing to do with it!”

Oran’s sword, powerless, sunk to the floor. Ignac’s smirk turned victorious. Then, Oran raised his blade to deal the miserable man before him a fatal blow.

“Oránge.” Herscherik’s voice wasn’t raised. All he did was quietly call his knight’s name.

Even so, Oran halted at that command that utterly forbade any form of noncompliance. “Prince...!” Oran looked at Herscherik, pleading.

Herscherik returned the gaze with a resolute look in his eyes.

Seeing that Oran had stopped, Herscherik stood up from the sofa and pointed to the glass jar. “You said these aren’t drugs, right, Ignac?”

“Y-Yes, Your Highness. A simple jar of candy.”

“Good. In that case...” Herscherik smiled. Marx saw a deep and dark potential in that smile, in stark contrast to his younger brother’s surface level friendliness. A shiver ran down his spine. “You can eat the whole thing, can’t you?”

Maintaining his smile, Herscherik reached for the jar and picked out one of the individually wrapped (what Ignac insisted to be) pieces of candy and handed it to Ignac. “Of course you can, if it’s just candy. Why don’t we get you a cup of tea to go with it?” Herscherik carried on without allowing Ignac to get a word in edgewise. Ignac scuttled backwards, attempting to distance himself from the prince and the jar of drugs, before Oran quickly stepped behind him and stopped him with his blade against Ignac’s neck.

“Where are you going? If it’s just candy, there’s no problem if you eat them, right?”

“I—”

“Why won’t you eat them?” Herscherik walked around the table, approaching Ignac one deliberate step at a time. When Herscherik finally stood directly in front of him, Ignac averted his gaze and fell speechless. Herscherik’s smile faded. He unwrapped the object in his hand to find that the drug really did look just like a hard candy. “I get it. You don’t want to die like they did.”

They had looked into the cases further to find that everyone who was forced to go cold turkey from this drug had died, without exception. Even the young man who had been arrested thanks to Herscherik and Oran’s efforts had died in his cell during interrogations. His cause of death was marked as “mysterious deterioration.”

“It’s already unforgivable that you sold this knowing it could kill people. On top of that...” Herscherik was just as enraged by what Ignac had said in this room as he was by his illegal dealings. “It was Oran’s fault that his fiancée died?” The sword against Ignac’s neck quivered ever so slightly. “Only in your wildest dreams was it his fault. Oran wasn’t working hard just for himself, but for his fiancée, too. Just because their love for each other led to tragedy... that doesn’t give you the right to mock any part of it.”

Hard work often doesn’t pay off, Herscherik thought. People couldn’t always get what they wanted, except in their own imagination. Thinking this, the little prince turned from Ignac to Oran. “I wasn’t going to mention this,” he began, and continued with a pained expression as if he was the one who had suffered a tragedy, “but everyone knew Ignac was after your fiancée, Oran.”

Oran looked shocked. Back in the academy, Oran did have people he called friends, Ignac among them... until his grades and his reputation plummeted, that was. Oran had always blamed his own behavior for his friends distancing themselves from him. But none of those friends, despite maintaining a cordial relationship until after his fiancée’s death, had ever warned Oran of Ignac’s intentions.

“Are you sure?” Marx asked. That scandalous gossip had evaded even the ears of Prince Marx.

“Kuro looked into it,” Herscherik confirmed. Oran’s classmates knew that Ignac was jealous of Oran and had made advances on his fiancée. However, given that Oran and his fiancée outranked Ignac in terms of their family name, most of them didn’t believe that it would make any difference. Besides, those who were jealous of Oran and/or his fiancée made a point not to mention it to the couple.

Then, his fiancée passed away (from illness, as far as most people knew) and Oran’s grades began to suffer. His former classmates had regaled Kuro with the whole story, enjoying every minute of the retelling. To their kind, nothing was sweeter than the misfortune of others.

