“W-Why are you doing this to me, Sir Delroz? I don’t know anything. I’m not Seira? Why would you say something like that all of a sudden…?”
“You’d know that better than anyone.”
Inside the room, a woman trembled violently, her face filled with terror, while Delroz had her by the collar, gripping her harshly. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to be hurt. At least he hadn’t resorted to beating her just because she was a woman. Harming someone who couldn’t fight back wasn’t something Banteon wanted, so he stepped in between them.
“It’s unfortunate to meet under these circumstances, Miss Seira Rokless. Do you know who I am?”
“Y-Yes, of course… You’re Lord Banteon, aren’t you? The one who used to guide Sir Delroz…”
The one who used to guide Delroz. The phrasing was unfamiliar, and it made him chuckle. She clearly hadn’t been raised as a noble. No one from Esrante, would be referred to simply as a “Guide.”
“W-Wait… Are you the one who told him I’m not Seira? If this is about losing the position of Delroz’s Guide, then this is all a huge misunderstanding. I’m truly being wronged here.”
“That’s rather disappointing. To be so misunderstood by someone I nearly married.”
“What…?”
Seira’s eyes grew wide in shock. Banteon tilted his head slightly as he looked at her. Seeing her up close made it even clearer—she looked nothing like the face in the marriage proposal he’d received. While there was a vague similarity in atmosphere, their appearances were unmistakably different.
“Let me reintroduce myself. I received the marriage proposal from the Rokless family. I came to personally thank you for sending it… but you do look a little different from your portrait.”
“……”
“Like a completely different person, in fact.”
Seira’s eyes narrowed. Her expression turned sharp as she glanced around quickly, then darted toward the wall, pressing her back against it.
“I-I really am Seira… I mean…”
“The green eyes in the portrait were quite striking. But now that I see you in person, yours are clearly blue. Not even a hint of green…”
“Move!”
The impersonator, still claiming to be Seira, shouted and shoved Banteon. As his chest was struck, he staggered backward, and she bolted toward the door. She pushed through the crowd like a battering ram. The onlookers, unable to withstand her strength—unexpected from a young woman—were shoved aside like sheets of paper. But just as she reached the corridor, her body slipped and fell.
“Agh!”
Screaming, the woman hit the floor—only to be lifted by the collar by Delroz. Her feet dangled in the air as he held her up by the throat. She choked and flailed, barely able to breathe. If this kept up, she’d die—
“Delroz!”
“I’m not killing her.”
Delroz slammed the half-conscious impersonator to the ground. Her skirt spread wide across the floor, and her long hair, now a tangled mess, fell over her pale skin. Even knowing she was suspicious, Banteon grimaced instinctively at the sight. The others seemed to feel the same; they stared with their mouths covered while Delroz’s cold voice broke through.
“You’re a curious one. The match rate definitely came up, but the closer I got, the filthier I felt.”
Delroz, the only one who showed no sympathy, interrogated her.
“What’s your game?”
“I-I was tricked. They said no one would recognize me… N-No, something’s wrong. There’s no way he would make a mistake. I… I was just abandoned.”
The impersonator rambled as she stared at the floor, muttering in confusion. Her hair dragged across the ground as her eyes, lost and shaking, wandered beneath the bed. Delroz caught the movement and was the first to act, kicking the bed aside.
With a loud crash, the massive bed slid away and shattered. Beneath it was an old leather bag. He grabbed it roughly, and despair spread across the impersonator’s face as she crawled after it.
“Your last desperate attempt, huh.”
He flipped the bag upside down and shook it hard. Not much came out—a worn notebook, a leather pen, some dust and string from the cheap material. As he practically tore the bag apart, something small clinked and fell—a tiny glass vial. Unlike the rest of the items, this vial was finely crafted and didn’t break even after hitting the floor. It glowed red.
“So this is it.”
“G-Give it back! That’s mine!”
“Delroz. Hand it over.”
Banteon was certain the others would see the vial as transparent, but to his eyes, the liquid inside glowed crimson. It was unmistakably one of Madam Ressot’s concoctions. To think he’d run into it again here. Delroz tossed the vial his way.
The small vial, no bigger than a finger, landed smoothly in Banteon’s palm. The familiar sensation banished the fatigue from his body and brought a faint smile to his lips. They finally had a lead. Even if he didn’t yet know what the drug did, they could figure it out from here.
