Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Have I Returned?

“My brother actually agreed to the betrothal with the Archduchess of Valdrova?”

Huren Rosnova, the second son of the lineage, spoke in complete bewilderment.

Possessing slate-gray hair and piercing brown eyes, Huren managed the administrative affairs of House Rosnova and stood as the chosen heir to the family’s authority. He had just returned after acting as a proxy for their father, Erembalt, within the Empire.

“Yes, that is correct,” the butler affirmed.

“Are you serious?”

“It is absolute truth, young master.”

“That is absurd. Did that fool misunderstand the terms?”

“He appeared fully aware of the consequences.”

“If even our dull-witted eldest brother understands what it means, there is no chance that brat didn’t…”

Huren scratched his chin. Even with his sharp mind, the choice made no sense.

Offered the choice between banishment and death, why choose death?

Was it some pathetic attempt to display courage to their father? Regardless of his motive, the arrangement had been ratified by the Imperial authority and could not be undone.

If Ferda attempted to back out now and flee the manor, he would be declared an Imperial criminal and promptly executed.

“What is he doing at this moment?”

“His departure is scheduled for today, so he should be making preparations.”

“Is that so? Then I still have time for a brotherly farewell.”

The butler suppressed an exasperated sigh. Huren had been the first to openly torment Ferda for his concubine heritage and blue eyes; hearing him refer to ‘brotherly’ matters was utterly hypocritical.

Huren walked leisurely down the corridor with his hands tucked behind his back. Arriving outside Ferda’s quarters, he noticed the maids huddled nervously in the hallway.

“Why are you idling out here instead of attending to him?”

The maids gasped and bowed in fear.

“W-we offered our assistance, but the young master instructed us to wait outside…”

“Absurd. So you simply stand here like decorative stones?”

“We apologize…”

“Useless fools. Is he actually trying to dress himself? He is a noble; how could he possibly know how to manage his own attire?”

Huren sneered inwardly, assuming Ferda was throwing a desperate fit because of fear.

He cleared his throat and shoved the door open without knocking.

“Ferda! What do you think you are doing instead of preparing properly—!”

His words caught in his throat. The sight of Ferda weeping on his bed was completely absent.

Instead, an impossible scene greeted him.

He is… dressing himself?

Ferda stood calmly in front of the mirror, steadily fastening the buttons of his formal coat.

“Is it standard practice to enter without knocking, brother?”

Without even glancing back, Ferda casually highlighted Huren’s lack of manners.

“I expected to find you weeping in your sheets.”

“Why would I waste time on that? How could I afford to delay on such a monumental occasion?”

“Then why banish the servants to the hall?”

“Because I am capable of dressing myself. Where I am headed, I won’t have the luxury of maidservants anyway.”

His voice remained unnervingly composed as he adjusted his collar. Huren blinked, completely taken aback.

Is this truly the same person?

The Ferda he knew had always been a pathetic coward who survived by offering subservient smiles to his abusers. Yet now, he carried the composure of a battle-hardened veteran.

For the first time, Huren felt an intimidating pressure radiating from his younger brother. To hide his discomfort, he cleared his throat and redirected the topic.

“Ahem. I was informed you accepted the engagement to the Archduchess of Valdrova.”

“I did.”

“If you have read a single chronicle, you must know what that betrothal implies.”

“I am well aware. It is simply the family’s polite method of telling me to go die elsewhere, is it not?”

“Why frame it so harshly? House Rosnova is still providing you with funds to ensure you can support yourself.”

Ferda smiled quietly to himself.

Funds…

Indeed, they would provide him a small purse—an amount sufficient for a commoner to survive on for a decade, but a mere trifle that a nobleman could burn through in three days.

In my past life, I handed every coin of it over to my master.

He had no alternative back then; the only magical mentor willing to instruct a late bloomer was an instructor who cared exclusively for gold. Though the man offered little instruction, access to his vast library had served as Ferda’s foundation.

That old rogue is probably still chasing gold and vices even now.

Ferda let out a soft snort at the memory.

“You dare laugh?”

Huren remained convinced that Ferda had completely failed to grasp the danger.

“You must be terribly mistaken. Do you realize why being betrothed to the Violent Dragon is a death sentence?”

“How could I not? Did her original fiancé not get ripped to shreds?”

The Archduchess of Valdrova’s initial fiancé had been the 3rd Imperial Prince—an uncle to the reigning Emperor. He had been celebrated for his intellect, charisma, and exceptional looks, even standing as a contender for the imperial Throne before relinquishing his claim.

Yet that esteemed prince had been reduced to an unrecognizable pulp in less than a day after arriving at her estate.

Following that disaster, society concluded that anyone seeking to survive beside the Archduchess would need abilities surpassing those of the 3rd Imperial Prince.

Since then, no nobleman ever volunteered for the role. With an Imperial quota requiring an annual candidate, high noble houses began using the betrothal as a convenient mechanism to purge undesirable offspring.

“Do you honestly believe you can succeed where the 3rd Imperial Prince failed?”

Could he?

“I cannot say.”

To be fair, even having once reached the 8th Circle, he could not predict the outcome. But Ferda was no longer driven by absolute certainty alone.

“I imagine I will find out once I arrive.”

