CHAPTER 29:
Difficult You
Celia couldn’t understand Dietrich at all.
Just now, what if she had driven the dagger into his neck instead of hesitating?
A drop of blood clung to his neck and silently trickled down his collarbone.
“Are you angry?”
At his calm voice, Celia glared at him with bloodshot eyes.
“Angry? Not even a little.”
“…Your eyes say otherwise.”
“I should’ve just stabbed you without hesitation. So you’d stop talking.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Why didn’t she stab him? There were many reasons. The moment she saw blood on Dietrich’s neck, an image of him dying flashed through her mind.
Even if the dagger pierced his throat, Dietrich would probably die without a single change in expression.
But above all else, the reason Celia couldn’t kill him was simple—
“Because I didn’t want to.”
She didn’t want him to die. She wanted him to live.
It wasn’t because she relied on him.
To Celia, Dietrich was still suspicious, a man whose true intentions were unreadable.
“You’re just too difficult. I never know what you’re thinking, and you never tell me anything important. All you ever do is test me.”
Celia stepped closer to him. Dietrich remained where he stood, gazing down at her with his calm expression.
She looked at the wound on his neck, where a drop of blood clung. Carefully, she reached out and touched it.
Even with the lightest touch, her fingers were stained with red.
If she had pressed the dagger even a little deeper, he might really have died. That thought stirred something in her heart.
She wasn’t confused because she had grown attached in that short moment. No—Dietrich was simply too incomprehensible, that’s why she was confused.
Or perhaps… he had used a supernatural ability on her.
Even as she harbored endless suspicion, she couldn’t bring herself to take his life.
“I’d rather you live than die.”
She had spoken many meaningless or false words before. But this time, what she said was nothing but the truth.
After speaking, Celia quietly looked up at Dietrich. He was so tall that she always had to crane her neck to meet his gaze.
Dietrich bent down to meet her eyes.
A cold breeze rustled his black hair. In his red eyes, only Celia was reflected.
Dietrich reached out and smoothed her hair—not his own, but hers. Her silver locks slipped through his large fingers.
Then, he pulled up the hood attached to his robe and placed it over her head. The robe was tailored for his frame, so the hood was so big on her that she could barely see.
From within that darkness, his low voice brushed against her ear.
“Celia.”
Had he ever called her by name before? She didn’t think so. As she tried to remove the hood out of frustration, Dietrich stopped her by gently holding her hand.
Just that small gesture calmed her racing heart. As she stood still, his voice tickled her ear once more.
“Live.”
“……”
“I, too, more than anyone, want you to live.”
After speaking, Dietrich pulled the hood back, revealing her face.
With an expression devoid of emotion, he looked at her. He seemed like a monk untouched by the world—or a great tree deeply rooted in one place.
Dietrich bent down and picked up the dagger she had dropped.
“The attack wasn’t bad, but your grip is all wrong. It looks like you’re holding it right, but you won’t get any real power that way.”
He handed the dagger back to her. Then, standing behind her, he overlapped his hand with hers.
“Don’t grip your wrist too tightly. It’s more important to aim for a vital spot. If done right, you can end your opponent in one blow.”
One by one, Dietrich adjusted her fingers, guiding her on how to properly hold the dagger. As he stood close behind her, their bodies touched, and she ended up almost in his arms.
“If you fail to kill the opponent, then stab both of their eyes out.”
“…Their eyes?”
“Yes, the eyes. Most people completely lose their will to fight when their eyes are attacked.”
“You sound like you’ve done this before.”
At her remark, Dietrich let out a clear, rare laugh.
Startled by the unfamiliar sound, Celia turned her head to see his face—only to find his expression as indifferent as ever, as if he had never laughed.
“Focus. Look ahead.”
Still guiding her hands, Dietrich taught her how to grip and use the dagger based on different target areas.
Celia absorbed every detail of his instruction.
Watching her take in everything so quickly, Dietrich let a soft smile creep onto his lips.
He couldn’t remember the last time he smiled like this. He thought he’d never have a reason to.
“I’d rather you live than die.”
The image of Celia looking up at him, saying those words so earnestly, lingered in his mind.
