Chapter 8:
When the desperate voice called out a long-missed name, Demion’s eyes widened.
Startled, he then revealed an expression Arte had never seen before.
The usual calm and laziness that seemed eternal shattered completely, and a fierce storm surged in his light green eyes.
Arte couldn’t tell whether she had made a calculated move or an irreversible mistake.
She couldn’t be certain whether the crashing waves were aimed at her—or at Benjamin, who stood behind her.
Her heart felt like it was about to explode.
Waiting for Demion’s response felt like an eternity.
“Who…”
At last, Demion opened his mouth. His voice, low and sunken, slowly parted his lips.
“Who did this to you?”
Thankfully, the waves were not aimed at Arte but beyond her.
“Behind me…?”
Relieved, Arte weakly nodded. She didn’t even have the strength to say it aloud.
“You filthy whore!”
As if to confirm her words, Benjamin, completely unhinged, tried to lunge at Arte.
Demion instantly pushed Arte behind him and stepped in front.
In a flash, Arte’s view changed.
Instead of Demion’s face, his broad back now filled her vision.
“Ha? I knew it. I knew this would happen. You sold your body, didn’t you? That’s the only reason someone like the Duke of Lokata would come to a backwater place like this!”
Still out of his mind, Benjamin raged and ranted nonsense. Eventually, he drew a pistol from his waist.
It gleamed, as if it had been excessively gold-plated.
Demion raised one brow slightly at the gaudy weapon—it had been a long time since he’d seen such a cheap-looking gun.
“Are you going to shoot? That sorry excuse for a gun might just hurt you instead.”
“W-what are you saying? Do you know how much this cost? I’m—I’m going to shoot that whore! So move!”
“What if I don’t?”
“T-then I’ll shoot you too!”
His voice had no bite. He stuttered so much, it was barely comprehensible.
Demion couldn’t help but chuckle. It was such a pitiful declaration of war.
Instead of answering Benjamin, Demion turned his head slightly to look at Arte behind him.
“Which hand was it?”
The unexpected question made Arte’s eyes go wide.
“…What?”
“The hand that did it. Which one was it?”
She was stunned for a moment, but soon her mind began racing again.
This wasn’t a question seeking a factual answer.
Demion was giving her a choice—a chance to pick which hand to destroy.
He was transferring the right to inflict the greatest pain on Benjamin to her.
“You’re not really going to…”
Arte couldn’t even finish the sentence.
She was afraid that if she said it aloud, Demion would actually do it.
Part of her wanted to see Benjamin lose his hand.
It was only fair after everything he and his father had done to her family.
But she had to think ahead.
If Demion took Benjamin’s hand, the fallout would surely fall on Count Tian’s household.
The Baron and Benjamin wouldn’t dare challenge House Lokata.
Instead, they’d go after the more vulnerable Count’s family.
So she had to stop it—not for Benjamin’s sake, but for her own.
“Duke… please don’t. If you do that…”
“So it was the right hand.”
But Demion thought differently. Arte didn’t even have time to stop him.
He acted as though a pistol aimed at him meant nothing, without hesitation or doubt.
“W-why aren’t you backing off!?”
Sensing his resolve, Benjamin screamed in fear. But it had no effect on Demion.
“Aaaaaagh!”
It happened in an instant.
With a swift, clean motion, Demion snatched the pistol from Benjamin and immediately pulled the trigger—aiming it at Benjamin’s right hand.
“Aaaaagh! Aghhh!”
“Oops. I was just trying to scare you, but this dumb gun blew your hand off.”
It was a lie. Just last night, the papers praised Demion as a once-in-a-century soldier with unmatched skills.
He had aimed precisely for the right wrist—and hit his mark.
Blood splattered across the green grass. The severed hand, detached from Benjamin’s arm, dropped to the ground.
Everything felt unreal. None of it seemed real.
It had all happened so fast.
From the moment Arte called out Feria’s name, to Demion shooting Benjamin’s hand—it took barely a few minutes.
“Aaaaaaaaagh! Are you crazy? Are you insane?! Aaaaaaagh!”
Benjamin rolled around on the ground, screaming in agony.
Unfortunately, the white dress code made the bloodstains even more vivid.
It was the first time Arte had seen someone shot, bleeding, or spilling that much blood.
“…Ah…”
Only then did Arte realize she was trembling like a leaf.
Her emotions were in turmoil.
She had asked for help—even invoking Feria’s name. If not for Demion, who knows what Benjamin might have done to her. So yes, Demion had saved her.
But he had completely ignored her plea not to shoot. He’d pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation.
He showed no emotion. No thrill. It was as if this was just routine to him—something he did as naturally as breathing.
Considering his military background and the number of medals he’d earned, it made sense.
But knowing that in her head and experiencing it firsthand were completely different things.
“Are you scared?”
Demion’s voice startled Arte, and her body jolted. The fear within her was now fully exposed.
Demion gave a small chuckle at her reaction and slowly approached her.
He lowered himself to her level as she sat weakly on the ground.
“I went out of my way to help you, and now you’re scared of me? That hurts a little.”
Who knew light green could feel so cold?
Today, Demion’s eyes looked especially chilling to Arte.
“…Thank you for helping me. For saving me.”
Her voice trembled pathetically. Not wanting to face him like this, she bit her lip hard to suppress the quiver.
But regardless of her gratitude, she had to speak her mind.
“But asking for help didn’t mean I wanted you to blow the viscount’s hand off, Duke.”
She spoke clearly, each word firm and deliberate—no more trembling.
Arte met the cold in Demion’s eyes head-on.
“You asked me to help thinking I was Feria. You asked me directly.”
“…That’s because…”
“If you didn’t want me to shoot off his wrist, you shouldn’t have said that name. Wasn’t yesterday’s conversation enough?”
His low, gravelly voice growled like a predator warning its prey.
Under his pressure, Arte’s fingers curled tightly.
“If he had done something like that to Feria, one shot wouldn’t have been enough.”
“…”
“He dared to lay hands on her—each hand gets a bullet. Dared to look at her—both eyes, one bullet each. Grabbed her hair—one for the head.”
The venom in his voice as he described where the bullets would have gone made it clear—it was no exaggeration.
This wasn’t bravado or empty words. Demion meant every syllable.
His fury, pouring out like blood turned inside out, was proof of that.
“What was that gunshot—Arte!”
Just then, the Count appeared with others. He had clearly rushed over after hearing the shot and screams.
Seeing his daughter disheveled, the Duke of Lokata standing over her, and the bleeding, writhing Viscount—
It was like a nightmare, and the Count couldn’t hide his shock.
Even as new voices and presences arrived, Demion didn’t take his eyes off Arte.
She couldn’t look away either. It was like his gaze was a trap—locking her in.
“So don’t throw that name around so carelessly. This is the last time I let it slide.”
Demion’s warning felt like a thick arm wrapping around her throat, squeezing tight.
As Arte flinched under the pressure, Demion finally stood up.
As if he’d never been glaring at her, he turned coldly and walked toward the Count.
“The Viscount attacked your daughter. She seems very shaken. Take good care of her.”
With just a few words, Demion summed up the situation and, without any hesitation, strode across the chaotic garden.
