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Translator: uly
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: The Empire Blessed by Spirits
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The Decard Empire, blessed by spirits. This nation has two chosen bloodlines.
One is the imperial family, the Decard House. The other is my house, the Diorus Ducal House.
Spirit Users are produced only from these two families chosen by the spirits. The proof is in their golden eyes.
Naturally, those of imperial and Diorus blood are born with golden eyes, and all owners of these golden eyes can contract with a spirit on their fifteenth birthday. Without exception.
'Truly an awe-inspiring power. A symbol of absolute authority, perhaps.'
Spirit Users have wielded all sorts of absolute powers—what I once knew as 'superpowers'—and reigned as rulers throughout long history.
Thus, the Decard Empire's imperial family considered it a virtue to produce as many imperial princes and princesses—Spirit Users—as possible. That was the only way to solidify imperial power.
In other words.
'They breed like rabbits as much as they can!'
And what that means is.
'The imperial family is the ultimate prolific clan without precedent.'
The current emperor, Decard 11th, has a total of seven wives.
The astonishing fact is that compared to past emperors, Decard 11th with only seven wives is considered modest.
'Decard 5th had thirty-two wives, they say…'
Incredible, really.
The problem arises because there is only one throne, yet dozens of the emperor's children qualify to sit upon it.
"Kill my brother if he's not there… my older brother… my older sister… my little sister…" Such vermin who lust to slaughter their own blood kin have endlessly emerged throughout history, and the empire's current 2nd Prince, Nathan van Rashumah Decard, was one such creature.
'Let's see, around Rubette's sixteenth birthday, the crown prince dies…'
Less than a year left.
"Time's pretty tight."
I steeled my slightly hesitant heart while gazing at Wishit's handsome face.
It was far too handsome a face to ignore as someone else's problem.
"Miss, the tailor's here."
"Oh, come in."
Just then, Rebecca's voice announced the tailor's arrival. I rose gladly from my seat.
The door opened, and in came a slightly awkward-looking girl.
Her name was Becky.
"You're here?"
"Yes, Miss. Have you been well?"
"Yeah, thanks to you."
Wearing thick glasses and shabby clothes, she was the humble tailor who had made Rubette new outfits almost daily during her growth spurt around this time.
Kind, loyal. Her design sense was a bit lacking, but her sewing skills were second to none.
"But why did you call me? We just made a new dress not long ago…"
"Oh, I didn't call you for a dress today. Sit there."
I gestured to a seat across from me, and as she sat, Becky tilted her head curiously at the unexpected summons.
"There's a lot to talk about today."
I flashed a grin at the lucky tailor who would soon become famous for her needlework.
* * *
One day, two days, three days, four days.
Time flew by, and I had fully adapted to Rubette's life.
It wasn't even adaptation, really. Having absorbed intact the memories and emotions of her forty-five years of life, I was Rubette herself—no mistake about it.
But there were definite changes from the previous Rubette.
"You worked hard today too, Miss. The morning air was nice, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, Rebecca. Felt great to run."
Maintaining an exercise schedule she couldn't stick to for even a day due to her weak will—for four days already.
"She used to hole up in her room all day, what wind's blown in?"
"Didn't you hear? Four days ago, she nearly drowned in the pond and changed after that. They say she even slapped young master Riki."
And her lifestyle of holing up twenty-four-seven, gloomily snacking—now flipped 180 degrees.
"And… were you always that close with the Duke? They say the head butler got fired because Duchess Rubette pulled strings with him…"
"No way."
"Rumor or not, when the Grand Duchess returns, there'll be hell to pay. Can you imagine them eating meals together every day?"
"Shh, shh. Let's keep quiet."
Spending every meal with her formerly distant dad?
"...."
"...."
This was Dad's room, a bit livelier now than at our first meeting.
Feeling his gaze, I looked up to find Dad staring at me.
"What?"
Mid-meal, sketching dress designs with one hand, I scooped oatmeal with the other and asked.
"What are you doing?"
"Drawing."
"So what are you drawing."
"Why are you curious? You don't need to pay attention to me."
"...."