He had assumed she’d try to kill him the moment she got the chance. Yet, against all expectations, she hadn’t.
Of course, even if she had truly tried, it wouldn’t have mattered. As a Swordmaster, Dietrich could infuse his body with aura at will to avoid death.
Dodging Celia’s attacks, which were easily visible to the naked eye, was child’s play for him.
He had pulled the hood over her eyes because he couldn’t control his expression in that moment.
He hadn’t known what kind of face to make—so, embarrassed by the vulnerability she might see, he’d covered her with his robe.
A gifted girl like Celia was more useful than any lustful emperor. Perhaps, like him, she too aimed to bring about the fall of Avalon.
That’s why he was teaching her how to wield a dagger himself.
The flutter in his heart—it was only because she hadn’t tried to hurt him.
That was all.
Dietrich looked up at the sky. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed—it was already morning.
“Celia.”
He called her name again. She looked up at him.
“Don’t go anywhere. Stay hidden here until I return.”
He placed the dagger in her hand. Celia nodded.
“I’ll wait.”
She smiled softly. Her green eyes, like a summer forest, gently crinkled with warmth.
Dietrich stared at her smile for a moment, then turned away.
* * *
At dawn, Empress Erphia visited the palace where Illeon resided.
Past the golden hall, where the ceiling and walls were all covered in gold, a marble staircase led to the second-floor reception room.
At the top of the stairs stood a door bearing a crest: a massive black serpent entwined around a white cross.
It was the crest of House Grederick.
Inside, Illeon—his hair tied loosely to one side—greeted the Empress with a gentle smile.
Wearing an oversized white robe, he looked less like a duke and more like a priest.
Almost as if he had expected her visit, two steaming teacups and a teapot sat on a mahogany table decorated with a vase of roses.
“Your Majesty, please have a seat.”
The Empress, visibly upset, sat across from him.
She was already fuming because Jeremy had been ignoring her lately, and she hadn’t even attended the banquet out of spite. She never expected Illeon to leave with Celia—alone.
“Duke, what exactly did you talk about with that girl Celia?”
Illeon found the Empress amusing for being unable to contain her emotions. He shrugged as he poured tea into an empty cup.
“I merely wanted to see the woman accused of attempting to assassinate the Emperor. Nothing more.”
The Empress scowled at his answer.
“Am I supposed to believe that? I heard you were with that low-born wench for over two hours.”
“Why do you dislike her so much, Your Majesty? As the mother of the nation, should you really let yourself be so ruffled by a nobody?”
The Empress, feeling her throat go dry, took a sip of tea.
Clink.
Setting the cup down, she finally got to the real reason for her visit.
“…That aside, did you bring what I asked for, Duke?”
“You mean the poison that disfigures the face?”
“Yes. Just as I wrote in my letter—I want one that not only disfigures but grotesquely melts the victim’s features.”
Illeon smiled silently.
People really were so different.
Some sought poisons to harm others.
And others, even when handed the poison directly, refused to use it.
Celia’s smile—so fresh and gentle, like a spring flower—flashed in his mind as she had said not to use it on others.
Clack.
Illeon pulled a small vial from his robe and placed it on the table.
It was a tiny bottle, about the size of a fingertip, containing a clear liquid.
The Empress’s violet eyes lit up as she reached for it—but Illeon snatched it away just before her hand reached it.
She glared at him, furious at having the prize taken from right under her nose.
“What do you think you’re doing, Duke?”
“Now, now, Your Majesty. I just wanted to explain a few precautions before handing it over.”
“Precautions?”
Illeon smiled sweetly, swirling the vial in his hand.
“Yes. This poison causes no fatal harm, but even a small dose melts the face horribly—softening the skin, distorting the eyes, nose, and mouth. Anyone who sees their reflection falls into despair, often driven to madness or even suicide. There hasn’t been a single exception.”
The Empress, thrilled, responded with excitement.
“Excellent. Sounds very effective.”
“…However.”
Illeon paused, then smiled at her again, eyes curving like crescent moons. His serene expression now sparkled with cool light.
“In exchange for such a dangerous poison, I have a condition.”
“A condition?”
The Empress’s eyebrow twitched.
