Chapter 01
Nix Feroa, the pockmarked Duke of Feroa.
A man trapped inside a ruined shell, he was someone who received both lavish praise and vicious condemnation from the world.
The man was obsessed with covering his skin. He meticulously wrapped his scar-covered face in bandages. Over
them, he wore a mask that revealed nothing but his eyes, without even a mouth. He dressed in coats and shirts that
fit his solid frame so tightly that not the slightest gap was visible. He owned dozens of pairs of custom-made gloves
for his unusually large hands. The fact that those gloves never left his hands, even for a single day, spoke volumes
about his obsessive state of mind.
The knights who served Duke Feroa judged him by what was inside rather than the shell that contained it. But that assessment came exclusively from men who did not regard him as a sexual object.
“When the sun sets and night arrives, close your reckless mouth and listen with sincere ears, so that your spirit may shine. Tonight, as always, may the Goddess embrace you in darkness. Confess without deceit the sins you committed beneath the sun. At last, having repented and condemned yourself, and having received the power of the moon, you shall once again find the courage to stand against the sun. Thus, let there be dawn before the morning.”
The Saint recited the prayer of repentance in a reverent voice beneath the moonlight of the night.
“…Thus, let there be dawn before the morning.”
Following the Saint’s fluent recitation came the man’s response. His deep voice cut through the chilly night air before settling heavily into the darkness.
Devout followers of the Jeom faith offered a prayer every night before going to bed. It was a prayer of repentance in which they reflected upon the sins they had committed during the day and vowed to spend the night in piety.
“Forget all the terrible things that happened today. Even the Moon Mother will gladly forgive a mistake made by a son who is more devoted to his duty than anyone else.”
The Saint withdrew his hand from above Nix Feroa’s head.
Having finished his prayer, the Duke picked up the mask he had removed and placed on his lap.
“I hope so as well.”
The man rose from his seat with a stiff reply. He lifted the black mask onto the bridge of his nose, leaving only his sharp eyes visible through its narrow, almond-shaped openings.
Without another word, the Duke extended his hand.
The Saint clasped it, his expression complicated.
It was rare to find a man so devout among the upper-class noblemen who wielded considerable power. Not only did he revere the Goddess, he also treated the Saint with genuine respect. Furthermore, he was a religious hero who had devoted half his life to slaughtering heretics and fighting in holy wars.
For a man who believed in the moon, there was more than enough reason to idolize Duke Feroa.
“There is a rather decent prayer room here in Salt Castle as well. How about visiting it tomorrow and offering your evening prayers together with the other believers?”
The Saint asked the question, and the man silently looked down at him through the Duke’s narrow, almond-shaped eyeholes.
He stared down at the short, wrinkled Saint for a long moment before answering.
“If it is not too much trouble for you, Saint, I would appreciate it if you came to my room again tomorrow.”
His flat voice carried a hint of discomfort.
The Saint seemed to notice it as well.
“It will be no trouble.”
He did not press the matter a second time.
The Saint nodded. He gave the Duke’s hand one final, firm shake, gathered all the belongings he had brought with him, and left the room.
At last, completely alone, Nix allowed himself to relax and removed his mask again.
The skin hidden beneath his bandages was itchy and damp. Apparently, the pus that had been troubling him for days had begun to seep into the bandages.
His hands, on the other hand, were so desperately dry that he felt as though they had shriveled into those of a mummified corpse.
“Damn it…”
The man threw off his gloves and stood before the mirror.
Slowly, he unwound the bandages that began at his forehead, wrapped around his chin, and continued down his neck.
And then a monster he could barely stand to look at stared back at him.
The sight of that hideous monster filled him with such loathing that he turned his head away.
Nix Feroa, the pockmarked Duke.
For that man, whose skin was as hot as lava and as cratered as volcanic rock, the derogatory name he had been given originated from his skin disease.
It had begun when he was still a boy.
At the age of fifteen, when Nix Feroa was serving as a knight-in-training under Count Bellar, he became caught up in a war.
For generations, the western region of Bigland had repeatedly clashed with the Tilamin forces over the fertile land of Richfield.
Nix Feroa had been swept into one of those conflicts as well.
From then until he reached adulthood, he was forced to endure several horrific years as a prisoner.
It would not be an exaggeration to say that most of the scars on his body and mind had been inflicted during that time.
