The Berend had killed his parents.

Zephion turned that truth over in his mind. In truth, he had no memories of them. He had been only three years old when they died—it was only natural. But the absence of memory was no reason not to hate.

After fleeing, leaving Reina behind, and evading Kaelid’s pursuit, he began searching for traces of Baltgar. It hadn’t been difficult to find records; the house was too well-known. Of course, because they had stood against the current emperor, they were branded as traitors.

‘Iron-Blooded Baltgar.’

For generations, the family had defended the imperial throne. Naturally, they had sided with the crown prince. The Berend, who had allied themselves with the emperor’s ambition, were the first to strike at Baltgar. They had meant to set an example. To show the world exactly what would happen to anyone who defied them.

His stomach churned as he read of the Marquis and Marchioness, brutally slain.

In the ten years he had lived under the Berend’ roof, not once had he asked about his parents. The realization sickened him.

‘No… even if I had asked, they never would have told me.’

A crooked smile tugged at his lips. Reina had never once spoken of his parents on her own. It was obvious she couldn’t. How could she have said, ‘That family is the one that killed my parents.’

He wondered what she had been thinking when she chose to take him in and raise him.

The more he brooded, the more fragments of the past crept back to him. The moment he had driven a blade into Reina. The crushing weight pinning him to the floor. The large hand covering his face.

And the words: Forget.

“Ha.”

A short, bitter laugh escaped him.

Kaelid had told him to forget—and he had obeyed all too well. So well that he despised himself for it. If he had remembered even the smallest thing, he never would have lived so thoughtlessly in the Berend household.

‘Should I be grateful they at least trained me?’

He suddenly recalled Reina’s words when he first learned the sword: Blood cannot be denied.

If he had understood the meaning then, he would have wondered about his parents. He would have tried to trace his roots. But his eyes and ears had been deliberately closed—by her. She had never once, even by mistake, spoken of his past.

A low groan slipped from him as he covered his face with his hand.

Ever since learning the truth, everything had been agony. He loathed the boy who had once lived so empty of thought. He despised himself for forgetting his parents completely. He hated himself for growing up under the roof of their murderers.

He resented Reina for raising him.

‘She should have just killed me.’

If she had, none of this would have happened. For a fleeting moment, he wished he had never learned the truth—only to writhe in self-loathing at the thought. What had been in her mind? Had she known this day would come when she took him in? Or had it been nothing more than a shallow act of mercy?

He wanted to ask her what she had thought as she watched him, crippled and broken. Had she laughed at the sight of him living foolishly, smiling without a care, in the house of his parents’ murderers? How had she felt, watching him fall in love with a woman of the Berend?

He wanted to believe that the time they had spent together—pressed close, sharing their days—had not been a lie. But it was harder than he thought.

‘Reina Berend.’

He turned her name over in his mind.

Had she truly loved him? Now, even that feeling was in doubt. In the end, hadn’t she shouted the truth at him, as if confessing it all? That it didn’t matter who it was, so long as he could take her away from there.

Perhaps she had truly loved him. Or perhaps it had all been lies. Every time he thought of her, his heart filled with a tangle of emotions. Anger. Love. Resentment. Longing.

‘She must have known what I was—a Baltgar.’

So why raise him? Had she simply believed such a day would never come?

Zephion thought of her countless times. He couldn’t even trust himself to name his own feelings. Gritting his teeth, he tried again and again to erase her from his heart. Yet the more he tried, the more her memory rose up in his mind.

For three months, he had been happy. Despite being hunted, the mere fact of being with her had been enough. She had seemed to love him, too. They had spent their days as though nothing could touch them, as though they had no worries at all.

He had even clung to the foolish hope that such a time might last forever. That even if they had to keep running, they could carve out fleeting moments of happiness in one place after another. That wandering like that for the rest of their lives would have been enough.

“Zephion Baltgar.”

Before the voice had even finished speaking his name, he raised his sword.

It was a woman who had spoken. She didn’t look like one of Kaelid’s hunters; they would never have bothered to call his name.

“Who are you?”

Instead of answering, she gazed at him in silence, her eyes faintly curious.

“Golden eyes… truly.”

“……”

“To think the last Marquis of Baltgar would still be alive.”

“Who are you?”

Zephion’s voice was rough as he demanded again. Anyone who knew his true identity could not be trusted. After all, even he himself had only learned a few days ago that he was Baltgar. It still felt like a lie—and yet, this stranger already knew that he was the last Marquis of Baltgar.

“Don’t you want revenge against the Berend?”

His grip on the sword tightened, suspicion blazing in his golden eyes. As the blade edged closer to her throat, the woman shifted lightly aside.

“I know how you can have your revenge.”

“You still haven’t said who you are.”

“What I want to know first… is whether you intend to rebuild House Baltgar.”

Zephion pressed his lips together. Honestly, he had never once considered restoring the Baltgar line. Everything still felt like chaos; words like revival and restoration meant nothing to him yet.

Perhaps reading his silence, the woman gave a faint shrug and changed her question.

“Do you want revenge on the Berend?”

“…Of course.”

That answer came easily. He almost wished he could tear his own body to shreds—after all, wasn’t this flesh, this blood, even his very bones, all fed and raised by the Berend?

It sickened him that he had eaten their food, lived comfortably in their house—all while they were the murderers of his parents. The only faint comfort was that he had at least learned much under their roof.

‘Why had Reina taught me?’

That question still lingered. Had she ever considered that he might use all that he had learnt to serve the Berend? Had she never imagined that the sword she had given him would one day be turned against her? When they first met, he was just a child — perhaps she had thought he would never dare.

He bit down hard on his lip.

“You can have what you want.”

The woman smiled faintly, brushing his blade aside with ease.

“To bring down the Berend, you must bring down the emperor himself.”

“…What are you saying?”

“Treason.”

She spoke the heavy word as though it weighed nothing.

Zephion’s eyes blinked slowly.

‘Treason…’

Of course. He knew there was no other way to destroy the Berend. To storm into their stronghold alone would be madness. No matter how skilled he was with a sword, it was nearly impossible to cut down tens, hundreds of foes.

But what Zephion wanted was not merely Kaelid’s death. He wanted the man to lose everything—power, family, every last shred of what he held.

‘Eldan Berend was already dead.’

He felt that he would only find peace if he dug up Kaelid’s grave. He wanted to burn everything in front of Kaelid, watch it all collapse, and then cut off the man’s head once he was left in misery.

And after that… Reina.