Chapter 192. The Mastermind (2)
Rupert Rosemore had always believed this.
All men are equal. And yet some men are more equal than others.
And so it was with a man called Rupert Rosemore.
The Shield of the North. The eldest son of the Rosemore Count Family—a name that made every Northerner bow their head upon merely hearing it.
He had made no effort whatsoever to earn that position. He was simply born, and found his father to be a Count, and himself to be the legitimate firstborn.
Rupert took this as a matter of course. The way the sky is high and the sea is blue. That Rupert Rosemore stood above others was the most natural law in the world.
Servants were rightfully obliged to wait upon their betters. And Rupert was born to command those servants with a tilt of his chin.
Heaven itself had decreed it.
Rupert was very pleased by this. Fulfilling the duty bestowed upon him by heaven, he intended to lead the Rosemore family to even greater heights as its future head.
But as the years passed and he grew. Rupert watched his world crumble from its edges inward.
He was, certainly, more special than most. But the world contained beings more special than Rupert.
"Clarisse has already reached the 3rd Rank, I hear. Ha ha, the pride of the family—the pride of us all. I have great hopes for her future."
"Penelope seems to take after her sister too—sharp as a pin."
Clarisse was a prodigy. Her much younger sister Penelope grew at a pace that left no day the same as the last.
"Compared to them, Young Master Rupert is……"
"He showed such promise when he was little, didn't he."
Rupert, by contrast, managed a degree of distinction—and nothing beyond it.
"Young Master, you have private tutoring this morning……"
"Be quiet, I'm sleeping in."
"But the Count has said—"
"Make something up for Father. Say I was feeling ill."
Just another run-of-the-mill Northern noble's son who had done nothing but be born well.
That was the measure of Rupert Rosemore.
Had it not been for the incident that day. Rupert would likely have spent his entire life as he was—moderately arrogant, moderately incompetent, moderately twisted—and died without remark.
One afternoon. Rupert was in the study, reading a tedious history book.
―Crash!
A maid attending him made a mistake. An expensive porcelain teacup fell to the floor and shattered into pieces. The red tea spread in an ugly stain across the carpet.
"Oh my, Young Master. I'm so sorry. I'll clean it up right away."
The maid smiled awkwardly, trying to recover from her blunder.
There were many nobles of wretched temperament who would beat a servant over a small mistake, but Rupert was not of that disposition. On any ordinary day, he might have replied with a light 'try to be more careful~' and left it at that.
Which was no doubt why the maid who had made the error was smiling awkwardly rather than cowering in terror.
But that day, his mood was particularly foul.
Perhaps it was because he had heard the previous evening that Clarisse had become a 4th Rank Alchemist. While he himself was still struggling at the very threshold of the 2nd Rank.
"Why did you smile?"
"……Pardon?"
"Do you find me amusing?"
"N-no, Young Master…… that's not…… why would you—"
The maid still wore a baffled expression, tilting her head repeatedly. Rupert's expression had gone cold and rigid, but she failed to read the meaning in that silence.
Rupert rose from his seat and drew the sword hanging on the wall.
"Y-Young Master?"
It was a blow without hesitation.
"G-ggh—?!"
The maid's eyes flew wide open. She raised her white hands to her throat—and then crimson blood sprayed in every direction, like a hose with a hole punched through it.
The bookshelves, Rupert's face, the carpet beneath—all were drenched red in an instant.
The maid collapsed to the floor, coughing up blood mixed with foam. Her body convulsed once, twice—then went still.
"……."
Rupert stood over the body crumpled at his feet, the blood-stained sword still in his hand.
"Well…… this is……"
He did not feel guilt.
Rupert Rosemore was at least more equal than this maid. The maid had failed to know her place, tried to behave as his equal, and paid for it with her life.
At that moment.
"Elder Brother! Shall we go riding together today too—"
The study door flew open and Clarisse came bounding in with a bright expression.
The acrid smell of blood. The study painted red in every direction. The maid's body, her neck half severed.
And Rupert standing there expressionlessly, drenched in that blood.
How would this scene have appeared to Clarisse's eyes?
"Ah……."
Clarisse went chalk-white as she stared at Rupert—then simply froze.
"E-Elder Brother……?"
"……."
Their eyes met.
"Eeek—!"
Clarisse's legs gave out beneath her. She crumpled to the floor, then scrambled away on all fours down the corridor, fleeing for her life.
"……."
Rupert did not bother to give chase. Chatterbox Clarisse would spread it around regardless—that much was obvious.
"Miserably…… much of it got on me."
He was simply irritated.
How was he supposed to handle the aftermath of this? Father would kick up a fuss when he found out. There would be the usual sermon—the honour of the family, the obligations of nobility. He might even be confined to the Convent for several months.
Rupert tossed the blood-stained sword aside carelessly, and made a wish.
"I just want it to be as though it never happened."
At that moment.
―Click.
Something locked into place inside Rupert's head. A sensation like a lock that had not been used in years being aligned. The world shifted—ever so slightly, yet unmistakably.
It was the following morning. Rupert woke up braced for the worst, having drunk himself to sleep.
He had killed a servant on a whim—naturally, chaos would have erupted.
But contrary to his expectations. Not a single person had come for him through the night.
Though he had surely left a maid's body behind and gone to bed.
"A dream?"
No. That couldn't be. Every memory was far too vivid.