Viewing this as reckless arrogance, Huren narrowed his eyes and issued a harsh warning:

“Do whatever you wish, but do not think of fleeing.”

“The instant you try to escape, the Rosnova family will send assassins to sever your head. Do you understand?”

In the past, such intimidation would have terrified Ferda. Now, he merely met Huren’s gaze with empty, indifferent eyes.

“Brother.”

Huren recoiled slightly under that cold, unblinking stare.

“W-what?”

“Restrain your base impulses. Everyone in this household is aware of the way you look at our eldest sister-in-law.”

Huren’s face flared a furious crimson.

“Wh-what?! How dare you utter such nonsense—!”

“Control your temper for now. Your younger brother must go jump into the maw of a dragon, so I will take my leave.”

Ferda patted Huren’s shoulder as he walked past. Huren remained frozen in place, utterly bewildered by his younger brother’s nonchalant attitude.

“It has been a true privilege to serve you, young master.”

At the entrance, the butler bid him farewell while shedding false tears. Ferda observed the performance with amusement.

He speaks without a shred of sincerity.

If those tears held any meaning, they were tears of relief at being rid of a useless master.

Was this man also poisoning my meals?

In his youth, he had foolishly assumed his frequent illnesses and falls were due to his weak body, never suspecting the deliberate malice of the servants.

Under ordinary circumstances, such a realization would have ignited a burning need for bloody retribution.

Yet what does any of that matter now?

Ferda was completely at peace. Having already carried out his vengeance once, he held no lingering resentment toward the estate.

He patted the butler’s shoulder and offered a flat remark:

“You have worked hard. Tending to someone like me must have been exhausting.”

“……Excuse me?”

Startled by the unexpected response, the butler’s feigned crying ceased immediately.

“Look after the Rosnova household in my absence.”

“Ah… of course…”

Ferda stepped past him and exited the manor, where a carriage and driver awaited.

“I am Hans, the coachman assigned to escort you to your destination, young master.”

“A coachman?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Ferda tilted his head slightly.

“We are traveling by carriage?”

“Pardon? Yes, a carriage. What else would we use?”

“I see.”

“Is something wrong, sir?”

“Nothing. It simply feels rather nostalgic.”

“Ah… I see… Wait, what?”

The driver could not decipher the young noble’s strange phrasing.

“Let us depart!”

The horses snorted as their hooves beat against the dirt path, and the carriage began rolling forward.

It has been decades since I rode in one of these.

In the future Ferda remembered, traditional horse-drawn carriages had become rare novelties replaced by Magitech innovations like Mana Cars and Sky Carriages.

Though none of that truly concerned me.

His past life had been devoted solely to the pursuit of destructive power.

Now, though he had once attained the 9th Circle, his current body remained that of his frail, unawakened eighteen-year-old self.

In his previous timeline, his magic had awakened through raw fury and hatred upon leaving the family. Lacking that burning malice now, his mana naturally remained dormant.

I have no desire to walk that destructive path again.

His past magical growth had been like a toxic addiction. While power brought temporary highs, it left behind only ruin and regret. He genuinely appreciated his current state of quiet tranquility.

Still, living without magic is somewhat inconvenient.

Reaching the 3rd Circle allowed one to handle simple tasks like dressing through magic, while the 4th Circle automated intricate garments.

I will need to reach at least the 4th Circle for convenience’s sake.

Any traditional mage hearing him treat the 4th Circle as a basic utility would have been shocked. Yet Ferda realized he did not know how to awaken his power without relying on pure hatred.

“M-my lord…!”

The driver’s trembling voice interrupted his thoughts.

“W-we have arrived!”

The carriage had stopped before a thick, ominous forest. A weathered sign marked the boundary ahead:

Beyond this point lies the territory of the Archduchess. Trespassing is strictly forbidden.

“You did well.”

Ferda stepped down onto the ground. The driver unloaded his bags, shaking violently.

“You may return now.”

“B-but I must ensure someone arrives to receive you…”

The man was clearly following orders to confirm Ferda did not attempt an escape.

“A dragon will appear shortly.”

“A dragon?!”

“Not the true beast, but a subordinate carrying its lineage—a Dragon Spawn. To someone like you, the difference is negligible.”

Cold sweat poured down the driver’s face as Ferda pointed toward the horses.

“Even if you manage to keep your composure, the beasts will panic. If they run off, you will be stranded here alone.”

“Ah…!”

“So report that I arrived at the border and turn back immediately. Dying here serves no purpose, does it?”

“I-I understand!”

Without another word of protest, the driver threw the remaining luggage down, leaped onto his seat, and whipped the horses into a frenzied gallop, the carriage nearly overturning as it sped away.

Ferda sat upon his travel trunk and waited quietly in the clearing.

“The territory of the Archduchess…”

Moments later, a frigid breeze swept through the trees. Ferda lifted his gaze toward the shadows of the forest.

Standing amidst the foliage was a delicate young maid with silver hair.

Yet beneath that gentle appearance, her true nature was unmistakable: a Dragon Spawn.

“Are you Lord Ferda Rosnova?” she inquired with formal courtesy.

“I am.”

“I have come to guide you to the castle. Please follow me.”