Chapter 50
Surprisingly, it wasn’t difficult to gather information.
The Jackal Club was so notorious that hardly a single servant in the estates hadn’t heard of it.
“Jackal Club…”
Hera stood before a shabby building in the Kuon district, where a signboard that read Jackal Club dangled precariously on the first floor.
The poorly scrawled ink looked as though it would slide off at any moment.
I thought a vigilante group would have a solemn air about it, but this is…
As a child, Hera’s favorite stories were always about gladiators and knights on grand adventures.
The tales set on the continent of Feusinia, embraced by the Ivy Empire—heroes who ran free, fought, wept, and laughed—never failed to set her heart racing.
Her vague fascination with vigilante bands and secret knightly orders came from those very stories.
Which was why she felt such deep disappointment now.
Hera had always known reality wasn’t the same as her novels.
She hadn’t expected dashing swordsmen who threw away their titles in the name of faith and justice, striking down villains.
All she wanted was something simple—at the very least, a group of people with a shred of dignity.
“Eh? And what’s this? A little noble brat sneaking peeks where she doesn’t belong?”
As Hera peeked around the Jackal Club office, a drunkard inside barked at her threateningly.
His shirt was half undone, and every word he slurred reeked of alcohol.
Hera doubted he was capable of a coherent conversation, but with no one else around, she had little choice but to try.
“Um… I’d like to ask you something.”
“Booze! Bring booze, and maybe I’ll tell you. Kahahaha!”
“You’re drinking already…”
“Not that swill! The good stuff nobles drink! The expensive kind!”
“Expensive wine? Which sort?”
“If I say ‘expensive,’ you ought to understand! Thickheaded little miss!”
The drunk’s grin vanished. He slammed his fist on the table, the sound making Hera flinch.
“What’s so important, huh? What’s some high-and-mighty noble doing down here, poking her nose where it doesn’t belong?”
“Please calm down. I didn’t come to pry into the Jackal Club. I just wanted to know if anything suspicious has happened under the bridge. Do you know anything?”
“Whether it’s here or under the bridge, it’s none of your damned business.”
The man, sprawled like a sack of rags, suddenly rose to his feet.
He was far larger than Hera had expected, a man who looked capable of snapping her slender neck with a single hand.
Fear prickled at her for the first time. She instinctively stepped back.
The drunk staggered forward, his looming frame closing in.
“We handle our affairs ourselves. You stick to yours. Got it?”
His strides were longer than she anticipated. Hera couldn’t retreat in time.
Worse, her heel snagged on a stone, pitching her body backward.
She was about to topple when—
I’m falling!
“Lady Emilia!”
A hand seized her shoulder just in time, steadying her. Hera was pulled back upright.
“Sir Poy…”
Lifting her head, she found Hendrik Poy standing over her, breath caught in surprise.
When she called his name, Hendrik gave her his usual bright smile.
“You startled me. You must always watch your step.”
“Thank you.”
Hendrik released her once she was steady again. Hera’s eyes flicked around, searching for Marriott, since Hendrik was rarely without him.
“Are you looking for Prince Laurent?”
“N-no. No…”
“I’m out alone today for personal reasons. And you, Lady Emilia? Alone as well?”
“Yes, for personal reasons too.”
Hendrik thought it strange—shouldn’t she all the more bring maids if she was on personal business? But he held his tongue.
After all, there was someone in the Laurent estate who would dislike him talking too freely with her.
So he bowed his head slightly, preparing to take his leave.
“Well then, I’ll be—”
“Boss!”
“You’re here, Boss!”
A sudden uproar stopped him. Rough-looking men poured out of the Jackal Club office, surrounding him.
“Boss! At last, you’ve come to see us!”
“Boss! We’ve been waiting!”
“Wh-what? Who are you people?”
Unlike their coldness toward Hera, the men encircled Hendrik with eager, almost worshipful gestures.
Hendrik writhed, desperate to escape the reek of sweat and liquor.
Then he caught Hera’s gaze—eyes that had been warm only moments ago, now frozen over like ice.
“No! No, I swear I don’t know them! Please don’t misunderstand!”
Once outside the Jackal Club’s territory, Hendrik and Hera walked together down the streets of Kuon district.
Fortunately, Hendrik had calmed the men down and, after a short exchange, managed to free himself.
He insisted on escorting Hera safely back to the B-flat district, begging for a chance to explain.
His pleading expression was so earnest that Hera couldn’t brush him off.
“So those men… they just decided to follow Sir Poy?”
“Well… it’s a long story.”
According to Hendrik, the men of the Jackal Club had once been a band of thieves who tailed him relentlessly.
Even when he refused to accept them as subordinates, they followed him around, pestering him.
He had never dreamed they would settle in Central and form a so-called vigilante group.
“They’re as tenacious as they look,” he sighed.
“You know my family has long served as commanders of the Imperial Knights, yes? Since my father’s been very ill, I’ve effectively been head of the house from a young age, though I haven’t formally inherited the title yet.”
Hera hadn’t known.
She knew very little about Hendrik at all, though he spoke as if everyone in Central must already know this.
No wonder people addressed him as Sir Poy, even though he was only the son of a baron.
Feigning familiarity, Hera wrinkled her nose and nodded.
“Yes? Ah, yes. Of course.”
“There was a wolf hunt when I was nine. You’ve heard of that, right?”
“Yes.”
Of course she had—because Marriott was involved.
Hands clasped behind his back, Hendrik recounted the story calmly.
“My family’s position became complicated after that. We weren’t sure whom we ought to serve as liege. So I ran away from home.”
“You ran away? At nine?”
“Reckless, isn’t it? Once I fled Central, I thought I might as well hone my skills. So I lived as a wandering swordsman.”
Wandering swordsman.
The phrase lit up Hera’s eyes. She leaned forward, hanging on his words.
His life sounded exactly like the stories she loved most.
Seeing her eager look, Hendrik continued.
“I entered all sorts of private gladiatorial matches. Won quite a few. Made a bit of a name for myself, too.”
Unusual for a noble lady to be interested in such things, Hendrik thought.
But Hera wordlessly urged him on, and he scratched his neck in embarrassment.
It was mortifying to say the nickname aloud, but she didn’t seem the type to laugh.
“Perhaps you’ve heard of… the Crimson Heartbreaker?”
Color rose in his cheeks. That moniker from his wandering days was deeply embarrassing.
Especially when he’d returned to Marriott’s side—Marriott and Shane had teased him with it so mercilessly that he couldn’t stand the color red for weeks.
“I know! I know of him!”
“Wh—oh! You startled me.”
“The gentle-looking boy whose eyes turn crimson the moment the match begins! The undefeated gladiator who never once tasted defeat! Who always stripped off his shirt after victory to wipe away the blood, sending the number of lady spectators soaring tenfold—the legendary swordsman!”
Hera gushed, utterly enraptured, praising the Crimson Heartbreaker with abandon.
The Count of Wintail had often recounted Hendrik’s tales to her, framing him as proof that great swordsmen truly existed beyond fiction.
Hera had imagined it countless times—
The Crimson Heartbreaker swinging his blade, felling his opponent with flawless technique, roaring in triumph.
Just picturing it made her feel as though she herself stood in the arena.
Hendrik, struck dumb by the torrent of compliments, could only gape at her.
Then, cheeks aflame, he finally managed a hoarse reply.
“That’s… a bit much…”
“…My apologies.”
Like two deflated balloons, they both shrank, shuffling on in silence through the streets.