“Ignac.” Herscherik turned back to the man immobilized on the floor. “I heard you weren’t only jealous of Oran, but you wanted to take advantage of the influence and connections available to him and his fiancée’s house. You befriended Oran and his fiancée with that motive from the very beginning.” Herscherik saw the color drain from Ignac’s face. “Before she started using, she came to ask for your advice as a friend, didn’t she?” Ignac’s shoulders quivered. Herscherik didn’t slow down his attack. “But you said things to worsen her anxiety.”

“H-How did you...?”

“Shouldn’t have boasted about it, even after a few drinks. No one’s going to keep a secret they heard over drinks. Especially if it doesn’t affect them.” Herscherik carried on. “I don’t think you’re to blame for everything that’s happened, though.”

Humans felt a wide variety of emotions. Positive ones like joy, love, and aspiration—and negative ones like jealousy, hatred, and fear. Together, they formed the human heart. There was no light without shadow; so, Herscherik didn’t necessarily blame Ignac and his classmates for feeling jealous of Oran.

However, Ignac had used his jealousy to justify hurting someone else, instead of using it as motivation to improve himself. Herscherik also felt jealous sometimes, had unpleasant thoughts, or carried cold and dark emotions within himself. Still, he always tried not to be overcome by it—to maintain control of himself. However, he didn’t intend to force others to subscribe to the same philosophy.

“But...” Herscherik quickly shoved the drug in his hand into Ignac’s open mouth. Ignac panicked and spat out the tiny candy-like ball as quickly as he could. In fact, he began forcing coughs out of his throat in an attempt to empty his stomach. Of course, Herscherik had only done this because he was confident Ignac would spit it out. “I will not let you insult my knight or his fiancée,” Herscherik declared, glaring down at Ignac, who was now bent over on all fours.

“Prince...” Oran stared at Herscherik. Despite his tiny stature, his presence was immense.

Is that really Prince Herscherik? Marx was speechless after watching this scene unfold. Until a week ago, he only saw Herscherik as his youngest brother. His impression of the youngest prince was that his father adored him, and he was less outgoing than his brothers but a gentle person. Maybe that he was unusually smart for his age. If Herscherik had not reached out to him for help, his impression of Herscherik might have never changed.

This is his real self... Marx recalled his little brother smiling next to their father... his little brother growing flustered over an unspeakable misunderstanding... his little brother running to and fro, in and out of the castle, all to solve this case. And now, his little brother was defending his own knight. Marx wondered which of these incidents were the most genuine display of Herscherik’s character but then concluded that they must all have been.

Even as Herscherik pressured Ignac now, it was clear to see that this wasn’t his ultimate goal. Herscherik was doing all of this to heal the heart of his knight. In fact, Oran was beginning to regain his usual expression and demeanor, which had vanished at Ignac’s words. Herscherik had thus accomplished what Marx couldn’t do two years ago.

“Now, Ignac.” Herscherik spoke down to the man curled up by his feet. “Where did you buy those drugs? Who’s behind all this?”

Marx was taken aback by his brother’s question. “What’s going on, Hersch...?”

“He doesn’t have the ability to actually make these. It was originally one of the projects over at Research. It requires expensive materials, and making it is a meticulous process.” Herscherik was confident that a man like Ignac was not capable of all that. Besides, the trace of records that remained in Research indicated that the drug was intended to strengthen the human body. It had been designed with the purpose of turning an average soldier into an absolute combat machine. At the same time, the drug would eliminate the user’s fear, leaving them with a sense of euphoria. However, as both the project’s objectives and experiments done for it were deemed to be inhumane, the entire thing was scrapped. All documents were locked away in the Research vault, with no intention of ever being seen again.

“But two years ago, an assistant removed the documentation. The drug circulated for a short time. In a few months, everyone involved with it was out of the picture, somehow, including the assistant who originally leaked it.” The question was—why this specific drug? At that point, the lab contained much more valuable things, including some medicines that were thought to be practically cure-alls. Instead of that data, the assistant went for a canceled project about strengthening the human body. They chose it on purpose. They had to.

