Chapter 51
“Tsk, now my shoes are dirty.”
The servant wiped his shoe with a white handkerchief. A smear of blood appeared on the fabric—probably from the boy who’d been kicked until he coughed up blood.
“First he stuffs his face, then he throws it up…”
“Hey! What are you doing over there?”
The head maid passed by and called out. The servant tossed the stained handkerchief into the trash and answered.
“This brat helped himself to the master’s leftover food again.”
“Again? Ugh, tsk tsk tsk.”
This was the half-basement floor of the Marquis Schultz estate—the servants’ resting area.
The head maid, who had come down to relax after finishing work, took off her apron and glanced at the boy.
“No wonder he doesn’t die, the way he keeps stealing food.”
“Right? And it’s not like we can just get rid of him…”
The boy huddled on the floor, trembling. Neither of the two looking down at him had a shred of sympathy.
“We should’ve refused when Maria begged us to take him in.”
“Maria? You mean the maid who died before I started working here?”
The head maid’s brow creased as she recalled the past with regret.
“She came here with a recommendation letter from the Duke of Kylehart. She was… alright at her job, and quick on her feet. But she was hiding a child in a closet and secretly raising him.”
“We should’ve told the marquis back then and had her thrown out along with this dead weight.”
“How was I supposed to know Maria would suddenly die? Back then, she was giving him half her own meals, so there wasn’t much of an issue. Letting it slide was my mistake.”
Clicking her tongue, the head maid turned away.
“There’s still food left, right? He couldn’t have eaten all of it.”
“Lady Cecilia didn’t have much appetite—she left all the lamb and dessert. There’s still plenty.”
“Then let’s go get it. It’s been a while since I’ve tasted the chef’s skill.”
Their conversation carried clearly to Gray’s ears.
“Haven’t you already eaten, Head Maid? You must be full.”
“There’s always room for food made by a chef from Diares!”
“Well, I’m calling dibs on the goose dish!”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice you having two plates earlier.”
“Haha, but I saved space for Diares cuisine.”
Young Gray crawled on the floor, sweating.
“Ha… ha…”
He had to get back to the closet before another servant spotted him.
Ironically, he stayed not in the servants’ quarters underground, but on the first floor where the marquis’s family lived—because the marquis didn’t know he existed, which meant he wouldn’t come looking to kick him around when in a bad mood.
The small unused room was rarely opened and had a window—perfect for sneaking in.
Gray crawled along the outer wall and climbed through the window.
“Ugh—!”
The moment his feet hit the marble floor, sharp pain spread through his body. Still, he kept moving.
Creak—the old, unoiled hinges groaned as he shut the door.
Only after slipping into the closet and closing it did tears fall from his eyes—not from misery or injustice, but purely from pain.
His expression stayed blank.
‘This broken rib’s going to take a while to heal.’
Good thing I ate a lot before this happened.
Lying down among the abandoned cleaning tools, that’s what he thought.
Grrrowl—
The leftover food from the marquis’s daughter didn’t last even a week.
He’d thought maybe fancy noble food had some magical ability to keep you full longer, but apparently not.
Gray pressed on his ribs.
“Ugh…”
They still hurt, but he knew starving until his belly stuck to his spine would be worse.
Quietly, he opened the closet door.
Luckily, it was dark outside—nighttime.
He slipped out the window into the garden. The marquis’s garden always smelled nice, and for Gray, nice smells usually meant something edible.
Crunch—
He bit into a stem. Too tough to chew. Then he grabbed a flower and swallowed it whole—much better.
One by one, he started tasting whatever he could reach, stopping only when something was too high up.
But just before dawn, when he needed to return to the closet, his body wouldn’t move.
‘Something feels wrong.’
His head spun. This was different from injury pain.
‘I must’ve eaten something bad.’
Gray knew some plants were poisonous. And some nobles planted pretty but inedible flowers just for decoration.
‘Just my luck—’
Before he could finish the thought, he lost consciousness.
When he woke, a familiar sensation greeted him.
Whack! Thud!
“You little rat! How dare you touch these precious plants?!”
Through hazy vision, Gray took in the scene.
The sun had just risen—it was early morning.
The man kicking him was the gardener.
‘Good.’
At least it wasn’t the master of the house. That meant he could still live here a little longer.
The servants kept his existence a secret from the marquis. If the master found out, they might lose a source of extra income.
The gardener dumped Gray onto the compost pile and walked away, hoping he’d die there.
“Bleegh—!”
Gray vomited over the compost heap, emptying his stomach.
He lay there for days.
When he finally came to, he felt surprisingly fine.
‘No more dizziness, and my ribs are almost healed.’
The ribs had just taken their time to mend, and the poisonous plants had all been thrown up before they could do serious harm.
Seeing him walk out of the compost heap unharmed made the gardener, the servants, and the head maid all click their tongues.
His survival skills were like a rat’s—uncanny.
“This one’s got survival instincts to rival a rat,” the mercenary captain said, shoving Gray toward someone.
Eighteen-year-old Gray, hands bound, wore a blank expression as he was pushed along.
After finally hitting a late growth spurt, he’d left the marquis’s estate and joined a mercenary band—too big now to keep hiding in the house.
The mercenaries gave him work, food, and training in combat. It wasn’t a bad life.
“He can eat anything, recover from almost anything you do to him. You’ll find him very useful.”
The man he spoke to had dark skin and an unusual headpiece. His whole group had the same exotic look.
They sized Gray up, gauging his arm muscles, and muttered to each other in a foreign language.
One handed the captain a heavy pouch. The captain peeked inside and broke into a greedy grin.
“Thank you, thank you! Such a large sum…”
While the captain bowed and babbled, Gray just stared.
Not with resentment—his eyes were dull and emotionless.
Being sold wasn’t the captain’s fault. It was his own, for trusting him.
It’s not the one who stabs you in the back who’s the fool—it’s the idiot who turns his back on an enemy.
“Take care,” the captain said in parting. Gray bowed.
Everything after that was…
Pain. Endless, timeless darkness. Blood.
‘Aaaah—! Aaargh!’
His own screams.
Struggling until his bound wrist was cut off, then waking to find it sewn back on with disturbingly fine stitches.
Sometimes caged with animals, sometimes alone, endlessly transported in the dark.
Click-clack, click-clack—the grating sound of wheels always scraping his nerves.
‘Enough.’
Gray opened his eyes.
Warm sunlight wrapped around him.
He was lying in the peaceful grass of the Droche ducal estate. The sensations flooding his mind were just memories now.
No more hunger, no more pain.
“Ahem—!”
Sitting up and clearing his throat, Gray called to Willie,
“Let’s go. You’ve played enough.”
Willie barked in protest. Gray clicked his tongue.
“Fine, play a little more before we head back… I hate being tied down too.”
Sighing, he lay back down, staring up at the clear blue sky.
