Chapter 118: Chapter 118

After witnessing Cruello’s tears, my very soul felt frozen.

As my mind slowly began to function again, questions arose.

What did he mean by no? What exactly was I in danger of dying from right now?

A moment ago, he had mentioned... Bonetti.

I opened my mouth to speak, but my vision lurched violently.

My knees buckled, and my strength drained away as I collapsed into the chair.

I tried to steady myself, gripping the table with desperate fingers, but my eyelids grew unbearably heavy.

My trembling hand clenched and unclenched over the tablecloth.

Somewhere far away, I heard the sound of a teapot and teacup shattering against the floor.

How strong was the sedative he had used?

What exactly had happened at Bonetti?

No—more than that, a far more pressing question surfaced.

You put me to sleep—what are you planning to do?

With no clues to grasp onto, my emotions spiraled out of control.

It felt as if a thousand needles were pressing against my chest, right on the verge of bursting my heart.

Whatever this is, it can’t happen.

I won’t let it happen.

Cruello watched my struggle in silence.

When our eyes met, he let out a quiet ah, as if he had finally understood something.

He moved behind me, his large hand covering my eyes.

The sudden plunge into darkness filled me with dread.

I tried to pry his fingers away, but they wouldn’t budge.

"I was scared too, but everything got better in the end."

"You’re... going to... do what...?"

"Sleep well, my love."

His mana pressed down on my already fading consciousness.

His terribly sweet voice was the last thing I heard before I was swallowed whole by the pitch-black void.

As his fingers slipped away, her tightly shut eyelids came into view.

Siora Bonetti had fallen asleep.

Her name had been Amy.

Or perhaps even that was a lie.

She was, and always had been, an enigmatic woman.

And yet—he had believed her.

Because he wanted to believe.

Because he had to believe.

Whether something so blind and reckless could still be called faith was another matter entirely.

Even now, knowing the truth, that thought lingered.

That Amy, Viga, and Siora were all the same person.

That none of them had truly died.

It felt too much like a delusion, a self-indulgent fantasy.

At one time, Cruello had denied Amy’s death so completely that he saw her in every woman he met.

It had been a symptom—a sign of imbalance.

And yet, here was the truth.

They had all been the same person.

At the moment of realization, Cruello had felt relief—but he had also paid a price.

Because he now knew that even what he had thought to be pure kindness had, in reality, a purpose.

The only mercy was that he was not in a position to complain about that fact.

Better this than having to watch her die again.

Cruello let out a quiet laugh.

Even if Amy, Viga, or Siora had approached him with ulterior motives, how did that compare to the agony of their deaths?

Compared to that, their deception was little more than a thorn prick.

He had no intention of embracing a corpse ever again.

Even if it meant giving up his own life instead.

A small part of him, however, wondered—if he died, what kind of expression would Siora make?

Maybe, buried beneath all the emotions flooding his chest, there was a trace of revenge.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and rose from his seat.

His steps as he left were strangely light.

After all—death was never as heavy as life.

Not since that day when Viga had come to his chamber.

"Young Duke, are you awake?"

The night Viga had come to find Cruello, the boy had been awake.

He had heard her voice clearly.

And yet, he hadn’t answered.

Perhaps out of pettiness.

Perhaps out of betrayal.

When Cruello had first realized his feelings, he had believed Viga must have felt the same.

If she hadn’t—why else would she be the only one to approach him, the wretched heir no one wanted to associate with?

Why would she have gone out of her way to try and cure his madness?

Some of the servants had gossiped, calling Viga an opportunist trying to flatter someone in power.

But Viga had never once sought a reward.

Even if she had wanted something from him, he wouldn’t have cared.

His wealth was limitless.

If she desired it, he could have kept her close for life, forcing her to wear a mask forever.

Even if his dead friend had never wanted that for him.

But in the end, his little calculations had meant nothing.

Because Viga had left.

Even when he forced conversations with her, she rejected him without hesitation.

Without even thinking about it, as if it had never been a question at all.

And that was when Cruello had finally understood.

Her kindness had been just that—simple kindness.

To her, he had never been special.

What tormented him more than anything was that, despite that, he still could not let go.

Months passed, and he still thought about her.

He still wanted to look into her eyes.

To do more than that.

After Amy’s death, his heart had been left dry and cracked, starved for even the smallest drops of warmth.

It swallowed those few drops greedily, only to cry out for more.

Even he could not understand himself.

Even if she had cured his madness, was it not ridiculous that the entire world now seemed to revolve around her?

Perhaps, on some unconscious level, his soul had always recognized who she truly was.

But the boy he had been at the time had known nothing.

Meanwhile, Viga’s life had continued unchanged.

Even after his warnings, she still went out at night, carrying out dangerous work.