Herscherik theorized that whoever was behind all this mostly wanted field data for the drug and that the money was little more than a bonus. In fact, the money might have been more like a distraction. After two years’ time, when any proof that could lead back to the castle had mostly faded into obscurity, the exact same drug reemerged. It was as if someone was starting a second round of experimentation based on their findings from two years prior.

“I’ll ask you one more time. Who’s behind all of this? What’s their goal? If you help us out now, that might lessen the severity of your punishment.” Herscherik smiled.

Even though both Marx and Oran knew that Herscherik would never go easy on Ignac, neither of them mentioned it. Ignac’s lips were so tight they were practically white.

Oran casually held his sword where he was certain Ignac could see it. The well-polished blade reflected Ignac’s face, drained of all color. His lips moved ever so slightly, but his whisper was so faint that it didn’t even reach the two closest to him.

“Speak up,” Oran threatened.

“I don’t know...!” Ignac slammed the floor with his fist, like a child throwing a tantrum. “I... I just buy them from those kids! How am I supposed to know who’s behind it?!”

“Kids...?” Herscherik repeated, the gears in his mind whirring. He didn’t believe that Ignac would dare to lie in his current predicament. Then, he looked at the jar of individually wrapped candy, suddenly recognizing the logo. No...! Herscherik fell speechless at the unexpected revelation. More accurately, he had considered the possibility, but he had rejected it as unlikely. “I’ll leave this to you, Marx. Oran, fetch the horses!”

“Did you figure something out, Prince?” Oran asked, confused by the urgency in Herscherik’s voice.

“Oran, I need you to remain calm,” Herscherik said, remaining completely uncalm. “He means the children at the orphanage!”

Oran froze in place. Herscherik slapped him out of his stupor and then told Marx, who was also standing stock still, to arrest Ignac and send a team of royal guards or constables to the orphanage immediately.

Seeing that Ignac was trying to crawl away, Herscherik stepped onto the hem of his coat. “Do you want to run and regret ever being born, or be arrested now and only regret your choices?” Herscherik would make sure that Ignac would feel regret, one way or the other.

And so, Herscherik and Oran rode. Herscherik sat in front of Oran, clinging onto the saddle with all of his might to keep from falling off. Of course, Oran kept a hand on Herscherik to keep him in place, but riding a horse at top speed was still nothing short of horrific torture for the little prince.

When they finally arrived at the orphanage, Herscherik felt like he had lost half of his soul on the journey there. After Oran set him down on the ground, Herscherik took a deep, deep breath as if to gather up those fragments of his soul that had leaked out of him along the way.

“Prince, let’s hurry,” urged Oran. Despite riding his horse as fast as he could the whole way, his breathing was as steady as could be.

Herscherik was impressed by Oran’s physical prowess. He hadn’t led his class at the academy for nothing, even if he’d ultimately graduated last.

Herscherik nodded and followed Oran into the orphanage. It was already past ten o’clock at night, and apparently the children’s bedtime. Most of the orphanage’s windows were dark.

We have to get our hands on hard evidence... They had already arrested Ignac. If the person behind the operation were to discover that, any trace of evidence—along with the formula and any equipment for creating the drug—might just disappear, just like last time. Herscherik’s plan was to demand an answer from Ignac at the point of arrest so they could hunt down the mastermind behind the entire operation and put an end to this once and for all. But more than that, Herscherik wanted to get his hands on an antidote for the drug, and any research he could find that might be used to create one.

While an antidote would counteract the drug’s effects, making one would require extensive documents on the drug itself, which were nowhere to be found in the castle. Almost nothing on the matter was found in the lab, or from the vault that even Kuro struggled to break into. The information that an antidote might exist had only been revealed when Marx’s spellcaster of service had contacted a friend in Research.

That’s why Herscherik needed those documents at any cost, but he didn’t believe that he would find them in the orphanage. Someone had to be smuggling the drugs into the place. As far as Herscherik was concerned, the orphanage was somewhere along the line that connected the person behind the incident and the drugs themselves.

“Octavian...?” They encountered Baron Armin upon entering the orphanage, poking his head out from around a corner. “And Little Ryoko. What are you doing here?”

