CHAPTER 3:
Mad Dog (Part 1)
The royal physician had summoned Dietrich to report on Celia’s condition. But the moment he faced Dietrich directly, he turned pale with fear.
Dietrich’s eyes briefly flicked over the physician’s ashen face before sliding toward Celia. His expression, as he looked at her limp, bloodless form, held not a trace of sympathy.
There was no pity, no anger, no resentment on his face.
There was no emotion at all—yet that made him seem even more terrifying.
Everyone in the imperial palace knew just how cruel Dietrich could be.
It wasn’t as though he had earned the emperor’s unconditional trust from the beginning. The emperor, having brought him to the palace on a whim, had quickly forgotten about him and gone back to chasing women.
In a palace filled with intrigue, the handsome boy with no backing became an easy target for many.
Even most of the servants—who typically came from low-ranking noble families—were displeased when some nobody, nearly sold to a slave merchant, was suddenly allowed to live among them. They made no attempt to hide their disgust.
Still, since he’d been brought in by the emperor, they initially kept their complaints in check. But when the emperor failed to inquire about Dietrich for three months, the servants realized he had been abandoned.
From then on, they treated him with open disdain. They heaped all the menial tasks onto him and bullied him more and more severely with each passing day.
They would “accidentally” douse him with cold water or hurl the worst verbal abuse at him—but Dietrich’s expression never once changed.
The male servants particularly disliked how this immature boy acted so composed, as if he had seen the entire world.
One day, the servant who tormented Dietrich the most locked him in a storeroom, summoned four other men, and planned to assault him.
Dietrich walked away without a scratch.
All five attackers, on the other hand, were found dead—mutilated beyond recognition. Their bodies were covered in stab wounds. A rusty knife had been clutched in the hand of the servant who’d lured Dietrich in.
The matter was brushed aside as a deadly brawl sparked by a heated argument.
After all, people died in the palace all the time—for picking the wrong allies, for offending the wrong superior. The death of a few lowly servants supposedly fighting among themselves didn’t merit investigation.
Still, it was too strange. All five had died together, at the same time. It seemed far too convenient.
Others continued to provoke Dietrich afterward, but all of them met similar, tragic ends.
One greedy servant who tried to sell Dietrich off as a noble’s plaything was executed on the false charge of attempting to assault one of the emperor’s handmaidens.
Only then did people start to realize Dietrich was no ordinary boy.
Terrified, the remaining servants kicked him out of their quarters and sent him to an old stable on the outskirts of the palace—where the sick and aging warhorses were kept.
Though the horses were no longer fit for battle, they were once elite steeds and had been spared to live out their final years in peace.
But their tempers were still fierce. It wouldn’t have been surprising if one had kicked Dietrich to death in his sleep. In fact, the previous stable hand had died instantly after being struck in a vital spot.
The servants, well aware of this, had hoped the horses would finish Dietrich off for them.
Yet, contrary to their hopes, the horses took to him astonishingly well. Dietrich spent his days tending them and his nights sleeping in the stables, all while continuing to shoulder the servants’ chores.
A royal knight who noticed Dietrich’s way with horses reported it to the emperor, but the emperor had only laughed and said, “Ah, the red-eyed boy? He’s still alive?”
One of the knights, moved by pity, decided to secretly teach Dietrich swordsmanship.
Ten years passed.
That very knight, Sir Anderson, eventually became one of Dietrich’s subordinates. And Dietrich himself rose to become the commander of the Imperial Knights and the emperor’s closest confidant.
Behind closed doors, Dietrich was called the emperor’s mad dog. Now that the emperor was dead… what would he do?
Dietrich’s emotionless gaze shifted to the physician, who was watching him with trembling limbs.
Overwhelmed by Dietrich’s sheer presence, the physician lowered his eyes to the floor, pretending he’d seen nothing.
“Speak. Her condition.”
The voice was as cold and empty as his eyes. The physician swallowed hard and began to recite what he had discovered.