Rupert opened his bedroom door and stepped into the corridor. The house was quiet. There was no sound of weeping servants, no bustling activity to tend to a body.
He walked slowly toward the study.
Creeeak—
When he opened the door, morning sunlight was falling on the floor. The carpet that had been soaked in blood was clean, and of the headless body there was no trace whatsoever. Even the porcelain teacup that had shattered was sitting undisturbed in its original place.
"……."
Rupert made his way to the dining room, his mind in confusion.
"Young Master, you're up? You look well today as always."
"Ah…… Ah? Yes."
The servants he passed bowed their heads exactly as always.
"You're late, Rupert."
"My apologies. I was studying until late last night."
When he entered the dining room, the Rosemore Count, Clarisse, and Penelope were already eating.
And on the other side of the table. Clarisse sat there, her face as pale as a dead woman's.
The moment Rupert entered, she gave a violent start and dropped her fork.
Going by Clarisse's reaction, it had not been a dream. Had she not said anything until now? Then what of the study, which had been wiped spotlessly clean?
Rupert took his seat, keeping a close eye on Clarisse.
As though she had been waiting for Rupert to sit down, Clarisse opened her mouth.
"Father, about yesterday—in Elder Brother's study—"
"The study?"
Rupert stilled the hand holding his knife. The Rosemore Count leaned toward Clarisse.
After a brief pause, Clarisse cried out—half screaming.
"Elder Brother killed a maid……!"
Clarisse sobbed as she cried out. The mood at the dining table turned cold in an instant.
Father set down his newspaper and furrowed his brow.
"What are you saying, Clarisse? A maid?"
"Mari—the one who waits on Elder Brother!"
Rupert pressed his hand to his temple without thinking. His head already throbbed with the effort of deciding what excuse to give.
Clarisse struggled on with her explanation.
"Elder Brother Rupert—he took Mari and—with a sword—"
"Mari? We have no maid by that name in this house."
Father clicked his tongue and unfolded his newspaper again.
"You haven't been overworking yourself with study, have you? Seeing things that aren't there."
"N-no, I haven't!"
"Be quiet."
"……It really…… happened…… I saw it……."
Clarisse fell silent. The gaze that had been filled with terror, confusion, and shock fixed itself on Rupert.
"Thank you for the meal. Clarisse, you must have had a bad dream."
After finishing his meal, Rupert left the dining room as though escaping it and checked the household register. And having spoken with the servants, at that moment—
Rupert understood.
The world had been reassembled. The body had vanished; the memories of witnesses had been revised; and the dead maid had become a person who had never existed in the first place.
Only Rupert himself and Clarisse knew the truth.
In that moment, Rupert understood.
All men are equal. It is only that Rupert Rosemore is uniquely more equal than every last one of them.
A chosen one who transcended all. One who could manipulate the workings of the world as he pleased.
From that day forward. Rupert began to use the power he had awakened—without hesitation.
Guilt? He had none. The gnawing inferiority that had been slowly eating at his chest? It had ceased to exist without a trace. This world was an enormous toy box laid at Rupert's feet.
He erased the memory of homework from his tutor's mind; made a cousin he disliked believe he had pushed back his own chair and fallen over from his own carelessness.
He made the swordsmanship instructor who had looked down on him doubt his own abilities, forcing him into retirement. He planted vicious nightmares in his father's mistress until she took her own life.
Without anyone to teach him—the way a fish swims and a bird takes to the sky. Rupert's 'Power' grew ever more refined.
The uncle who had the loudest voice within the family—an ambitious man who berated Rupert's weakness and schemed ceaselessly for the position of family head—Rupert transformed into a gentle, plant-loving gardener content to tend the garden all day long.
He manipulated the memories of a meddlesome aunt and had her committed to a sanatorium.
The last was his father—the Rosemore Count.
A man who had lived his entire life as a formidable noble. Rupert entered his father's bedroom and planted a tiny seed of doubt in the ear of the sleeping man.
'Everything I have built is an illusion. I am nothing.'
The following day, the Count—who had been in perfectly good health—took to his sick bed without explanation. There was nothing wrong with his body. His very will to live had simply been broken.
He became a living corpse that lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.
It took less than a year for the great Rosemore family to fall into Rupert's hands. A quiet conquest, without a single drop of blood shed.
The only blemish was…… yes, Clarisse.
He did not understand how. But Clarisse instinctively sensed that none of these changes were natural.
Her memories had not been twisted; she recognised Rupert for the demon he was.
Fortunately, Penelope was at Clarisse's side. A simple threat was all it took to bend Clarisse to his will.
And then one night.
Figures in white robes came to his bedroom.
"Who are you?"
Rupert was not rattled. If need be, he could simply erase their memories—and that would be the end of it.
But they did not attack Rupert. Instead they prostrated themselves at his feet and pressed their lips to the back of his hand.
"O vessel of Chaos."
Their leader whispered with a voice thick with reverence.
"We are those who pray for the End."
"Your Power is one bestowed by the great one."
"Please—take us under your wing. For your will shall become that one's Providence."
The End Order.
The very worst dark magic sect that the Kingdom had hunted so desperately—had walked in of its own accord and was enshrining him as the gods's proxy.
Indeed.
He confirmed once more that his belief had not been wrong.
Rupert Rosemore is special.
From the moment of his birth—and henceforth, forever.