TMOGTD 107🔐

Chapter 107 ….

“C-Catalog!”

Niles, aide to Duke Blanchard, shouted as if struck by lightning and sprang upright.

At the same time the blanket made of soft cotton slid down, his startled heart pounding wildly.

Yes. Not thump-thump, but bulb-bulb.

And this was all thanks to his superior—and nemesis—Cyrus Blanchard.

—

—I want to order purple tulisa bulbs. Bring me the catalog.

—C-Catalog, sir?

—There should be one on hand.

—Uh… y-y-y-yes. Yes. There is. There is.

—Answer only once.

—Yessir!

—…….

—

As Niles squeezed his eyes shut and blurted out his reply, Cyrus looked at him with utter disdain.

But Niles couldn’t help it.

The duke’s order—delivered while his face was splattered with bright red beet juice—was just that absurd.

A catalog.

A catalog, of all things.

If he had asked for an outdated report or some documents that hadn’t yet been sorted, that would have made perfect sense.

Cyrus sometimes requested paperwork even Niles himself had forgotten existed.

And Niles was the kind of aide who could find any document his master wanted within ten minutes—even from his chaotic desk.

Though his desk was infamous among the cleaning maids as “the graveyard of paper,” there was, in fact, a system within that chaos.

But nowhere in that system did a gardening catalog exist.

Naturally.

A gardening catalog wasn’t something the duke would ever need.

Last year’s catalog had long since been handed over to the former gardener.

And as for this year’s—since there’d been no reason to use it, Niles couldn’t even remember where he’d tossed it.

The newly hired gardener had handled all the seeds and seedlings herself.

Which meant that, at the moment he answered the duke, Niles had no idea whether a gardening catalog even existed.

So why had he answered “Yes” anyway?

Niles wanted to ask back—

Would you have the courage to say “There isn’t one” to Duke Blanchard, holding a hoe, his face splattered with crimson juice?

You would?

Then may I begin handing over my duties to you starting today?

—

“Catalog, catalog, please… oh gods, please… there!”

—

Thus, while the duke was in the underground prison, Niles Honeycutt tore through his office from ceiling to floor.

And at last, he found them—bundles of papers left untouched for ages, dirty and crumpled.

Gardening catalogs he’d been too busy and frazzled to throw away.

—

“Thank you, gods…!”

—

Even as he gave thanks, Niles felt conflicted.

Should he curse the duke for working him like a dog and never giving him time to discard useless documents?

Or praise him?

In the end, when Niles hugged the catalogs to his chest and descended to the underground prison, he chose praise.

Because the duke who was currently interrogating “former Panna Mine Supervisor John Burt” was far too terrifying to curse.

It was astonishing how one could reduce a man to such a pitiful state without laying a single hand on him.

—

“Purple tulisa?”

—If you’re referring to tulisa, it’s in the back pages… there were six colors in total.

—No purple. Anything else?

—All the tulisa in the other catalogs also come in six colors.

—Tsk. No catalog with rare bulbs?

—I-I’ll search further.

—As quickly as possible.

—Yes! A-Are you only looking for bulbs? Seeds, or anything else…?

—……Check those too. Liz—no, the gardener—might want something. Budget is irrelevant.

—Y-Yes!

—

After answering quickly, Niles nearly ran up the stairs from the underground prison.

Then suddenly, something struck him as odd.

Normally, if you wanted to plant something in a garden, wouldn’t you say you “needed” it?

Saying “might want” sounded less like planting rare bulbs and more like wanting to give them directly to the gardener…

Smack!

Niles slapped both his cheeks.

The sharp sting snapped his thoughts into focus.

—

“D-Don’t think about it. Yeah. Don’t think.”

—

What kind of relationship the duke had with the gardener was none of his business.

—

“More importantly, bulbs… bulbs…”

—

“……”

And so, Niles’s heart began pounding bulb-bulb.

“No matter what, dreaming that the duke would drag me to the underground prison by the collar because Lizzie Atkins got angry over not getting a rare bulb catalog—that was too much.”

Chuckling at his own nightmare, Niles prepared for work.

But when he found the duke early that morning in the rear garden while delivering a new report, even Niles couldn’t help but freeze.

“My heavens.”

The dream hadn’t been too much at all.

Anyone would think the same upon seeing the duke sitting side by side with the gardener, pulling weeds together.

It had been a prophetic dream.

“……”

Staring at the dark green stains on the duke’s fingertips, Niles Honeycutt made a vow.

He must obtain a rare bulb catalog.

Once more, his heart pounded bulb-bulb.

* * *

“So five villages sent no dispatches.”

At Cyrus’s flat voice, Niles swallowed dryly.

“Yes. And all other dispatches from those same villages arrived normally—only the ones related to accidents caused by avalanches or snowstorms are missing.”

“And reports of avalanches personally experienced?”

“All reports sent by hunters and herbalists arrived without issue and were handled as instructed.”

“…….”

Every other dispatch had arrived.

Only those concerning village disasters were missing.

And those who intercepted them hadn’t even bothered to hide it.

The reason was simple.

Cyrus Blanchard wouldn’t notice.

Everything Cyrus had learned in childhood revolved around managing family assets and maintaining power.