“…She has, at most, a year to live. Her body is in terrible condition. Her organs are failing, and her blood is rotting inside her.”
The physician looked at Celia with a heavy heart and added:
“It’s a miracle she’s survived this long. You wouldn’t know it just by looking at her, but her internal organs are completely destroyed. It’s not just incurable—it’s nearly impossible to even slow the disease.”
At that, Dietrich’s face finally revealed something.
His tightly pressed lips curled slightly into a faint smile.
When the physician turned to look at him, the smile had already vanished.
“That’s good news.”
Dietrich muttered the words, and they dispersed into the air of the dungeon like mist.
But the physician, who had been closely watching every movement, heard them clearly.
“Wh-what do you intend to do with her?”
Without even glancing at him, Dietrich replied indifferently:
“They say people who talk too much don’t live long.”
“…!”
“You weren’t here today. You saw nothing.”
The physician nodded frantically.
“Y-yes! I was just walking the halls to prepare rare herbs brought in from the East. That’s all.”
His voice trembled as he spoke.
Dietrich silently jerked his chin toward the exit.
The physician fled the dungeon like his life depended on it. He paused briefly, glancing back, as if still worried about Celia.
But he couldn’t see her—because Dietrich was standing in front of her, arms crossed, watching him closely.
His brow was furrowed.
The physician barely stifled a scream and bolted out of sight.
Once he was gone, Dietrich stepped closer to Celia.
He looked down at her shallow, nearly imperceptible breathing as if she were some disgusting insect.
His lips twisted.
“The Angel of Brillion.”
Dietrich muttered to himself.
His large hand reached toward Celia’s neck.
People called this woman the Angel of Brillion, singing her praises—but Dietrich couldn’t care less.
If he squeezed her throat now, she would die.
Her reputation, her life—it could all be crushed with a flick of his wrist.
But Dietrich stopped. Though clearly awake, she had made no move to open her eyes.
“Wake up.”
At the cold, dry voice, Celia’s eyelids slowly fluttered open.
Her fresh green eyes, like a forest, met his directly.
She looked back at Dietrich.
A massive man with a terrifying presence was staring down at her like she was something foul.
Celia sat up calmly.
With her back straight and posture poised, she looked him directly in the eyes.
To Dietrich, it felt as if she were the one looking down on him from above.
And then she smiled.
It was a soft, graceful smile—the kind people always raved about.
But Dietrich’s expression didn’t budge.
“Tell me the real reason you killed the emperor.”
He went straight to the point.
“Celia Brillion, adopted daughter of the Viscount of Brillion. Why did you kill the emperor?”
Celia gazed at him with a peaceful expression, as if hearing a story about someone else. Dietrich maintained a stoic façade, but inwardly, he was agitated.
“You’d better speak the truth. Who ordered you to do it?”
“……”
When she didn’t respond, Dietrich leaned down until they were eye to eye.
“Maybe you’ll talk if I torture you.”
He looked down at Celia’s pale ankle like he might actually follow through.
Then, her lips parted.
“…Dietrich.”
He hadn’t expected her to know his name, and a faint line appeared between his brows.
“You know me?”
Celia smiled faintly.
“There isn’t a soul in Abelon who doesn’t know your name.”
Even as a prisoner, she spoke to him without the slightest formality. It should’ve been jarring—but somehow, it felt natural. That unsettled Dietrich.
Celia smirked as she watched him.
“Had I known it was the emperor’s mad dog, I wouldn’t have fainted so disgracefully in front of you.”
Her lips curved into a soft line, but her eyes remained cold. In those chilling eyes burned a deep resentment.
Dietrich stared into them. Unlike his own blood-red irises, hers were a clear, vibrant green.
Despite being the adopted daughter of a lowly viscount, she radiated a noble dignity one would expect from royalty.
He knew this kind of person—no amount of torture would break them.
How many people could remain this composed in a situation where death seemed inevitable—especially while terminally ill?
Or was it because she was dying that she no longer feared death?
Still, what truly surprised Dietrich was what she said next.