"Young Duke, I might die soon. You told me not to do anything reckless, but I went and did it anyway—with everything I had."

She’s openly confessing it.

Sitting on his bed, Cruello clenched his fists and lifted his head.

He had known she was involved in something dangerous.

He had even inspected her body on multiple occasions, searching for traces of mana, but found nothing.

There was no way she had been some secret agent dispatched for a special mission.

Some misguided sense of justice?

He couldn’t grasp what she was thinking.

I don’t know. And I don’t care anymore.

Burying his face in his hands, the boy muttered to himself.

Let fate take its course.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Viga and I are nothing to each other.

Whatever happens to her—whether she’s hurt, sick, or even if she dies—I won’t care.

The insolent maid kept mumbling a few more words.

Cruello listened to them all without blocking his ears.

"My standards are so high they might as well be touching the heavens—that’s why I rejected you, Young Duke. But I’ll give you credit for having good taste."

"Next time, try liking someone better. There must be someone out there who’s better than a pretentious maid pretending to be your friend."

In my entire life, only three people had ever approached me first.

And now, there was only one left.

Cruello suddenly found himself recalling the faces he longed to see.

Tomorrow was his birthday. Eden would come, of course, but that alone wouldn’t be enough to fill the hole in his chest.

He clamped his mouth shut.

Viga hesitated for a long moment, then finally left with a simple good night.

The boy pricked his ears, listening as the sound of her footsteps faded.

Until her presence disappeared entirely.

Cruello lifted his head.

Had she secretly stolen some liquor or something? The things she said made no sense.

Her words had sounded strangely ominous, but the boy shook his head.

Even if she was about to walk into danger, she wouldn’t have the means to do so.

No matter how deep she tried to dig, she had limits.

If she had really gotten herself into something dangerous, she wouldn’t have even made it to his door in the first place.

So... he should be able to rest easy.

But then, he suddenly remembered—tomorrow was his birthday.

Birthdays had never been something he welcomed.

The good memories were too few to count, while the misfortunes were too many to list.

Cruello murmured aloud.

And yet, he couldn’t hold himself back—he shot to his feet.

The moment he opened the door, something small and metallic clattered at his feet.

When he picked it up, dark and ominous mana curled around his palm.

The boy’s face paled.

Then, without thinking—he ran.

He tore through the mansion.

Her quarters. The cleaning stations. The garden she often visited.

The sound of his footsteps pounded through the halls, yet no one came out to check.

It was as if the entire mansion had fallen asleep—like he was the only one trapped in a nightmare.

His lungs burned, his heart pounded, but he couldn’t find her.

Then, just as his fear swallowed him whole, a white butterfly appeared.

Clutching a brilliant golden fragment, the butterfly darted toward him.

Before he could react, it melted into his forehead.

The memories of another soul tore through him.

His knees buckled, his body trembling violently.

Viga—passing through the black temple.

Viga—descending into the basement.

A key’s magic. Eden’s betrayal.

And then—Viga’s death.

Some parts were shrouded in fog, like glass clouded with condensation.

He couldn’t understand how a mana-less Viga had made it that far.

He didn’t know how she had extracted a soul fragment.

But because of that, the things he could see stood out even more vividly.

As the shock faded, the weight of the truth settled in.

But in the end, it wasn’t about the facts.

Memories could never be purely objective, no matter how much one tried to wash them clean.

The emotions felt in that moment—what was seen, heard, touched, and thought—were forever imprinted.

And so, Cruello knew.

That she had clung so desperately to the estate’s affairs to distract herself from her own pain.

That when she had rejected his ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) confession, her heart had not been as calm as she had made it seem.

That she had already resigned herself to death—that was why she had started avoiding him.

That, in truth, he had been special to her, too.

That she had worried about him more than anyone—so much so that she had tried to warn him of the danger.

That even Viga had loved in a way most people wouldn’t understand.

And that’s why he was furious.

Why did you come to me, knowing you were going to die?

Why did you wait until after death to tell me your feelings?

That was not how you were supposed to do things.

Someone sacrificing themselves for his sake—

That was Cruello’s worst nightmare.

Viga had shredded his heart apart, all in the name of him.

He could not forgive her for that.

Clutching the key Viga had left behind, Cruello sobbed silently.

It felt like he was about to die.

No—dying might have been preferable.

If not for the fact that, at that moment, one final memory surfaced, he might have gladly chosen the worst possible option.

"I found a clue. The answer lies in the human soul."]

You could say the devil’s voice had whispered into him, too.

Cruello swore vengeance.

Against Eden, who had so naturally hidden beside him, subtly guiding him like a puppet on strings.

And against Viga—who had left him with a pain he could never escape.

If she can come back to life—then I don’t care what state she’s in.

I don’t care how she looks at me.

That was the first true desire Cruello had ever felt.