No one—including his father—had ever taught him to care about the lives of the people on his land.

And the people of Blanchard territory were already used to being ignored by those in power.

Since the previous duke, they had learned to give up—and to resign themselves.

In other words, this matter was supposed to stay hidden.

Cyrus had no interest in their lives, and the villagers would eventually stop reaching out.

If Cyrus hadn’t happened to visit Nash himself after that sudden accident, it would have remained so.

Tap. Tap.

As Cyrus tapped the report with the tip of his pen, Niles spoke cautiously.

“I also investigated the messengers. They were threatened by masked men. They didn’t report it, fearing punishment for failing to deliver the dispatches. And since no reply ever came anyway…”

“No one would find it strange.”

“…Yes, that’s our conclusion.”

“Hah.”

Familiar anger surged up.

It took everything in him not to immediately hunt down those responsible.

Cyrus frowned deeply and brushed his hair back out of habit.

Then he stopped.

A faint scent of grass lingered on his hand.

At the same moment, Lizzie Atkins’s firm voice echoed in his mind.

—

—Send ointment. I can make plenty. Send knights to help with repairs and hear what happened. One thing at a time.

—One thing at a time…

—Yes. One thing at a time.

—

“…One thing at a time.”

“P-Pardon?”

Startled by the murmured words, Niles lifted his head.

“Honeycutt.”

Ignoring the question entirely, Cyrus continued.

Niles expected an immediate order to pursue the masked men.

Instead, what came was something else entirely.

“Assess the damage in each village and send the frostbite ointment Lizzie Atkins made, along with necessary supplies. If repairs are needed, send manpower. Continue tracking those who threatened the messengers—but prioritize village recovery.”

“…Yes, understood!”

After a brief moment of shock, Niles nodded and hurriedly wrote everything down.

Cyrus continued.

“And send the mine supervisor to trial today. As for the missing Relcrum, investigate the assassin guilds ‘Ramon’ and ‘Dyke’ first.”

“Ramon and Dyke?”

“The mine supervisor claims the people he dealt with wore glossy clothing. The miners were killed silently, and the wounds had small but fatal entry points—clearly assassins. There aren’t many guilds that use glossy fabric for their assassin attire.”

“…….”

“Ramon, Rosie, Horeka, and Dyke. Rosie and Horeka were wiped out during the last assassination attempt. That leaves only Ramon and Dyke.”

“…Y-Yes.”

Niles answered obediently.

Only because his instincts had already calculated how many assassins the duke must have eliminated to notice such distinctions in their attire.

“Start with Ramon.”

Cyrus showed no concern for Niles’s inner turmoil.

“They recently moved their base to Lampton.”

“Lampton… a free city northwest of Panna. Understood.”

After nodding, Niles asked carefully,

“Then is there anything else you require…?”

“Bulbs.”

“…….”

Writing “bulbs” in large letters in his notebook, Niles Honeycutt swore that once he found the purple tulisa bulbs, he would never again look toward the rear garden.

* * *

It was a rare weekend without social parties or luncheons.

Count Marlon Fletcher invited his nephew, Evan—who had been busy appearing in high society—to a simple tea time.

After all, the one who would ascend above Duke Blanchard was not himself, but his nephew.

Maintaining that relationship was the top priority of all his plans.

Of course, that naïve Evan Blanchard would never turn his back on his own blood.

Looking at the tall young man seated across from him, Marlon took a sip of tea.

The scent of alchemilla orange filled the air.

“…That must have been difficult to obtain. How did you manage it?”

At Evan’s surprised question, Marlon scoffed softly.

“Difficult to obtain? Evan, these are things you should be enjoying now. A Duke Blanchard ought to know how to indulge at this level.”

“Uncle, that kind of talk—”

Seeing Evan’s frown—which, due to his gentle features, hardly looked threatening—Marlon quickly added,

“I won’t hear any talk of you refusing the dukedom. There’s no doubt you’re far more suited for it than that bastard.”

“Surely you’re not still sending assassins after Cyrus?”

“…….”

Marlon didn’t answer.

He couldn’t very well admit that he’d sent them again and again—only for every attempt to fail.

Evan continued gently.

“I told you to stop. I told Duke Howard as well—I have no desire for a title. If only this exile were lifted…”

“If you become duke, exile can be lifted anytime! The Blanchard territory would welcome a proper master!”

“Uncle.”

Evan’s always warm voice sank slightly.

“I chose exile on the condition that Cyrus wouldn’t pursue your crimes.”

“…….”

Marlon’s face stiffened instantly.

He had never expected his nephew to say that aloud.

“So please, stop. I believe Cyrus will become… a fine duke. And I think others will believe so too.”

Clink.

The sound of Evan setting down his teacup echoed loudly.

“…I’ll be going now.”

“E-Evan.”

“Don’t worry. I’m always grateful to you, Uncle.”

With a gentle smile toward the flustered Marlon Fletcher, Evan stood and walked toward the parlor door.

Grasping the handle, he added one final remark.

“However… we need to keep our heads low.”

…Until the time comes.

“W-What?”

Marlon asked, having failed to catch the final words.

But the parlor door did not open again.