“Baron Armin...”

The Baron wore a friendly smile, to which Herscherik would have returned a smile of his own if it wasn’t for the fact that the Baron was his top suspect at the moment.

“Stay back, Prince.” Oran took a step forward, hand on his sword. “I’ve something to ask you, Baron... Once you call out those three men who are hiding around the corner.”

“Octavian?!” The Baron’s eyes widened in surprise.

Oran drew his sword, keeping his guard up. “Baron... I need to ask you about the candy the children were working to pack... I mean, the drug.”

Just as he uttered the word, something flashed through a beam of moonlight. Oran calmly struck down the object flying toward him. Herscherik crouched down at the spot where they fell to find two small throwing knives.

“Baron...!” Oran’s voice, shaded with a mixture of anger and sadness, came from above. It was evident that he had trusted the Baron. Even Herscherik hadn’t suspected him; he had seemed so kind.

Herscherik turned to the Baron to find him rushing toward the shadowy figure who’d thrown the daggers.

“Don’t hurt them,” he pleaded.

“Negative, Baron Armin. They know about us.” A voice, which could have belonged to a man or a woman, answered him. The figure wore a dark-colored outfit that blended into the night and had their hood drawn low. The other two emerged then, dressed similarly. The only notable difference was their height and a slight variation in the type of dagger they held in their hands.

“So the ultimate mastermind is above even you,” Herscherik figured. He turned to Oran. “Take them alive, please, Oran.”

“Understood.” Just as he answered the command, Oran closed the distance between him and the trio in an instant. The suddenness of the movement delayed their reaction for a moment. Oran seized that moment with the swing of his sword.

Still, the largest of the three mysterious assailants blocked the attack with his daggers, one wielded in each hand. The other two broke away, putting some distance between them and Oran again. Oran frowned at how quickly they’d recovered after a surprise attack.

They’re well trained, Oran noticed as he leapt away from the man who blocked his attack. He couldn’t kill them, but he had to protect Herscherik at the same time. These were no amateurs, either. Against a trio of expert assailants, he was at quite a disadvantage.

But I won’t lose. Oran held his sword in his dominant hand and drew the sheath from his belt with the other. It was a dual-wielding style rarely adopted by knights, since most of them used a shield. But the Aldis were all avid fighters and honored strength above adherence to any style. Oran had made a point of training in every style that piqued his interest.

His top priority was to protect Herscherik, but Oran had no intention of letting the hooded figures get away. That involved taking them alive, as his master had commanded. It wouldn’t be easy to incapacitate them with a sword without killing them, but a sturdy sheath could be used to block, keep his opponents in check, and even strike if necessary. Oran could incapacitate them with well-placed blunt force, shattering their kneecap, for example.

Facing down his enemies, Oran’s heart was as tranquil as ever. His mind remained unclouded. Despite the one-on-three critical disadvantage, Oran felt an unbelievable amount better than he had when he was nearly overcome with emotion upon facing Ignac. Oran knew that Herscherik had played a large role in keeping his mental stability intact there. The distaste he felt for royalty had dissolved at some point, with a new emotion about to take its place. But for now, Oran focused on the battle at hand, tightening his grip on his weapons.

Oran’s white knight’s uniform fluttered, and the sound of clashing swords followed.

Herscherik was enthralled by the battle before him. Despite the disadvantages of facing three opponents at once, being tasked to capture them alive, and having a little useless prince to protect, Oran handled himself spectacularly. As he faced off with the tall man who dual-wielded daggers, he continued to strike down projectiles at him from his blind spot, and even dodge (what his opponent hoped would be) surprise attacks from the third foe. All the while, he maintained his position to keep the three away from Herscherik and waited for a moment to strike with his sheath. This maneuver was much easier said than done; all this was a testament to how Oran was far more skilled than all three of his foes put together.

