BTVF 27

Chapter 27

“Huff…”

Tristan exhaled a sigh mixed with cigarette smoke.

It was a cold, chilling basement.

A place the Grand Duke Valentine often used for interrogating suspects—or even outright criminals.

He leaned lazily back in his chair and put another cigarette between his lips.

The glowing tip traced a circular path, dropping sparks onto the floor.

“So… you’ve seen this face before?”

The Duke gestured to his side.

There, Vincent stood with his lips tightly bitten, his face pale as a ghost.

In front of them lay two men, pressed flat against the floor.

One had been captured by Count Beaufort, claimed to be “rat food,” and the other had been caught personally by the Duke in the sewers.

Damn, he actually caught them.

Beaufort, watching the scene unfold, broke into a cold sweat.

Even though it was already proven that the one he captured was just “rat food,” Duke Valentine didn’t believe him and went personally to catch another—right from the filth of the sewers.

If the testimonies of the two “rat foods” conflicted, the ones in danger wouldn’t be Vincent—they would be them.

Beaufort stole a quick glance to the side.

Are we going to end up losing even if we try our best?

Then the attendants involved in this matter, including the secretary Lersen, exchanged firm looks and shook their heads.

Everything will go according to our plan.

They smiled faintly—a victorious, confident smile.

Only then did Count Beaufort relax slightly, deciding to observe the situation with a bit more composure.

“If you don’t tell the truth, I would have said that I’ll take away the spice distribution rights your master so painstakingly acquired this time.”

“….”

“Does that sound unbelievable?”

The “rat foods” never spoke, even under threats or torture.

Even if their tongues were cut out, would harming any other part of their bodies make them talk?

They only opened those heavy mouths when they thought harm would come to the rats.

And now, the rat the Duke had captured finally spoke.

The Duke tossed him a mana stone imbued with telepathy magic.

―I’ve seen him.

The message resonated in everyone’s minds through telepathy.

Count Beaufort smiled knowingly, while Vincent turned even paler.

“When did you see him?”

―Since childhood. A face that stands out, he was famous in the sewers.

Tristan narrowed his eyes.

He doubted the rat would lie just for the sake of it.

Such a lie would bring the rat no benefit—it would only stir anger against him.

It was obvious that the rat, desperate to leave this place, wouldn’t voluntarily take such a loss.

Now it was certain—Vincent was from the sewers, not just suspected, but confirmed.

For a moment, Tristan recalled the past.

Vincent Valentine.

Alone, without a weapon, he had crossed the Ingo Mountains bare-handed.

His body was battered, his clothes tattered and filthy.

That boy had proven, in front of Duke Valentine and his attendants, that the blood of Valentine ran through him.

And more than that, he had proven himself once again as a genius the world might never see again.

“Your Grace, please adopt me. You won’t regret it.”

His audacious words were both absurd and amusing, and Tristan had readily agreed.

Tristan’s gaze lingered briefly on Vincent before turning away.

“The origin doesn’t matter.”

He spoke sharply, cutting to the core.

Vincent’s Valentine bloodline had been confirmed through family records.

Where he was born or raised didn’t matter at all.

“What matters is whether you’re acting as a spy or not.”

―I don’t know that.

“Don’t know?”

―My master’s subordinates are far higher than us insignificant rat foods. How could we possibly know?

In other words, the rat didn’t know.

Tristan flicked the ash off his cigarette and twisted a smile.

“Then we just need to catch that subordinate, huh.”

He seemed ready to declare war on the rats immediately.

Then the rat added another line.

―I don’t know if he’s a spy, but I’ve seen him in the rat dens.

The “rat den”—the main arena of the rat’s activities, a place inaccessible to anyone not related to the rats.

“…See!”

Count Beaufort shouted, triumphant.

“That’s right! He was in the rat den!”

And that testimony had come from the rat Duke Valentine had personally caught—a source impossible for Beaufort to have manipulated.

This couldn’t be refuted.

The Count was convinced.

Then Duke Valentine gave Beaufort a cold glare and asked,

“Have you ever seen him?”

