BVIB 19

Chapter 19

Roselyn’s eyes went wide with surprise, her expression utterly stunned.

“…Granddaughter?” Devon prompted, uncertain.

“…Ah, yes,” she managed after blinking a few times, trying to process his words.

She’d truly believed—up until the day she died—that she was the Bellion family’s illegitimate child.

“But… how am I not? It says so, even in the family register…”

“You’re listed properly,” Devon replied, his tone firm. “You are my one and only granddaughter and Cherty Bellion’s only daughter. That’s the truth.”

He started to elaborate, lips parting for an explanation, but then he paused and simply put his cigar back between his teeth. He’d decided this wasn’t the sort of thing that should come from a third party.

“If you want the details, you’ll have to ask your father,” he said at last.

Roselyn nodded slowly, understanding. Even she knew some truths were better heard from the right person.

Why is that? she wondered. Why did I always believe I was illegitimate?

She searched her memory.

Had Father ever actually said so?

No. The truth was, they’d barely spoken face-to-face at all. As a child, Roselyn had spent countless hours searching for a reason—any reason—that her father seemed to dislike and avoid her so much.

“So… this old man still hasn’t heard your answer,” Devon’s voice cut through her thoughts, pulling Roselyn abruptly back to the present. She nodded quickly.

“Yes,” she replied.

It was a lie.

She had no such abilities. Claiming to be an Abyss who could see the future was merely a convenient cover—a role she’d chosen because it made everything else easier.

“I thought as much,” Devon said, his expression growing pleased.

“Yes,” Roselyn repeated quietly.

Devon nodded, clearly satisfied. “But, Grandfather—”

“Hm?” he responded, perking up at the title. At last, she’d called him properly, and he acknowledged it right away.

“Why? Is there something you want to ask?” Devon prompted.

“Yes,” Roselyn replied.

“Go on, name it. Anything.”

Before she spoke, Roselyn offered a brief, almost indifferent thank you. Then, in a calm, detached voice, she said, “Could you please put out your cigar? The smoke is rather strong.”

Devon was so caught off guard by her unexpected request that the cigar slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor.

He quickly moved his foot to snuff it out, masking his surprise with a show of composure.

When he looked up again, he caught a faint trace of disdain on Roselyn’s face—as if she were staring at some uncouth adult spitting on the street in broad daylight.

Cherty Bellion had attended almost no social gatherings in his life.

Aside from being forced to appear—like a statue—at his own coming-of-age ceremony, he’d barely set foot at any balls or in society at all, even now, well past forty. The number of times he’d shown his face at such events could be counted on one hand.

As a result, Roselyn Bellion had never made a proper debut into society, either.

There hadn’t been anyone attentive enough to guide her through it, and she herself had little interest in such things. More than anything, she’d often been ill as a child, and her father always seemed uncomfortable with the idea of her going anywhere at all.

Now, Roselyn’s gaze drifted downward as she carefully unfolded a stack of crumpled letters.

[Roselyn, I heard you’ll be attending the ball at the Imperial City… If there’s an empty seat beside you—]

[You never really had a proper debut, so if you’re feeling anxious, maybe… this time, we could go together—]

[How about going to the ball with me? I just worry you’ll get into trouble if you go alone—]

[I’m worried you might collapse again, so… if you don’t mind, perhaps I could accompany you to this event. Of course, I know you might find it uncomfortable, so it’s fine to refuse. If you agree, I could wear a few more restraints this time to make things safer… Damn it…]

[Sorry, but for this ball, I’ll be the one going with you, your father…]

Her hands were full of these crumpled scraps of paper—letters, earnest and awkward, all pressed into her by the butler, Dean, earlier that day.

Roselyn let out a quiet sigh.

What does he expect to accomplish by wearing more restraints?

She knew that for an ability user, restraints weren’t a kindness. The more a person wore, the more their power was forcibly suppressed—and for an Abyss, that only meant more pain. She’d heard that piling on the restraints made things nearly unbearable.

It was said that wearing restraints drained your strength, leaving you feeling helpless and lethargic over time.

With that in mind, it was impressive how the Emperor, the Duke of Bellion, and even her own father could wear multiple restraints and still appear outwardly composed. Perhaps that was why her father’s face always looked so drawn and ashen.