As his enemies’ patience began to wear, Oran seemed as stable as could be. It looked like he planned to wait for the moment his opponents lost their focus. Besides, Oran wasn’t in any hurry. He only had to buy enough time until back-up, as requested by Marx, would arrive. Then the battle was already as good as done.

I have to do what I can do. Herscherik looked to Baron Armin, who was visibly shaken by the combat that erupted before him. “Baron Armin!” Herscherik called. Seeing that the Baron noticed him, he continued, “Why did you sell those drugs?! And using the kids to do it...?!”

“I had no choice...” Baron Armin retaliated in a feeble voice. Still, his words had reached Herscherik through a pause in the clashing of swords.

“Didn’t have a choice?”

“I needed... the money. For the orphanage, for the kids—I needed that money!” It was a genuine cry of pain. His business had plummeted since the previous year, which endangered the orphanage. No matter how many times he requested, the government aid he received was nothing more than a drop in the bucket. He considered seeking help from Octavian, but Armin couldn’t very well ask him for a loan after he lost his fiancée and kept his distance from the orphanage. With the orphanage one misstep away from collapse, he had been approached about being a middleman for this drug trade.

“I had no choice in the matter!” If he’d refused, the children would have been left to starve on the streets. Armin had to avoid that at all costs, and taking this offer was the only way to do it. “The royals and nobles of this country won’t help us or even deign to look at the people in the gutter! They’ve lived their whole lives in the lap of luxury! They had it coming!”

Herscherik bit his lip. Baron Armin was correct in the sense that no royal or noble, including Herscherik, had ever lived like the orphans had to. Herscherik had every meal prepared for him in the castle, where he had a comfortable room of his own and plenty of clothes to wear. He knew that people who struggled to survive would have been envious of his lifestyle. “But not everyone is like that! Oran...! His fiancée, too!” Herscherik stared at the ground for a moment before making up his mind. “Oran’s fiancée died two years ago because of the very drug you’re helping to sell.”

“Prince?!” Oran shouted back at Herscherik as he blocked a dagger from one of his foes.

The Baron Armin was struck speechless. He only started getting involved in the drug circulation recently, so he hadn’t directly been involved in the death of Oran’s fiancée. Even so, the Baron couldn’t help but feel like the ground was crumbling away under his feet, discovering that the very drug he was selling had caused the death of the girl who had always lent a hand at the orphanage and took care of the children without so much as a complaint.

“That drug doesn’t know good from evil. It just slithers into a void in people’s hearts and drives them to tragic ends... Besides, everyone is someone’s child. Or someone’s parent. Taking a life is never acceptable.” Each of the victims had people precious to them, and those who considered the victim dear to them. Parents who lost their children had lost their future, and children who lost a parent might even have become destitute orphans themselves. They might have been destined for a more difficult life than the children at the orphanage.

Some might have said that was just the punishment for resorting to addictive drugs, but Death came equally to the noble and the poor, plaguing those around its prey with great sorrow. The tragic spiral would only continue. Moreover, Herscherik didn’t believe that the death of some who took advantage of the nation’s bureaucracy would make anything better. He was well aware of the reality of the nobility in this country. It was indeed the driving force behind the work Herscherik did every single day.

“I can’t feed these children with morality!” Baron Armin cried.

Herscherik knew that this world wasn’t fair—that bad things happened to good people. He was painfully aware of this. He subconsciously ran his hand over his pocket and grasped the watch within. But still... There was something that Herscherik had carved into his heart the day Count Ruseria left this world: It’s not right that the honest, hardworking people aren’t rewarded for it. He wanted a world where honesty paid off. Where evil was wronged. Where everyone could share their happiness.

“The world will never change unless we believe in our ideals,” Herscherik declared. Quietly. Powerfully. Herscherik didn’t assume that he was right about everything. He knew that he had to compromise and use dishonest tactics when it was necessary. Honest work didn’t always put food on the table. In truth, Baron Armin was in a hopeless situation. That’s why he had chosen to turn to crime. He’d been backed into a corner, and in the process had grown tired of the world. He gave up, convincing himself that a life of crime was the only way out.