“Now all that’s left is to hand her over.”
“We’ll uncover her identity in time.”
This was the central Guide lodging within the Royal Esper Center. There was no way she could escape. They could interrogate her at their own pace now. Delroz stuffed a cloth into her mouth to prevent her from biting her tongue and bound her hands. He was disturbingly skilled at handling prisoners—must’ve come from his mercenary days.
Banteon tightened his grip on the vial and let out a quiet sigh of relief. They’d secured the root of the problem—the drug—and stopped Delroz from going berserk.
If getting hurt had led to this, then it had been worth it.
Just as he tucked the vial into the inner pocket of his jacket with satisfaction, Delroz’s eyes widened. He was staring past Banteon, gaze fixed behind him—and suddenly, a black shadow loomed from overhead, swallowing the light.
“Die!”
“Banteon!”
A man who had been hiding among the crowd until now suddenly charged forward. Clad in a white coat, he swung a knife straight at Banteon’s heart. The sharp metal glinted under the lights—but before it could touch Banteon, an overwhelming force slammed into the attacker, sending him crashing to the floor.
Crunch!
The sickening sounds of bones being crushed and flesh tearing echoed through the room as an invisible force pinned the man down. A gurgled gasp choked out from his throat as he struggled to breathe. Banteon shouted toward Delroz, who was mercilessly bearing down on the man with psychic force.
“Don’t kill him. If he’s one of them, we need to get information.”
“You weren’t cut, were you?”
Banteon nodded. Only then did Delroz ease up.
Watching a man reduced to pulp in seconds was far from a pleasant sight. Banteon turned away in disgust, but the man’s gaze clung to him, sharp and full of bloodlust. Even while lying flattened on the ground, unable to move a single finger, the man glared with relentless hatred. A red aura began to seep up around him.
Damn Espers.
Banteon tried to back away, but the man’s eyes flared faster than he could move.
In a last, desperate burst, the red psychic energy surged and engulfed Banteon. Normally, such an Esper’s aura would be barely irritating—but now, with his body already at its limit, the impact hit like a blow. The energy converged in one place, targeting him. His still-unhealed forearm flared with pain, muscles feeling as though they were tearing apart.
He couldn’t take it anymore. The mental thread that had been barely holding him together through willpower and the lingering effects of the drug snapped like a string of silk.
“Urgh…”
As Banteon’s consciousness faded and his body collapsed, he caught a glimpse of Delroz rushing over in alarm.
That was the last thing he saw before the world went black. He felt a large hand carefully cradle his head, gently lowering him to the ground as he finally let his eyes close.
***
Lately, it seemed like he was losing consciousness far too often. He started counting the number of times on his fingers, then gave up. What was the point? It’s not like anyone would hand out an award for keeping track of how many times he passed out.
With a hollow feeling, he stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Was this a medical room? Delroz probably hadn’t carried him alone—he must’ve asked for help. The stinging scent of disinfectant filled the air, and the walls were all white. Through a nearby window, he could tell they were on one of the upper floors. A thin needle was stuck into the back of his hand, connected to an IV drip.
There was a time he thought he was born under a lucky star. But maybe all that fortune had been handed to him early because fate already had this mess in store. Otherwise, how else could things go this wrong? He tried lifting his arm but didn’t have a shred of strength left.
As he shifted, rustling softly, a faint voice came from a short distance away. Delroz was slumped forward in a chair, head bowed. His face was even more worn out than it had been during his power surges. Banteon clicked his tongue. How long had he been sitting like that?
“How long…”
The moment he opened his mouth, his throat burned. Dryness clung like glue, and he coughed. A water bottle nearby floated gently and poured into a cup—Delroz’s doing. As the cup drifted toward him, he grabbed it and took a sip. Delroz’s voice, still gloomy, broke the silence.
“You were out for about three days.”
No wonder his body felt wrecked. He stretched his sore shoulders and shifted his torso. Apart from the discomfort of the bandaged arm, the rest of him seemed intact.
Delroz also seemed relatively okay. He still had a rough edge to him, but it was within manageable limits—no sign of another power eruption like before.
Looking at Delroz’s pale face, countless questions flooded Banteon’s mind. What happened to the impersonator? Who was the accomplice? Who orchestrated all this? Was Madam Ressot’s drug being properly analyzed?
One of those questions slipped out.
“Why were you in that state?”
“Good question.”
