MTO C30

Chapter 30

“The late Duke dearly loved his wife. Even after the Duchess departed into God’s embrace, he never remarried. So young Lord Kaidan grew up without siblings. The Duke always called him his only son and cherished him deeply.”

Michel forced a wry smile at that. Aside from the similarity of losing his mother early, he and Kaidan shared no common ground at all. Kaidan had a father who loved him passionately. Jeong‑oh, in contrast, had not even known who his father was.

A man who mourned his wife for life and raised his son with love—as if plucked straight from the pages of a storybook.

But as Michel listened to Alban, another question arose: if the late Duke loved his son so much, then why had Kaidan gone to war at the mere age of fourteen?

“I heard Brother Kaidan first ventured to the battlefield as a mere youth. Did the late Duke offer no objection?”

“No one can know what words passed between father and son,” Alban replied. “But after the young lord left the castle, the Duke often spoke of him at gatherings. He said he respected Lord Kaidan’s earnest wish to defend the land against evil, and he was immensely proud of him.”

Michel exhaled in awe. For a boy to leave home at fourteen to defend his nation was remarkable—but for the father to respect that wish and send him off? That too was extraordinary.

It must mean the Duke truly trusted his child.

What would it feel like, to have a father one could lean on, an unwavering supporter? Michel found himself quietly envious of the bond between the Eglence father and son. At the same time, he pitied Kaidan. To lose such a mother and such a father… Michel himself, who had never met the Duke, felt grief enough. How deep must Kaidan’s despair have been?

“When… when his father passed, Brother Kaidan must have grieved terribly.”

“Outwardly he showed little,” Alban admitted, “but surely he did. Yet not long after inheriting the title, a miracle occurred. Such a blessing—it must surely have been the late Duke’s gift to him from beyond the grave.”

Alban smiled fondly at Michel. But Michel could not bring himself to answer. He knew full well he was far from anyone’s idea of “heaven’s gift.”

This old man clearly revered the late Duke deeply. Every conversation circled back to him, and even now Alban still referred to Kaidan as “the young lord” rather than as Duke. To Alban, there had only ever been one Eglence Duke.

Michel, however, remembered from the webtoon that Kaidan himself would one day become a name to terrify the continent—the Duke of Eglence whom none dared oppose. For now, though, he was still only a young and newly invested lord, weighed down by his father’s shining legacy.

How heavy that crown must be. His father had been respected everywhere he went—and now Kaidan had been thrust into his place. And just when he was still reeling from grief, some orphanage headmaster had been struck dead by lightning—in Kaidan’s own courtyard, no less—and then returned to life, declaring himself a saint.

No wonder Kaidan had been so curt with Michel until now. Michel resolved to forgive him a little for it.

“And what does the Saint seek here, if I may ask?”

“Oh—that’s, well… I was looking for the right book. But it’s my first time here, so I’m rather lost.”

He could hardly admit that he dozed off while supposed to be writing a prayer. Embarrassed, Michel gave a vague answer. But Alban brightened.

“Then surely God sent me to assist. This was once my office, in a sense. Tell me what you seek, and I will find it for you.”

“Truly?”

Michel clasped the old man’s hand, grateful beyond words. At last he might acquire the volume of prayer samples he so badly needed.

At long last, Michel managed to complete his prayer draft and escape the library. Immediately he sought Kaidan. A few maids directed him easily to the Duke’s study.

“Greetings, Saint.”

A burly guard saluted him with a smile. Surprising—usually the guards were stony. Michel smiled back cheerfully, though he didn’t recognize the man.

“Hello!”

“Feeling well? By now your thighs must be stone bricks.”

Ah. He must have been one of the knights watching that morning training session. Michel hammered his thighs with his fists.

“All good! I stretched properly before and after.”

“You must keep a regimen. Do priests normally train like this?”

That gave Michel the chance to boast about his fitness methods—and even demonstrate some of his taekwondo kicks. The guard’s eyes bulged, amazed.

“I’ve never seen such training before. Where on earth did you learn it?”