Herscherik thought he had to change the world so that honest people were rewarded—that he had to stop the world from bringing sorrow onto kind, undeserving people. He knew full well that all of that was a clean, unrealistic ideal. It wasn’t going to be easy to change people... to change a nation... to change the world. Even if his path proved to be a journey of a thousand miles, or a wandering without end... Herscherik couldn’t help but yearn for that idealistic world.

“I don’t care what anyone says! We have to voice our ideals! We have to want them! We have to... believe in them!” Herscherik shouted across the battle—addressing Baron Armin, but more trying to convince himself. Herscherik knew there was that contradiction within him. He employed any means necessary to reach for his ideal nation and world. But if he ever had to compromise on his ideals to do it...? Baron Armin, in that way, could very well be a reflection of Herscherik’s future.

That’s why I need Oran. Herscherik turned to his knight, who was still in combat. He was sure of that fact, more than ever.

“What was I supposed to do...?” Baron Armin crumbled to the ground, and Herscherik turned back to him. “I only wanted to help the children... I didn’t want to lose them... I didn’t want to lose this place, either...” His hands covering his face, the baron curled into a ball.

Herscherik called to him. “You can’t change the past, Baron...” Things that had already happened were irreversible. Time could not be turned backwards. Regrets lasted for a lifetime. “But anyone can change the future.”

Baron Armin looked up at Herscherik. His eyes gleamed with a faint yet unmistakable light. Then, a door opened. Herscherik turned toward the sound to find a girl, Colette, peeking out of it.

“Mister Armin...?” Colette’s mutter reverberated through the tableau, where tension crisscrossed.

“Stay away, Colette!” Baron Armin called.

One of the trio, the one who’d first spoken to Armin, had turned to Colette and had begun to approach her. Instinctively, Herscherik started to run. He was closer to Colette than Oran’s three foes. In a moment, he stood between the shadowy fiends and the little girl.

“Big mistake,” the voice mocked, as the figure approached Herscherik with deliberate slowness, as if they were toying with him. Herscherik knew that Oran wouldn’t be able to protect him once he moved out of his position. If he had remained, however, he was sure that Colette would have been taken hostage.

I’ll give you a swift kick in the groin! Herscherik braced himself. While he didn’t know whether his opponent was a man or a woman, he knew that a kick to the groin was an effective attack against either gender. How? Because Ryoko had learned that the hard way.

Oran clicked his tongue in frustration and moved to protect Herscherik. One of his opponents blocked his way. “Move!” Oran unleashed a flawless attack with his sword, yet his enemy deflected it in the nick of time.

As they clashed, a vile, grasping hand was quickly approaching Herscherik. Just as the hand was about to occupy the entirety of Herscherik’s field of vision, it vanished. A loud slam ensued, followed by a cloud of dust erupting from the ground.

The shadow that had suddenly flown in now stood before Herscherik, protecting him. “You all right, Hersch?” his butler of service asked with a smile, clad in his dark-as-night garb, the moonlight revealing his refined face.

“Yeah...” Herscherik could only muster that short response. I didn’t know people could get blown away like that. It was like a video game. Herscherik turned toward the motionless heap on the ground—Kuro’s flying kick had completely knocked the person over. Just as their sinister grip was about to reach Herscherik, Kuro had swept in like a storm, saving the young prince just in the nick of time. To be specific, Kuro had run onto the scene at full tilt and had used the momentum to propel himself into a flying kick. His foot had struck the enemy square on the head, knocking the figure completely out cold. Kuro even did a backflip in the air before landing. This former-super-spy put acrobats to shame.

Are they dead...? Oh, they twitched. I guess not. Herscherik was relieved to see that the figure on the ground was alive. All three of them were precious sources of information.

“I told you to protect Hersch, you delinquent knight.”

“Sorry about that! What took you so long! Give me a paw here, black dog!” Oran countered, deflecting a knife attack.

