The winter evening was exceptionally cold. As Murphy passed through the castle gate, he imdiately sensed an unusual tension in the air.
The guards’ eyes were more alert than usual. They stood ramrod straight, all of yesterday’s laziness gone.
"Murphy? You’re back?"
Hank spotted him in front of the public stables and hurried over.
Knowing Murphy had just returned and wasn’t aware of the situation, he lowered his voice. "Sothing big has happened. Norton was killed last night."
Murphy’s expression tightened. "What happened?"
Hank pulled Murphy into the deepest corner of the public stables, where high stacks of hay were piled and a few packhorses were quietly chewing their feed.
Bart was already waiting there. The three of them huddled together for warmth from the packhorses’ bodies, speaking in low voices in the shadows.
Hank’s voice was a bare whisper. "In the main stables. His neck was sliced clean off with one sword stroke."
Bart added nervously, "The whole castle is saying one of the lords did it. I an, think about it. To behead soone with a single blow—how much strength would that take?"
Hank chid in, "I’ve seen Lord Derek train. He can lift a stone lock with one hand that takes two strong n to move. No matter what, an ordinary person could never be that strong."
The three packhorses chewed their feed contentedly beside them, oblivious to the tense atmosphere. Their warm breath condensed into white puffs in the cold air.
Murphy leaned against a haystack, listening in silence.
"Did you go to my ho?" Hank asked, turning to Murphy. "Are the children okay?"
Murphy nodded. "Your younger son’s fever broke. Your wife asked to tell you that they can manage for now."
Bart couldn’t wait to jump in. "What about my mother? Did you give her the four Silver Coins? Did you make sure she bought dicine?"
Murphy was silent for a mont, then shook his head. "I gave her the Silver Coins, but she probably didn’t buy the dicine."
Bart sighed heavily and lowered his head. "I knew it... She’s always trying to save every penny..."
Hank asked quietly, "What about Tom?"
Murphy’s voice was low. "He didn’t make it through the winter."
A deeper silence fell over the three of them, and only the sound of the packhorses chewing their hay echoed in the darkness.
"These noble masters," Hank said, finally returning to the unsettling topic in an attempt to break the heavy atmosphere. "Their strength is just sothing we can’t even imagine."
Bart looked up, his voice thick with suppressed emotion. "I heard the followers’ training thods are all secret, combined with special potions and food that cost a fortune. But us... we have to scrimp and save just to buy dicine for our families..."
Hank nodded. "I once heard my father say that when he was young, he saw a Knight snap a blacksmith’s iron tongs with his bare hands. That kind of power..."
Murphy listened in silence the whole ti, his figure almost completely swallowed by the shadows of the haystack.
In this world where the strong reign supre, the gap between nobles and commoners was like a chasm.
Murphy thought back to the world he ca from. ’Even the most elite athletes there need a gifted physique, long-term scientific training, ample nutrition, and even performance-enhancing drugs to achieve a one-hundred-kilogram single-arm lift.’
’But in this world, only the nobles who have mastered special training thods can break through the limits of an ordinary person.’
And so, just as Murphy expected, this natural blind spot in their thinking led everyone in the castle to cast their suspicions on the high-and-mighty lords.
From the soldiers to the followers, not a single person would connect such a clean decapitation with an ordinary commoner.
"So," Bart said in a low, resigned voice, "it could only have been one of the lords. I just don’t know why they’d go after Norton."
Hank said worriedly, "I just hope we don’t get dragged into it. When noble masters fight, it’s best for us to stay far, far away."
Night fell. Thick wooden planks completely blocked the moonlight, plunging the stable into pitch-black darkness.
The three found their own corners to lie down in, using the packhorses’ body heat to fend off the chill.
But this was a night when many would find it difficult to sleep.
...
Baron Duval’s Castle, the Inner Castle.
Candlelight flickered on gilded candlesticks, illuminating the room as if it were day.
Silk curtains cascaded from the top of the four-poster bed, its posts carved with the Duval Clan’s crest.
A charcoal fire roared in the hearth, making the entire room as warm as sumr and filling the air with the fresh scent of cedarwood.
Baron Duval leaned against a soft goose-feather pillow, his face pale.
Although only in his fifties, his severe injuries made him look much older.
His forehead was covered in fine beads of sweat, and a slight rasp accompanied his every breath.
Standing before the bed, Roton Knight was like an iron tower.
He had a scar that ran from his left forehead all the way to his right jaw—a mark left from his battle with the Witch Othilia in the Twilight Mountain Range two years ago.
Although Roton was also grievously wounded, his injuries were ultimately less severe than Baron Duval’s. Thanks to his robust physique, he could at least remain standing.
"That groom’s death. What are your thoughts?"
The Baron’s voice was weak, yet it still carried a commanding presence.
Roton said thoughtfully, "A clean beheading with a single stroke. The technique... reminds of the Knights who serve the Witch."
The Baron’s gaze sharpened. "The Witch Othilia? But she is said to be active in the South now."
Roton said with certainty, "Indeed. Besides, she only does things that benefit her, and we currently have nothing worth her attention."
Hearing this, the Baron sighed. "Then what about Viscount Hans? For the sake of the trade routes, he specifically blockaded the Northern Trade Route that originally led to us."
Roton shook his head. "Viscount Hans may be greedy, but he is a shrewd nobleman. He already has the upper hand in the fight for the trade routes. Killing a groom would do nothing for him except infuriate us. It would violate the rules among nobles."
A thoughtful silence fell over the room, filled only by the crackling of the charcoal fire.
"If we rule out those possibilities..." the Baron said slowly, "that only leaves soone from within our own ranks. Kelvin’s recent behavior, what do you make of it?"
Roton answered cautiously, "Young Master Kelvin has indeed been very active. His movents have beco more frequent since Young Master Sylvan was cursed."
There was no trace of disappointnt in the Baron’s voice, but rather a hint of sothing unreadable. "Is he already so impatient for the inheritance?"
Roton said, "There is no proof yet, but considering his recent actions, it is certainly a direction worth investigating."
The Baron let out a long sigh. "Increase the patrols, Roton. I want the truth."
Roton nodded. "I will start by investigating the groom’s daily contacts, and I’ll keep an eye on Young Master Kelvin’s movents at the sa ti."
"No matter who is behind this, I will get to the bottom of it."
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