Chapter 6

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 6

Chapter Title: The Count Household's Insufferable Master (6)

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At first, he'd gone out to get some fresh air and scout the village, only to be assaulted by a boy who approached him pretending to sell goods. He let his guard down because the kid still looked so young. Vincent swiftly dodged the sharp blade thrusting toward his chest, suffering only a graze along his waist. The escort who'd been with him grabbed the boy, but the moment he was caught, the kid took his own life. It seemed like he'd been trained for exactly that—there was no hesitation in his actions at all. Thanks to that, they never uncovered the identity of his attacker.

Afterward, Vincent grew reluctant to venture outside. A stroll in the mansion's front garden became the farthest he'd go.

Then one day, while he was alone in the garden, he was attacked again. A servant who'd gone to fetch something light for him to wear against the chilly wind heard screams and rushed over. By then, a stranger lay dead with an iron bar lodged in his chest. The servant found Vincent slumped on the ground, gasping for breath, his entire body caked in dirt, and hurriedly gathered help.

The attacker was an unfamiliar outsider. They investigated his identity, but no one recognized his face. Vincent had fled from the assault, smashed a rock into the man's head once, then stabbed his chest with a nearby iron bar, killing him. He could only be called incredibly lucky.

Even so, despite tightening security around the premises and scrutinizing every outsider who came and went, Vincent stopped leaving the mansion entirely.

Another time, he suddenly collapsed in pain during a meal. Fortunately, he vomited up everything he'd eaten right as he fell, so there were no serious effects, but it turned out the food had been laced with deadly poison.

Not long after, a housemaid was found dead in the woods. She worked in the kitchens. It looked like she'd been trying to sneak away and got killed for it. They identified the culprit, but never learned why she'd done it or who had her murdered.

Having barely survived death, Vincent began to fear eating altogether. He grew hypersensitive at every meal for a while, then one day started refusing food outright.

With no outings and no eating, his condition deteriorated day by day. It would've been good if he could at least step out of his room, but the grand mansion saw plenty of visitors, and even a brief appearance drew eyes. He'd actually been spotted once during a short venture out. Nothing came of it, thankfully, but the incident stuck with him deeply—he immediately retreated to an annex and stopped leaving his room at all.

In time, as he grew wary of everything around him, he wasted away, and I heard he'd fallen into severe depression.

The terror that someone was trying to kill him.

The dread that he had no idea who.

And if word got out that he'd lost his sight, people would surely question his fitness to lead the family. So he holed up in his room under the excuse of recuperation, avoiding everyone and all contact with the outside world, slowly withering away alone.

Hearing all that, I pitied him for the first time. Illness of the body often spreads to the mind. Starving in crushing poverty, stealing bread, wasting away— I'd experienced firsthand how an exhausted body turns into a sickness of the soul.

He was a sick man. That's why I tried to understand and accept his sharpened temper.

But throwing away food like this? That I couldn't tolerate. His actions infuriated me. To me, even a single spoonful of that porridge was precious—something I had to endure beatings and beg on my knees for.

And yet this man...

"Bad behavior needs discipline to fix, whether it's a child or an adult. You have to get scolded for doing wrong. Didn't anyone ever tell you to cherish your food? Or did they teach you that since you have plenty, it's fine to waste it like this?"

"......"

I picked apart his actions point by point until emotion welled up and overflowed. Me, I had to suffer until my whole body swelled with bruises just to eat one bite like that. It was so heartbreaking I nearly cried. But I couldn't let tears fall, not even in front of a blind man. It was too embarrassing.

I clenched my teeth to keep any quiver out of my voice.

Don't do this. Whining about whose misfortune is greater—that's the one thing I hate most. I took a deep breath, picked up the fallen bowl. It hadn't broken, thankfully. I wiped up the spilled porridge with my apron as best I could and stood.

"I'll bring more. If you're truly worried, eat after I do first. Can't I manage that much for my cowardly Master? If it's too much to finish, just eat what you can, and I'll handle the rest. Satisfied now?"

"Not eating."

"You wouldn't refuse that, would you? I'll test it myself for poison or rat bait, sacrifice for my precious Master—surely you won't ignore that devotion?"

How heartless could he be? I dragged out my words, then tapped the floor firmly as I left the room.