“You idiot! I came back to the soirée with important evidence to find no one there but the Rose Prince!” Kuro shouted back and lunged at the smaller foe, who had been flinging daggers at Oran. Startled by the sudden addition of Kuro, they threw one last dagger, much less accurately than before. Kuro dodged the dagger most efficiently before slamming his fist into his foe’s gut. They fell to the ground and groaned for a few moments before lying there, motionless. Just as the thud of their ally hitting the ground distracted the final fiend for a moment, Oran ended the battle with a swift strike of his sheath. The sounds of him sheathing his sword and Kuro dusting off his clothes echoed in the night, now silent once again.

“Ryoko...?” Colette called out, unable to grasp the situation.

Herscherik turned around and gave her a reassuring smile. “Colette. Will you stay in your bedroom for me until a grown-up comes to get you? Don’t come back out, no matter what. If anyone else wakes up, tell them not to come out, too.” Herscherik watched Colette nod and close the door. Making sure that the door was completely shut, he approached Baron Armin, who remained seated on the ground. “Baron Armin.”

“I knew... I knew that I was doing the wrong thing.” He never intended to remain involved in drug dealing for long—just until his business recovered. Armin planned to leave the operation as soon as he could. However, his business never picked up again. In fact, it only grew worse. His drug trafficking had become the main source of income for the orphanage, and the baron had begun using the children to hide it. Ironically, he had only ended up taking advantage of the very children he wanted to protect.

“What am I supposed to do...?”

Herscherik knelt beside the baron and looked into his eyes. “Baron, I don’t think you’re weak. You’ve always protected the children here. While everyone turned a blind eye toward them, you acknowledged them. You were the one who reached out a hand to those children when they needed it. That makes you a strong, kind person.”

Herscherik added, “Everyone makes mistakes and chooses the wrong path some time during their lives. You certainly aren’t alone, Baron.” Nobody was perfect. Herscherik knew full well that he was no exception. “The scars left behind by your crimes will remain. But you can make up for your mistakes.” Herscherik kept his gaze on Armin, staring at him intently. “This drug is too dangerous not to destroy. And that’s why I need you to tell me. Who approached you with this deal? If we can figure out who’s behind this... If we can get our hands on the formula, we can generate antidotes to help people avoid the worst effects.”

The more Herscherik had discovered about this drug, the more terrified of it he’d become. Not only did he fear the drug’s effects and side effects, but also the villains who would circulate a concoction intended to create fearless killing machines long after it was supposed to have been abandoned. Herscherik was afraid that this was only the prologue to a greater catastrophe.

“Baron Armin, please...!” A shiver ran up his spine, and Herscherik clasped the back of his neck. He had a bad feeling—an indescribable fear. Of what, he didn’t know... but alarm bells kept clanging in his brain.

Just as Kuro and Oran were about to ask Herscherik why he kept looking around the place, Herscherik spotted what had given him that eerie feeling. There was a figure looming on the roof of a tall house, far from the orphanage. Who is that? Just as he was about to voice his concern, the three figures on the ground began groaning. They were all flailing about suddenly, clasping their chest. Soon, all of them were motionless again.

“What happened?!” Oran ran over to them. After a brief inspection, he shook his head. Not a single one was still breathing.

“How...?” Herscherik muttered aloud, still thinking of the figure on the roof. He looked at the same house, but the figure was gone.

“Argh...!” Baron Armin cried out, all of a sudden. Herscherik’s gaze shot back to the baron to see him, too, curled up on the ground. “Baron Armin?!” Herscherik rushed over in an attempt to help the baron up.

Kuro grabbed Herscherik by the arm to stop him. “What if it’s poison, Hersch?! Stay away from him!”

“I can’t just watch him die!” Herscherik twisted out of Kuro’s grip and ran to Baron Armin.

“Hersch...? Prince... Herscherik...?” Now that Armin had heard both Kuro and Octavian address the boy, he recalled that the Seventh Prince had blond hair and green eyes and had just turned five this year. “Your Highness... Please take care... of the children. I am responsible... for all of these crimes...”

“...I will.”

