Chapter 5

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 5

Chapter Title: The Count's Batshit Crazy Master (5)

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“One more word, and I’ll really kill you right here.”

“……”

“Get out. Now.”

I’d heard that royalty and nobles often kept guns in their bedrooms for protection. But where the hell had it come from? It hadn’t been there just moments ago.

And he meant it. I knew he wouldn’t actually pull the trigger, but those murky eyes boring straight into me made me swallow hard despite myself.

“Th-then I’ll handle the underwear.”

I straightened up, snatched the pile of laundry from the corner, and bolted out of the room. Naturally, the second the door clicked shut, my legs turned to jelly.

I slid down the door like a puddle. My heart was hammering. The cold press of that gun barrel against my forehead lingered vividly. Was he seriously about to shoot?

How had I overlooked this?

The master of this count’s household was a genuine lunatic.

Lenika feigned surprise as I handed over the laundry basket. She must’ve been shocked—I usually dragged in with my disheveled clothes and exhausted face, barely managing pillowcases or sheets. But today, I’d brought a perfect load.

She was one of the few people I saw every day since arriving at the mansion. Mornings, she’d come straight to the annex to collect the dirty laundry and drop off fresh supplies.

“Went smoothly this time, huh?”

“All thanks to Master.”

Thanks to him, I’m half-dead.

My face was hidden by my bangs anyway, so I just curved my lips into a smile. Complaining wouldn’t help—who knew where the words might spread? Better to play it cool. Lenika gave me a once-over like she was seeing me anew, then hauled the laundry toward the main house.

The moment she was gone, I let out a heavy sigh and trudged back inside.

That was my morning haul. Breakfast had ended in the usual overturning fiasco. The memory of that gun on my forehead kept me from pushing too hard. He hadn’t eaten anything last night either, but he didn’t give a damn.

No wonder he was skin and bones. The man didn’t eat properly. Whatever you brought him, he hurled first.

Thanks to that, cleaning up his uneaten scraps fell to me. I tore into the cooled, watery soup and bread for a belated breakfast. It was luxury, in a way. Back then, starving was routine—Father’s and Alicia’s leftovers were my entire diet.

Yeah. Compared to life before this place, what was there to fear about Master’s temper?

But Vincent’s reign of bullshit didn’t let up. Lunchtime, I didn’t even make it inside the room before getting chased out. The second I stepped in, he started chucking stuff. It was like he’d stockpiled everything around him on purpose—threw it all the instant the door opened. No way to tough it out. My mistake was putting the clock and vase back while he dozed briefly.

Every time he smashed things like that, we had to replace them with new ones. I’d asked Isabella once if it wasn’t too risky, if we really needed to. She said one time they cleared everything out, and he ended up covered in self-inflicted scratches.

Self-harm, plain and simple. Nails splintering, gashes tearing open and bleeding—he wouldn’t stop. After it happened a few times, they started restocking to keep the peace. Guess he vented that filthy temper by chucking objects. Left the rest of us suffering even more.

Dinner was no different. No replacements meant nothing to throw, but the meal still got flipped. I fetched another, same result. Now if I got close, he’d swing wildly. Touch him, and out came the gun.

Next morning, I couldn’t even swap the pillowcase. He threw every tantrum in the book, then smashed the breakfast I’d sworn to make him eat right in my face. Evening’s failure was a given.

Two days dragged by like that. Isabella stopped by to check on me, her face twisting into something odd—like she’d seen it coming. She let out a quiet sigh and left. Watching her back, a chill crawled over me. It felt like a warning: one more sigh from her, and it’d be bad.

That day, my patience snapped. His gun didn’t scare me anymore. Reality did. I remembered the rumor: “The servant attending Master vanished overnight.” No need to ask what happened to them.

The floating bowl settled right on my head. Porridge sloshed down, soaking my hair and streaming over my face. Dinner, overturned. Not even surprising now.

I wiped the dripping mess from my face, stormed to my room, and pounded the pillow as I vowed revenge.

Just you wait.

“You bastard!”

Anger banked, morning broke. I dressed, prepped breakfast, and charged to Vincent’s room. Burst in, yanked the curtains to flood the dim space with light, cleared every scrap from the floor. Then soaked the filthy sheets.

Predictably, the gun barrel kissed my forehead.

“Wanna die?”

“Just shoot.”

“What?”

“Leave you like this, and I’ll die anyway. Vanish without a trace soon enough. Might as well go out honorably under your bullet. Go on—shoot and end it.”

“……You insane?”

“Not shooting? Fine, sheet change it is.”

I yanked the sheet. He panicked, clutched it tight. Our strengths clashed in a tug-of-war. But he was a starved invalid. I snorted and pulled with everything I had.

“You’re really nuts!”

I ignored his yell as the sheet ripped free and fetched a fresh one.

“Get out!”

“Yes, sir—right after I finish. Mind sitting up so I can wrap this up quick?”

I shoved past his building shout, stripped the bedcover. His body tumbled limply to the floor with it. I played dumb, finished stripping, slapped on the new one. Pillowcase swapped in a flash.

He stared blankly into space for a beat, then snapped to and twisted his face. “You—!” got cut off midway.

“Breakfast incoming.”

Floor was a minefield anyway, and with his explosive temper, who knew what he’d do? I set the tray by the door, far as possible. Stomped away loud, then stomped back and grabbed it.

Vincent groped his way onto the bed and sat. He reached for the sheet to wrap up—I snatched it and shoved a spoon in his hand instead.

“What the hell?”

“Meal’s ready.”

“Not hungry.”

He flung the spoon to the floor. I watched it clatter and bounce, then fetched a new one. Knew to bring spares.

“How old are you? Still throwing fits like a toddler?”

“You begging to die by my hand? That why you’re mouthing off?”

Gun still in his grip, fiddling with it. I flicked a glance, locked eyes on his face.

“Can’t even see—sure you’ll hit?”

“Fingers work fine.”

“Bet on making the shot, huh.”

“Shooting’s my specialty.”

Wow, impressive. I knelt before him, bowl of porridge on my lap. Spooned some up to his lips.

“Open wide. I’ll feed you.”

“Back off!”

He swiped wildly, but I whisked the bowl away faster. He patted around for ammo, but I’d cleared everything since last night’s barrage.

Dawning there was nothing, he clenched the gun till veins popped on his hand. Still no shot.

Spoon back to his lips.

“Ahh~”

“Move it!”

“One bite, then I’m gone.”

“Pass. Scram.”

“One little bite. Or eat solo?”

“I said scram!”

“Can’t chew, maybe?”

Added sweetly: Big strong adult, can’t munch food? He huffed in outrage. I topped it with an offer to teach him jaw exercises.

Suddenly, his foot lashed out, kicking the bowl off my lap. It crashed and rolled, porridge spilling in its wake. Midway, it flipped—I squeezed my eyes shut.

This time, no holding back the rage.

“Scared of me or something?”

“What?”

“Asking if I terrify you so bad you can’t take one bite. What, think I’ll gobble you up? You that mighty? Oh, right—you are. Master of this grand house.”

“……What’s your game here?”

“Scolding you.”

I’d put up with his outbursts so far because his heart was broken.

He hadn’t always been holed up like this since going blind. Right after losing his sight, he’d carried on normally, they said. Couldn’t see, so he relied on the butler’s voice cues to handle business, striving for the same routine as before. But then more incidents piled up.