I hurried downstairs and asked the cook for a fresh bowl of porridge. He gave me a pitying look and ladled out a new one. Bowl in hand, I rushed back to his room.

I knelt before the bed again. His face swiveled to follow my sounds. His eyes still wandered unfocused in the air.

I spooned up a bite of porridge with a clink he could hear, then slurped it noisily—no need to chew—before scooping another and holding it out to him.

"Ahh—"

But once more, the bowl clattered to the floor.

"Dirty."

Thud, thud, thud—the sound of the bowl rolling snapped my reason.

About half the porridge had spilled. I picked it up and returned to the bed. He sat still, staring down at the floor. As if watching for my presence.

I scooped another spoonful, calmly set the bowl aside on the bed, then shoved Vincent's shoulder to topple him over.

Before he could resist, he lay flat on the bed. I swiftly climbed on top. Grabbing his stiffened, startled neck, I pinned him down with my weight to keep him from escaping. I jammed my thumb into his gaping, panicked mouth, then shoved in a spoonful of porridge.

"Gahk, gahk!"

Vincent thrashed. I pressed down on his resisting body with all my strength, force-feeding him spoonful by spoonful. My balance wavered several times, and once, his flailing hand broke free and clutched my hair from behind, yanking my head back. Pain shot through my scalp like it might rip out, tears pricking my eyes, but I gritted my teeth and endured.

He whipped his head to dodge the spoon, but my fingers still gripped his mouth open.

Eyes lowered, I timed his twisting face and thrust in the spoon. Once empty, I scooped more and repeated, quick and precise. Later, I grabbed the bowl entirely for easier feeding. My spoon hand trembled violently.

"Master, you're eating so well—I'm thrilled!"

"Gahk, you, gahk gahk!"

"Yes, you're doing great!"

One spoonful, two, three—until the half-remaining porridge was gone. Half went in his mouth, half spilled, but I didn't care.

As the bowl emptied, my body flew backward onto the floor. The moment I relaxed in triumph at having fed him, he'd shoved me off.

I meekly took the empty bowl and spoon and climbed down from the bed. Thought my hair was gonna come out. Rubbing my still-tingling scalp, a clump came away in my fingers. I let out a hollow chuckle and turned. Vincent clutched his choked throat, face flushed red, and bellowed.

"You're fired right now!"

"I was only attending to Master's meal."

"Ha! You're a crazy bitch! Do you even know what you've done? Daring to lay hands on me! You must want to die!"

"Who saw?"

"What?"

I answered his retort calmly.

"It was just you and me here. How would anyone else know? That I dared shove my finger in Master's mouth and spoon-fed you porridge."

Of course, what I'd done deserved death. If anyone had seen, my head would've rolled. But it was just him and me here. The same outside the room. His hypersensitivity to the slightest noise because of his blindness meant no one even passed by this floor.

Besides, everyone already knew this man's nasty temper from before I arrived. He had the authority to fire me, sure, but in his current diminished state, dismissing a servant on his word alone wouldn't hold much weight.

"Oh, right, there was the gun. You could've shot me with that, Master. But... does it even have bullets?"

"......"

He clamped his mouth shut. For a split second, panic flickered across his face. I knew it. He'd had every reason to shoot, so why hadn't he? I swallowed a scoff and continued.

"By the way, rumors say you're notoriously picky lately, making it hard to hire help. Even the current staff shake their heads at serving you—no one's stepping up. Even if you fire me, there's no replacement ready, so you'll have to stick with me until someone is. And if no one comes... forever!"

I blew out a breath. My messy bangs lifted slightly in the puff, then fell back. Through them, I saw Vincent grinding his teeth. Face full of fury.

I beamed at him.

"Looking forward to serving you from now on, Master."

From that day, our power struggle continued.

I forced food into his mouth whenever he refused. Changing his clothes or sheets meant long tussles. One day, I tried coaxing him into a bath because he stank, but when that failed, I tried dragging him to the bathroom anyway—and took a punch to the face from his forearm, nose gushing blood.

Clutching my bleeding nose in my apron as I emerged, I ran into Isabella. My body froze. She scanned me impassively, nose pinched in my apron, then turned away without a word. How long had she been there? Had she heard the commotion inside? No—from her demeanor, I realized she'd already suspected what I was up to.