“Haha, long story. Anyway—Brother Kaidan is inside, correct? I need to have my homework checked.”

Saved by the question, Michel was reminded of his errand. The guard left to announce him, and shortly returned.

“His Grace will see you.”

The heavy door swung open. Michel slipped inside.

The Duke’s study was plainer than expected. Old furniture—tables, a hearth—bore dignified lines, but fewer ornaments made the wide space seem barren. Stark. Practical. Just like the man.

“Who opened the library’s door for you?”

The voice rolled as heavy as the decor. Kaidan sat at the vast desk, quill scratching, not even glancing up.

He’s asking me, right?

Michel tilted his head.

“The upstairs door was unlocked.”

Kaidan finally looked at him. No shock. No anger. His eyes said plainly: Of course I knew. I left it so.

Without a word, he held out one hand. Michel hurried over and placed the fresh prayer upon it.

Please, let this one pass.

Kaidan read. Michel swallowed dryly. Thanks to Alban’s help, he had browsed countless prayers of saints, but copying down and composing anew were worlds apart.

The true masters wove “thank you” into complex labyrinths of words. To Michel, his own first childishly simple draft had been far superior—clear, direct, heartfelt. But he had written this to Kaidan’s taste, and in exams one must cater to the teacher.

At last, Kaidan returned the page intact.

“You plagiarized Saint Johanna’s prayer.”

Michel froze. He didn’t even know which phrase had given it away, only that indeed he had borrowed a dozen lines wherever he could.

“…Not plagiarized, exactly. More like… referenced.”

“This will do. For your first festival, a familiar prayer is better than needless originality.”

Michel sighed in naked relief. If Kaidan had torn it up again, he would have fled out the window.

“Memorize it completely by tomorrow.”

“…What?”

The words speared him. He skimmed his work. The lines were long, obscure, heavy with archaic phrasing. He had deliberately made it long so Kaidan wouldn’t dare demand a rewrite. Now? His scheme had only trapped himself.

“Can’t I just read it off the paper?”

Kaidan’s glare seared him with contempt.

“Kidding! I’ll memorize it. Absolutely.”

The bluff escaped before he could stop it. He regretted it at once. He had never managed to memorize a single Psalm at Bible school. Now this towering, florid text? Madness.

“You may leave.”

Kaidan dismissed him coldly, eyes falling back to his documents.

“What about dinner together tonight?”

“Not when I have mountains of work—because of someone’s antics. Eat in the hall with the servants, then return straight to your room.”

He didn’t even glance up, speaking as if Michel were an annoying nephew—or a dog forced upon him. Michel pouted.

He used to be cute, though.

An image overlaid the Duke’s face: a plump‑cheeked five‑year‑old sulking at being too busy for play. Michel couldn’t help a laugh.

Kaidan looked up then, catching Michel’s grin. One brow arched askew.

“…Still something to say?”

“You really do look a lot like your father.”

“…What?”

Surprise flickered across his stern mask.

“In the library—I saw your family portrait. You resemble him so much, at first I thought it was you. Your mother was stunning, too.”

Michel rattled on, delighted. But Kaidan didn’t answer. He simply froze—not like a statue, but like a man whose very heart had seized.

“Brother Kaidan?”

“Leave.”

The voice rasped, low, pained. His face twisted, his skin draining pale. The strong Duke—suddenly fragile, suffering.

“Are you all right? What’s wr—”

BANG!

The desk shattered beneath his palm. Papers flew, ink spattered, quills splintered. His face flushed red with rage—or anguish.

Michel stiffened. The killing aura suffocated him, harsher than anything he’d felt in the corridor before.

Why? Why such fury?

“Did you not hear me? OUT!”

Eyes sharp as knives bore into him. Michel’s lips parted, but instinct screamed to stay silent. Even his own face burned hot, from humiliation or some deeper resonance.

“…Very well. See you tomorrow.”

Turning sharply, Michel fled the chamber.

Outside, the guard glanced at him, baffled by the outburst he had heard. Clearly curious, but Michel strode away briskly, pretending to notice nothing.