She noticed, too, that in the last letter, the word “father” had been nearly scribbled out. He wasn’t indecisive by nature, but he was always so painfully cautious.

Well, I suppose it makes sense. With powers like his, a single reckless mistake could be fatal to someone else.

Still, why bother writing over a dozen letters, only to crumple them up and throw them away? It wasn’t as if these were some kind of love letters.

For the record, Roselyn hadn’t received a single one of them.

Looking back now, Roselyn realized that things hadn’t exactly been easy for her father, either.

Still, the whole situation left her feeling stifled.

That was why, without any further hesitation, she headed straight for her father.

Despite being the Bellion family’s heir, he stubbornly insisted on living in a room in the basement. Of course, she’d heard it wasn’t as if he’d wanted the position in the first place. The eldest was a berserker obsessed with war, and the other—a drunkard who never set foot in the house—left only her father as the last option.

Still, did he have to live like a mole underground?

No wonder they hardly ever saw each other. Cherty Bellion rarely left the basement, and Roselyn had little reason to go down there herself.

Now, as she descended into the dim, shadowy basement, she wrinkled her nose in distaste.

No wonder he turned out so gloomy, living in a place like this.

She clicked her tongue in annoyance and shook her head as she continued downward.

At least, when she reached the lower level, the lights were bright enough to make it feel almost livable. A chill, damp air rose up from below.

It was clear this space had originally been a prison—she’d heard the dungeon itself had since been moved beneath an outbuilding. Still, the corridors retained that lingering, musty underground atmosphere.

Roselyn traced her memory, finally locating the door to his room. She pressed her ear against it, listening for movement, then knocked twice.

“Go away. I’m not in the mood,” came the gruff reply.

Her eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing, instead knocking once more.

“I said get lost! Stop being such a damn nuisance—if you want to get yourself killed with poisoning, then—”

The door swung open with a bang.

Cherty Bellion, face twisted in irritation, barked mid-sentence before freezing, mouth half open and eyes wide in shock as he saw who was there.

“W-where… where…” Cherty stammered, catching sight of Roselyn’s blank expression.

“Where… I should go train somewhere safe… so I don’t… hurt anyone…” he muttered, his mouth running off on its own in a sorry attempt to cover for himself. The words sounded even stranger aloud, and he had the urge to smack himself in the mouth.

“…What are you doing down here?” he said at last, trying to regain some authority. “Didn’t I always tell you? If you come down here without thinking, you’ll just get sick again and then I’ll have to deal with it…”

He bit back another curse, frustrated by how his words always ran away from him when he was nervous. Writing was easier. Letters let him weigh every word, consider it, send it only after he was sure. He preferred letters to conversations, and books to lessons.

Roselyn, watching his stiff expression, cut straight through his excuses. “So… what you’re saying is, you’ve been worried I’d get sick again from the bad air down here, since I was always so frail as a child?”

Cherty froze at her bluntness.

“I always thought you told me to get lost because you hated me,” Roselyn said quietly.

“That… that was just a poor choice of words,” Cherty murmured, his lips parting as if to say more, then closing again when he realized nothing he could say would make it sound any better.

He’d always wanted to be the perfect father for his daughter—someone who lacked for nothing. But he’d messed it all up, every bit of it. It was all his fault.

“Should I just stand here, or can I come in?” Roselyn asked.

“…Go ahead,” he said, nodding. He turned, only to freeze at the sight of the mess in his room and braced himself in the doorway, as if to block her view.

“Actually, let’s go upstairs instead.”

“I’d rather stay here,” she replied. “I’m tired.”

“Then… at least let’s move to the sitting room next door—”

He started to suggest the sitting room, but then remembered the shelves full of poisons there and quickly closed his mouth again.

“No, that won’t do,” he muttered.

His mind raced. Down here, aside from his own room and the sitting room, there wasn’t much else.

Next door was his laboratory.

Beside that, the training room where he practiced controlling his Abyssal powers.

And after that, a cold, barren dining hall.

And beyond that… the poison storage…

Cherty’s face darkened even further at the thought.

None of these places were remotely suitable for a child—certainly not for his daughter.