I shot back, and Dad's mouth shut in displeasure.
Two meals a day. Today marked four days of breakfast and lunch together.
It was my emergency measure to fix Dad's insane schedule and monitor his drinking and smoking.
Dad crossed his arms and asked indifferently.
"You tell me not to pay attention, yet why do you keep coming to meals with me?"
"Hmm, I just don't need your attention, Dad—not that I don't pay attention to you. Finish eating."
I brushed it off and busied my right hand with the sketch.
Dad watched me a bit longer, then sullenly returned to his meal.
"...?"
Hm? Midway through drawing a dress ribbon, I paused and whipped my head up.
Dad's hand was stealthily reaching for the white grape wine glass.
"Tut!"
"...."
Dad froze.
I rapped the table—tap tap—and a kitchen maid hurried over.
"Yes, Miss."
"What's this? It wasn't here at lunch yesterday. Didn't I say no alcohol ever?"
"Oh, must've been a kitchen mistake. I'll take it away."
After four days of my nitpicking, the disciplined kitchen maid whisked the glass away without even asking Dad's permission.
From experience, she'd learned that at meals, the duchess's word was law—not the duke's.
As the maid left with the glass, Dad's lips twisted in annoyance.
"The doctor said nothing's wrong, so how long do I have to abstain? It's not strong liquor—just one sip of wine?"
"You'd think so too. I figured something had to be off somewhere, but I'm puzzled."
Worried the family doctor was bribed by Molga, I'd called in two capital physicians for extra checks—only to hear he was excessively healthy.
'Over ten years of booze and smokes turning him into a wreck, and originally he dies in three years. With a three-year life expectancy, something should be failing by now…'
After just four days off alcohol and tobacco, his face glowed healthier than a normal person's. Even I, no doctor, could guess Dad's condition.
Dad was truly healthy now.
'Suddenly worsens in three years from now? Or maybe booze and smokes weren't the issue? But I remember clearly—Dad ruined his health with alcohol and passed…'
Lost in thought, Dad snapped his fingers to get my attention.
"Just one glass of wine…"
"No. Not even secretly. You can trust my faith in your conscience, right?"
"...."
Glared at with eyes full of complaint, Dad soon gave up and picked up his utensils again.
I finished my oatmeal, set down the spoon, and waited for Dad's meal to end while flipping open a magazine I'd brought.
"...Is that all you're eating?"
As I finished, Dad spoke up again.
Our eyes met, and he slid a plate of juicy, saucy meat my way.
"Eat more. Even a mouse eats more than that."
"I'm full. Why the sudden concern? You know I eat only oatmeal for breakfast."
"How do you last eating like…"
It was then.
Tap tap. A soft knock, and a maid's voice came through the door.
"Sir Duke, the Grand Duchess has just returned."
...!
She's here. Molga Diorus.
The devil's return, armed and ready.
I'd run dozens of mental simulations on how to handle our first meeting.
I was confident I wouldn't go down easy, but…
"Gasp."
Shockingly, I faced an unexpected problem.
The trauma etched into this body wasn't the sort to shake off easily.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The moment I heard Molga had returned, my heart raced uncontrollably.
"Ha, so frustrating."
"Why so crude and vulgar?"
"You don't suit the Diorus name."
"Your father and brothers are all ashamed of you."
"You know, right? Everyone hates you?"
Unaware the aftereffects of mental trauma could be this terrifying, I panicked.
"Your mother might as well have been killed by you—how could your father dote on you?"
"Your father said it: you shouldn't have been born."
"Dear, don't tarnish our house—live like a dead rat forever."
"Be grateful to our Lilia, who shines for the family in your place."
Memories of Molga's bone-deep verbal abuse and mistreatment flooded back, and my body reacted first.
"Gasp, heh…"
My hands, pale and trembling, came into my barely focused view.
'Damn. Was it this bad?'
A choking sensation.
Panting roughly, barely breathing, when suddenly a large shadow loomed over me.
'...Dad?'
No strength to look up, but it didn't matter. Dad knelt to my eye level, gripping my shoulders.
"What's wrong?"