Part 2 Chapter 70
“W-Why… why are you doing this…?”
Mario’s voice shook as the words tumbled out.
“You don’t want to die, do you?”
“…Y-Yeah.”
“Hands on the ground. Face down.”
Trembling, Mario obeyed.
Alexander knelt beside him, and with chilling precision began clawing at the flesh of Mario’s arms and the backs of his hands.
“Aaagh! What—what the hell?!”
A cold barrel pressed to his head. Mario jerked his face up in terror.
“Don’t move.”
That’s when he saw it.
Up close, Alexander’s neck was red and raw, as though someone had strangled him. Marks that looked deliberately prepared.
And now Alexander was raking Mario’s skin at careful angles, digging so deep his own nails were nearly tearing off.
Mario realized instantly.
He understood exactly what this bastard was plotting.
His mind filled in the image:
Himself throttling Alexander’s throat… Alexander clawing at his attacker’s arms in desperate defense…
“You— you son of a bitch! You’re fabricating evidence!”
To frame it so that the Bassenbergs tried to silence the defense attorney who exposed the Conrad Massacre cover-up.
He’s insane!
To risk provoking a gifted just for the sake of a retrial? Reckless beyond belief.
“Get up.”
Having etched every defensive wound he needed, Alexander gave the order.
Mario had no choice but to comply, the strange flaming weapon trained on him without pause.
Bang! Bang!
Alexander fired two more shots—this time at the wrought-iron railing surrounding the garden terrace.
Clang!
The barrier buckled and twisted. Then he kicked the table over, scattering the papers across the ground.
Mario swallowed hard.
This wasn’t a boy improvising. This was a terrifyingly methodical setup, executed without hesitation.
“Walk. Over there.”
The gun barrel pressed against his back, steering him toward the broken railing.
Mario limped forward, dread filling his chest.
Then he looked over the edge—
And froze.
A cliff.
The villa perched in the mountains. Beyond the railing was nothing but open air and jagged rock. Not the deepest drop, but enough to guarantee death.
Damn it.
He understood now.
Alexander had never intended to let him leave alive.
The villa had been Mario’s choice—isolated, perfect for disposing of a body without witnesses. But if Alexander had foreseen this… he must have welcomed the invitation.
No. This can’t happen.
Instinct roared as death loomed. If he was going to die anyway, better to gamble on attacking—even if it meant taking another hit from that cursed weapon.
Mario whipped around, lunging for the hand holding it—
Ah.
The barrel was already against his forehead.
A flash of memory— searing pain, burning flesh— blanked his mind.
And in that split second—
“Uuurgh!”
His foot slipped. His body pitched backward.
He was falling.
“W-wait—!”
Alexander flinched. He hadn’t expected Mario to lose balance before he was ready.
“…Shit. Don’t look.”
But curiosity kills the cat.
Alexander glanced down.
“—Ahhh!”
Blood fanned across the rocks. Mario’s limbs were twisted grotesquely, his head cracked open against the stone.
“Damn it! Why did I look?! Why did I have to see it early?!”
He regretted it instantly. But it was too late.
Now, he had no choice. He had to jump.
His own death was the only way to seal Mario as the aggressor. If Alexander survived while a Bassenberg heir lay dead, the Empire would never see it as anything but murder.
The only way was to die too—die, and rise again.
Now. Jump.
“It’s fine…”
He wouldn’t feel the pain.
His kindly brother-in-law had given him an anesthetic pill, slipped under his tongue. He’d swallowed it four minutes ago.
“Take it right before. In five minutes, you won’t feel a thing.”
So he wouldn’t suffer. He would fall, then wake up safe at home.
“…Here I go!”
His tongue was stiffening, but Alexander still had to say the line.
“I… am the god who controls death!”
Eyes squeezed shut, the “God of Death’s Dominion” hurled himself into the void.
***
Shaaahhh…
The sky wept with heavy rain.
In Belzer keep, mourners in black gathered at the family cemetery. White chrysanthemums trembled in their hands. Some faces streaked with tears.
Smith, a commoner who ran a restaurant on Belzer lands, stepped forward under his black umbrella. He laid his flower upon the white coffin.
The coffin of the lord’s son.
The lord stood at the front with his veiled daughter. His face was gaunt, lips cracked, eyes hollow. He hadn’t touched food or drink. His ruin was laid bare before all.
Smith’s heart ached. He shuffled away, unsteady.
Outside, he met Hannah, one of his servers, who had already paid her respects.
“I still can’t believe it,” Smith muttered. “This year was supposed to be full of blessings…”
“Boss, you knew the lord served prison time, right?”
“…Yes. I know.”
The rumor had spread long ago.
The infamous Abyssus prison, where only the worst criminals were sent. Everyone in the domain knew.
Smith had never believed the lord was truly guilty. A kind, hearty man—he couldn’t reconcile that with tales of a massacre.
“…They say it was all false charges.”
“What?”
“The young master became a lawyer for his father’s sake. The retrial had just opened. He was returning from the capital when…”
“No. Don’t tell me—”
“They think the real culprits silenced him. There was a fight. The attacker died too—turns out it was one of the Bassenbergs.”
Smith’s jaw dropped.
“The coroner said the evidence was overwhelming. Defensive wounds, the marks of strangulation—it was all laid bare, no need to investigate further.”
“…God.”
“And the most shocking part? The Imperial Investigation Corps returned the body. They say the Third Prince himself found it.”
The Third Prince—recently wed to the lord’s daughter.
So it was the prince who had discovered his brother-in-law’s corpse.
Smith couldn’t fathom the storm this must have unleashed in the capital.
Speechless, he glanced back at the lord, still staring blankly at his son’s coffin.
An innocent boy, accused of murder at twelve. A life lived under a false sentence. A son who swore to clear his father’s name—and returned as a corpse.
The heavens were cruel indeed.
***
Clang… clang…
The bell tolled as earth covered the coffin.
Ryan turned away, unable to bear watching, and strode off. I followed.
Our whole family had gathered—Rivan, Carly, and Märchen with us.
“Lord’ll make himself sick,” Rivan muttered.
“Going to check on the grave every day now?” Carly sighed.
“He’s shattered. We have to understand,” Märchen said quietly.
Ryan, gaunt in his mourning clothes, hurried not to his chambers but the chapel. Built to house family portraits one day. None had expected it to be used so soon.
“Slow down, Father.”
Ryan had helped with Alexander’s autopsy himself. His nerves were frayed raw; he needed to confirm, again and again.
He strode through the silent chapel, flung open the rear door.
A spiral staircase descended into the stone. At the bottom, a heavy locked door.
Ryan opened it with a key—
“Wooo! Gotcha again, young master!”
“Not fair!”
“Hahaha! Man, catching thieves never gets old!”
Inside was a cozy hideout, stocked with food. Our knights—Max, Jeff, and Rocky—were in the middle of a card game.
Between them sat Alexander, mid-bite of a roll.
My brother, who had revived long ago on the journey home.
“Ah!”
He looked up, cheese still dangling from his lips, and waved sheepishly.
“So… did my funeral go well~?”