And among them, the greatest culprit in ruining Nix Feroa’s life so thoroughly was this accursed rash and inflammation.
The man rarely left his room.
The reason was much the same as why he wore a mask and gloves whenever he was in front of other people.
Just imagining himself receiving a laying-on of hands in front of a crowd made his stomach churn.
Unless they were Gading Knights or Saints, most laypeople who came all the way to a meeting hall to worship were young women.
And Nix Feroa hated young women.
Knock, knock.
No sooner had he removed his bandages and sat down in his chair than someone knocked on the door.
The knocking was forceful and confident, as though its owner was certain that the door would be opened.
The person on the other side did not even pretend to wait for an answer.
He abruptly pushed the door open, shoving complaints and accusations through the gap before he himself entered.
“Brother.”
It was an intimate form of address one might expect to hear only when the two of them were alone, but the irritation in the young man’s voice was unmistakable.
The handsome young man, slender and beautiful like a crescent moon, was Nix’s younger brother, Desidero.
His dazzling silver hair and pale skin made his striking good looks even more conspicuous.
The young man had brought along his taciturn attendant, Freed, who followed close behind him.
Freed was the man who served Desidero wherever he went, following him like a shadow.
The Duke himself had hired the man for his younger brother. Calm and composed, Freed was someone Desidero trusted with virtually anything.
In his presence, the brothers made no particular effort to observe formalities.
Even during private conversations, they had no qualms about allowing Freed to remain nearby.
“I heard you never showed your face at the reception, not even once?”
The moment he saw his older brother, Desidero began scolding him.
In his opinion, Nix had abandoned the minimum courtesy and obligations expected of someone in his position.
The Duke of Feroa, however, was just as annoyed and immediately shot back.
“Damn wedding. One day should have been enough. Why the hell do they have to drag this nonsense out for several days? Why should I have to sit there in a foul mood and watch those pig-like bastards eat, drink, and dance all day long?”
“I told you today was the last day, so you had to attend at least once. Since we came all the way out here, you should at least make yourself known to the various families, whether they have marriageable young ladies or fathers with daughters to marry off. When else are you going to leave your territory and have a chance to interact with other noble ladies?”
Desidero was genuinely frustrated and concerned for his brother.
Hearing that, Duke Feroa could not help but scoff.
“That is precisely why I did not want to go there, little brother.”
Go out and talk to women?
Was it that he did not want to?
Or was it that he could not?
The Duke wondered bitterly to himself as he took off his coat and threw it aside.
Then he began loosening the laces of his tall boots, which extended well above his ankles.
“You said you didn’t want some awkward political marriage arranged through a matchmaker. Then you need to take the initiative and look for someone yourself. You need to have a woman you actually like before you can even consider proposing a marriage alliance.”
Desidero continued his complaints and nagging while his brother barely listened.
After hearing enough, the man found it so absurd that he could no longer be bothered to spend the energy arguing.
“You genuinely think that’s possible?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Nix Feroa was Desidero’s idol.
In his world, there was no man more admirable than his older brother.
“There is nothing lacking in you as a husband. How many unmarried men your age are there who have inherited a title like you have?”
“…A title or a medal doesn’t make a man attractive.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His younger brother encouraged him to have confidence, showering him with praise.
“All the mountains and fields of Loudhill belong to you, and the status of House Feroa is second only to the Jerol royal family. And recently, you’ve even earned the title of Hero of the Holy War. That’s an extraordinary and honorable title. No one could possibly deny that Nix Feroa is the greatest knight in all of Bigland. I’m really proud of you, Brother.”
His brother’s passionate support was almost embarrassing to listen to, but Duke Feroa himself remained utterly indifferent.
The man had no hope whatsoever for his position or value in the marriage market.
With an uninterested expression, he replied with half-hearted sarcasm.
“I’m sorry, Dero… but unlike you, women aren’t interested in this big brother’s swordsmanship or talent on horseback.”
Husbands and wives did not meet on horseback.
They met in bed.
Where in this world was there a woman who would want to strip naked and roll around with a hideous, pus-covered, pockmarked man?
As the thought occurred to him, the man’s mood sank.
He picked up the helmet lying on the floor.
Along with his mask, the helmet was Duke Feroa’s second skin.
His face.
I’m fine the way I am. I’m not interested in women.
The man took a dry cloth and began wiping the dust from his armor, thinking to himself.