Baron Armin coughed violently, blood trickling out of his mouth. He didn’t have much time left. “Tell... Octavian... I’m... sorry...” Even though he wasn’t involved in the death of Oran’s fiancée, he had still sold the drug that had taken her life. Herscherik nodded, and Armin smiled, reassured by the response. Then, he tugged Herscherik’s sleeve to bring him closer and whispered something in his ear. Herscherik’s eyes widened. After those final words, Baron Armin released Herscherik as he fell to the ground.

He would never stand up again.

Silence settled over the three survivors. I couldn’t do anything... Again. Herscherik tightened his fist. Even as his nails dug into his palm, he felt no pain. He pounded the ground with that fist, over and over again, until he could finally feel something. That pain, however, only fueled Herscherik’s anger toward himself.

They still hadn’t gotten to the bottom of the case. In fact, the person behind the operation might know about their investigation now. While Herscherik didn’t know how, he was sure that the baron and their foes were dead because of the figure on the roof.

They had someone else watching those three, who were themselves watching Baron Armin? That meant that the ultimate mastermind had expected the baron to be found out at some point. And that person is so skilled that even Kuro didn’t notice them... Herscherik had spotted the figure on the roof by mere coincidence. Whoever was able to come that close without being noticed by Kuro, whose experience as a spy had given him an acute sense for when he was being watched, was no ordinary assassin.

“Hersch, your hand is bleeding.” Kuro held Herscherik’s hand and gently dabbed at the wound with a clean, white handkerchief.

“I’m sorry...” Herscherik apologized. Kuro smiled in return. He knew that his master was the kind of person to always think about others. In turn, Herscherik tended to neglect himself, which meant that those around him had to look out for the little prince.

“What did Baron Armin say to you in the end...? None of them had anything useful on them,” Oran said, frustrated. The other three bodies had already been gathered in one spot, neatly laid out.

“The baron—” The sound of the door opening cut Herscherik short. A boy emerged from it.

“Mister Armin!” The boy with indigo hair the color of the night sky, Rick, ran toward them. “Mister Armin, what happened? Mister Armin!” Rick clung to the motionless baron. When he realized that the baron was dead, he sat there blankly for a moment before turning to Herscherik, who was frozen with surprise. “You...! You must’ve killed Mister Armin!” As Rick raised his fist, Oran held him back. Kuro picked up the immobilized Herscherik from the ground, retreating a few steps.

“Stop, Rick!” Oran shouted, as Rick continued to struggle.

“Let go of me, Octavian! Aren’t you on our side?! Or are you just like the other nobles?! They take everything from me! Why?! You nobles already have everything in the world! Give Mister Armin back! Give him back to us!”

“Rick!” Oran called the boy’s name again. It wasn’t Herscherik’s fault that the baron had died. But explaining that would require him to reveal everything about the drug trafficking. The baron wouldn’t have wanted that. Even so, Oran didn’t feel it was right for Rick to turn his anger on Herscherik. He was at a loss.

“Oran,” Herscherik called. He shook his head. The children didn’t need to know anything about the drug... in fact, they couldn’t know. Herscherik met Rick’s eyes, burning with hatred. Rick must have lost people dear to him in the past, and it sounded like nobles had been involved in it. Herscherik now understood why Rick had treated him, an apparent noble child, so coldly from the get-go.

The more people lose, the more they have to cling to something... in order to carry on. Just as Oran had hated royals, nobles, and even himself in the wake of his fiancée’s death, even a negative emotion could become something that carries a person forward one more day. Rick trusted and respected Baron Armin, and even considered him like a father. Despite his noble status, Baron Armin had earned that trust from Rick. Now that he’d been taken from him, it seemed that Rick needed a target for his anger. If that’s what the child needed, Herscherik would gladly volunteer. That was the only thing he could think to do that could help Rick.

As Rick continued to struggle and shout, the sound of hooves could be heard from the distance. The backup that Marx had requested had finally arrived. Herscherik let his shoulders fall. “I really am powerless...” Herscherik muttered just loud enough for his two men to hear. Those words seeped and dissipated into the dark of night.