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Chapter 30
Ceres’ lips curled into a dazzling smile.
“You want to make my sister a witness?”
A runaway wife who left with her son.
And now, a friend of the son, claiming to deliver his belongings, conveniently arriving.
From the man’s perspective, it was as if a perfect excuse had presented itself on its own.
Imagining Dave’s father rushing to the guards with the letter Yulia had received, Ceres smiled fiercely.
She could easily predict how things would have unfolded if she hadn’t intervened.
‘Nothing would have come of it.’
After all, the supposed runaway was a complete fabrication.
Searching for a boy who was already dead and a lover who never existed would be impossible.
Of course, if the guards got involved, they could trace the route of the courier.
It wouldn’t be difficult to determine where the letter was sent from. But it was clear that Dave’s father had already taken steps to ensure nothing incriminating could be found.
Ultimately, Dave and his mother would be declared missing, and after five years…
“Declared dead.”
All the blame would fall on the non-existent lover.
If it were claimed that the disappearance happened near the Black Forest, that time frame would shorten to a single year.
Whether one year or five, the insurance money in both their names would eventually end up in the man’s hands.
“…He’s a devil.”
Ceres scanned the blood-stained house one last time before returning the timeline to its original state.
The traces vanished without a hint they had ever been there.
Drip.
She poured the now-cold tea down the sink in the kitchen and slowly left the house.
As she closed the door, her gaze was colder than ever.
‘There’s only one place where devils belong.’
Go ahead, try living in hell.
***
“…You’re here again?”
“Hehe.”
“What’s it this time? What’s hurt now?”
“My arm feels like it’s broken.”
“You came here for a broken leg not long ago, and now it’s your arm?”
“Hehe.”
Grace sighed briefly as she looked at the ten-year-old boy who held out his limp arm, grinning as if he felt no pain at all.
“At least you didn’t just get beaten today. You said you hit back once, right?”
“Yes! I did!”
Thunk.
“Aaaargh!”
“Yep, it’s definitely broken.”
The boy screamed in pain at her light touch as Grace began treating him.
“You’re going to ruin your body at this rate, Tom.”
Grace clicked her tongue while wrapping his arm in bandages.
For some reason, she couldn’t help but grow attached to this cheeky kid who kept coming back to her.
She still remembered when he had introduced himself without being asked, saying his name was Tom and that he lived nearby. He also declared that his dream was to become a mercenary.
It wasn’t that she mocked his dream.
Even though Tom was still young, Grace could see that he had great physical potential.
‘The problem is he’s too fearless.’
Almost daily, Tom would find himself injured because he recklessly challenged the mercenary guild members to fights.
To the seasoned mercenaries, who had honed their skills in real battles, Tom, with no formal training in swordsmanship, was little more than a joke.
At first, they wouldn’t even entertain him. But eventually, his persistence won out, and they humored him.
And each time, Tom would end up hurt and come straight to Grace for treatment.
“Why do you insist on becoming a mercenary?”
“Because it’s cool!”
“…That’s it?”
“Yes!”
Seeing his potential, Grace had once subtly suggested he join her family instead.
With proper swordsmanship training, he could undoubtedly become a great swordsman.
‘No way.’
But Tom had immediately refused. He insisted he would be a mercenary.
“Rescuing people from the Black Forest is so cool!”
“Knights also enter the Black Forest to rescue people.”
“But they don’t seem as dedicated as the mercenaries.”
“Well, that’s true. Anyway, you’re all patched up.”
“Thank you!”
Tom grinned as he looked at his freshly treated arm.
“You’re not planning to challenge the mercenaries again with that arm, are you?”
“…Ha.”
Watching Tom avert his gaze, Grace subtly shook her head.
“You definitely have some issues. Stay home and read this while your arm heals.”
“Huh? A poetry book?”
Tom’s eyes sparkled as he took the book Grace handed him.
“Do you like this book, teacher?”
“Yes.”
Tom smiled broadly before finally glancing at the title.
Where Your Feets Rest.
“The title sounds poetic.”
Watching Tom nod earnestly, Grace couldn’t help but crack a smile herself.
“Teacher! Please sign it for me.”
“A signature?”
“Yes! To prove you gave it to me!”
Without hesitation, Grace signed the book as Tom requested.
It wasn’t difficult to do.
Growl.
“…Did you skip a meal?”
“Hehe.”
Grace clicked her tongue at the sound of Tom’s stomach as she handed the book back to him.
No doubt he had skipped breakfast before rushing to challenge the mercenaries again.
“Follow me.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Grace led the boy to the kitchen. Thankfully, there was some leftover stew for patients that had been prepared earlier, so she could give it to him immediately.
“This stew is really delicious!”
“Of course, it is. I made it.”
“Could you please teach me the recipe? I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
This was something Tom always said whenever he ate her stew.
At first, Grace thought it was just a polite compliment. But did he really want to learn the recipe?
“If you promise to stay still until your arm heals, I’ll teach you.”
“Ugh…”
Tom’s face fell at Grace’s condition.
“If I rest for even one day, it’ll push my dream of becoming the Mercenary King even further away…”
“Mercenary King?”
“Yes! I’m going to become the Mercenary King!”
“…”
“And then I’ll achieve great feats in wars and rescue lots of people from the Black Forest!”
“Sure, sure. Whether you become the Mercenary King or whatever, you can worry about that when you grow up. So, do you want the recipe or not?”
“…Fine. I’ll stay still until my arm heals.”
Clearly tempted by the stew recipe, Tom eventually gave in to Grace’s demand.
Grace quickly wrote down the stew recipe and slipped it between the pages of the book Tom was holding.
“Thank you!”
Watching the cheerful Tom, whose mood had flipped so quickly, Grace’s lips curled into a faint smile.
***
“Hm.”
Stepping into the study of Baron Drow’s manor for the first time, Ceres looked around at the books with curiosity.
The study was quite large, filled with many ancient texts.
“So, he was a mercenary.”
It was said that the founder of the Drow family had been a mercenary.
Perhaps that was why most of the books were related to combat.
“Huh?”
After a while, one particular book caught Ceres’ eye.
“That book…”
She knew that book well. It was one she used to read whenever she had some free time.
“Come to think of it, it has the same name as the restaurant.”
Where Your Steps Stay.
Seeing the title, Ceres chuckled lightly.
Could it be that the person who first opened that restaurant liked this book, too?
“Now that I think about it, what happened to that book?”
She vaguely remembered giving it as a gift to a kid she had been fond of. It had been so long ago that her memory was hazy.
Swish.
Feeling nostalgic, Ceres pulled the book from the shelf.
The book bore clear signs of age, making her feel a strange mix of emotions. It was as if she had been the only one to transcend time.
Walking to a sunny windowsill, Ceres sat down and opened the book.
“Sister.”
But before she could begin, Antonion’s voice called out to her.
Ceres had to place the book on the windowsill as she turned toward him.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just looking for some books. Why?”
“Go check on Yulia.”
Antonion sighed heavily, his face contorted with frustration.
“She’s drawn all over her worksheets again. She doesn’t listen to me at all.”
“…Maybe she should become an artist?”
Clicking her tongue, Ceres stood up from the windowsill.
“Discipline her properly.”
“Really? Should I grab a stick?”
“No, no. Don’t scold her too harshly. She’s still not in good health.”
Ceres chuckled softly. After all, Antonion had a soft spot for young Yulia, just like she did.
With that, Ceres and Antonion left the study.
Thunk.
The book Ceres had placed on the windowsill fell to the floor.
Its cover opened to the first page.
On that page, faint and faded words were written along with a signature:
To Tom, from Grace.
—
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