At that moment, the Count, who had been confidently leaning back, stiffened.

There was nothing to be afraid of, yet the Duke’s expression was unusually ferocious.

But the rat shook his head.

―No.

“….”

That was as far as he could go in protecting his adopted son.

Tristan believed Vincent was not a spy.

Even if he were, he would gain nothing from it.

Any attempt would only cost him everything he had painstakingly achieved and send him plummeting into ruin.

But was that a misjudgment?

“Is he a spy?”

“No.”

“Then why were you in the rat den?”

“….”

No answer came.

He avoided eye contact, biting his pale lips.

Tristan frowned.

Trying desperately to explain, yet remaining silent—whether he could get out or not was unknown.

Even as an adopted son, there was no special treatment compared to his biological children.

He would be treated the same way—rolled and scolded alike.

If the attendants’ claims were true, this was the bitterest betrayal the Duke had ever faced.

Anger twisted his stomach.

“Are you a spy?”

“No.”

“Then why were you in the rat den?”

“I… made a foolish decision.”

Moreover, he seemed to admit his own guilt.

Even given a chance, he remained silent.

“Hah, Vincent.”

“….”

“I hate riddles. Last chance. Answer properly.”

Tristan was exercising the utmost patience for Vincent’s sake.

He hadn’t immediately executed him, hadn’t locked him in the dungeon, hadn’t even convened all the attendants for a trial.

Instead, he secretly summoned only the five attendants who had lodged objections, the secretary, Vincent, and the two rats for interrogation.

Even that required tremendous patience—he was giving Vincent a chance.

Special treatment.

And yet…

Vincent did not speak.

Of course.

The attendants exchanged satisfied glances.

They had rushed things slightly, but they thought that if they struck now, he wouldn’t be able to respond.

“…Lock him in the cell.”

Tristan gave the short command, turning his gaze away as if he didn’t want to see him any longer.

The Duke’s words triggered the black hawks, which moved in perfect formation to grab Vincent and drag him away.

At that moment, a thought flashed through Vincent’s mind, recalling something Aria had written:

If you survived because you’re a genius, you’ll die because you’re a genius. By those who praised you as a genius.

Her prophecy was coming true.

The boy clenched his teeth, not saying a word.

Resignation slowly spread through his trembling eyes as he squeezed them shut.

And at that moment, the basement door opened silently, without any obstruction.

“…!”

Someone held his hand tightly.

A small, soft hand.

Startled, Vincent slowly lifted his eyelids.

Beneath a rabbit mask—cute, even comical—red eyes stared straight at him.

“Why are you here…?”

Vincent murmured, disbelieving.

The black hawks could not forcibly remove Aria’s hand.

Nor could they disobey an order, leaving them flustered.

“…Avoid unnecessary contact.”

It was Lloyd who removed Aria’s hand from Vincent.

He was the one who had silently opened the basement door.

The sudden appearance of Lloyd and Aria caused a stir among the attendants.

Tristan raised his eyebrows in astonishment, extinguishing his cigarette in the armrest of his chair.

“I clearly told you to let no one in.”

Then Count Beaufort chimed in.

He gave Lloyd and Aria a hostile glare, alternating between them.

“That’s right, Your Grace. This matter doesn’t concern you, does it? Of course, I understand concern for your sibling, but…”

“Who’s concerned about whom?”

Lloyd cut through the Count’s nonsense and looked at his father.

“I didn’t come here because of this matter.”

“Then it must be a matter more serious than this incident?”

His tone implied that if it wasn’t, those who interfered would pay a price.

Lloyd silently lifted Aria’s hand into the air.

Everyone’s gaze fell on Aria and the object she held in her hand.

She held a branch.

…A branch?

It was withered and fragile, almost crumbling if touched.

The secretary and attendants had no idea, looking utterly confused.

But the expressions of the Duke and knights changed instantly.

They could sense energy.

“Th-That’s!”

“Isn’t that a relic!”

“What? A relic?!”

No way, that thing a relic?