“We weren’t always vagrants!” a protestor shouted.

“Give us jobs!” cried another.

“Those damn machines stole our livelihoods! Wages keep dropping while machines take over human work—how are we supposed to make a living?”

“Who benefits from these tax cuts and welfare budget reductions?”

The streets were filled with daily protests by people who had lost their jobs to industrialization. Police formed a line to prevent them from entering the central road. When some protesters tried to push through the police line to continue their march, scuffles broke out, quickly escalating into excessive force.

The shrill sound of police whistles mingled violently with the sounds of people fleeing, and others being caught and beaten with batons.

Leaving the chaotic scene behind, Blake entered the central road where luxury carriages moved in orderly procession. He crossed this road and entered a building that functioned as both bar and hotel, operated under his name.

“Welcome, sir,” greeted staff members dressed in impeccable black uniforms who moved with perfect precision.

The very top floor of the hotel served as Count Barnabas’s office and residence. With a tired face, he barely acknowledged their greetings before heading straight to his office. The white-haired butler who had served him for many years bowed respectfully.

“Don’t waste energy on pointless greetings.”

“Shall I prepare your bath first?”

At the butler’s suggestion, Blake headed directly to the bathroom—a space far larger than most public bathhouses. Once inside, he stripped off his clothes without hesitation and plunged into the cold water-filled tub.

Splash.

He let his body go completely limp. After sinking initially, his body gradually floated to the surface. He closed his eyes quietly, as though seeking sleep.

—Where am I? Help me! Please help me!

A young Blake had once cried out. He couldn’t raise his body; even the slightest movement caused his head to hit the hard wooden coffin. He had regained consciousness only to find himself buried alive in a coffin.

—Save me! Please! I’m alive! Help me!

Young Blake had begged and pleaded. Then a voice came through a small hole from somewhere.

—If you want to live, don’t even make the sound of breathing. Stay completely silent, and I’ll get you out. If you struggle and make noise, they’ll come and kill you. So wait quietly.

Was it a lie? Would someone really come to save him? No matter how long he waited, no one came. Growing terror gnawed at the boy.

—Is anybody there?

After shouting with all his might and being met with silence, the boy became terrified. Had they stopped looking for him because he’d shouted? Had his chance for rescue come and gone? He covered his mouth and sobbed until finally losing consciousness.

For an energetic boy at an age when he should have been running and playing freely, enduring in a space too narrow to move was unbearable.

In that darkness where he couldn’t tell how much time had passed, he thought: I’ve been abandoned. I’ll disappear without a trace in this unknown place.

When the terror-stricken boy regained consciousness, the world was so brilliantly silver-white that he thought he might have died and reached heaven. In the endless stream of white light stood the butler.

—Oh, thank you for being alive. Thank you so much.

The butler embraced the boy and wept. The boy, in a world that felt terribly unreal, could only stare blankly at the sky.

Gush, gush, gush.

Now white-haired, the butler filled the opposite tub with hot water. Blake watched him with narrowed eyes. Though one of the few people he trusted, the butler couldn’t provide the answers Blake sought.

“Count, Miss Debbie is on the first floor,” Fret announced, suddenly appearing beside him.

Splash.

Blake abandoned floating and twisted his body into a sitting position.

“What is she doing?”

“She’s assisting with a photoshoot for magazine illustrations.”

“Send her up when she’s finished.”

“What’s your intention in meeting her? You said she already recognized your identity.”

Blake wiped away the water dripping from his wet hair with his palm.

“It’s complicated. She immediately recognized me as the phantom thief when we first met, but now she’s pretending not to know. I need to determine whether she can become one of my people or not.”

“You took in the other children involved in the rebellion, yet left only Debbie alone. Do you intend to draw her into this as well?”

Fret looked at Blake with clouded eyes.

“I wanted her, at least, to live a life unconnected to me. But entering the publishing house was Debbie’s own choice. Isn’t it interesting? All the children from the Terium incident gathered in one place.”

Blake pulled up one corner of his mouth in a smirk.

“While I’m at it, I’ll confirm whether she truly recognizes me or not.”

Fret cautiously responded, “It would have been good if she had joined from the beginning, but what if this ruins everything?”

Blake’s gaze turned cold.

“Then she’ll have to be eliminated.”

Fret quietly nodded and turned to walk down to the first floor. Blake watched him silently, again wiping his face with his hand.

Who am I?

Others know who gave birth to them. He lacked this basic knowledge. The speculation that Dowager Empress Stella might be his mother was merely a vague intuition without evidence. 

On that day when he had been miraculously rescued after being buried alive, there had been a woman watching him from a distant tower, beyond the butler who embraced him. Later, he discovered this person was Empress Stella.

The butler came from Marquis Clarence’s family. He had been by Blake’s side since Blanche disappeared, but even the butler didn’t know who his parents were. He had only been told to serve loyally because Blake was Clarence’s illegitimate child. Yet in that moment, Blake had been overwhelmed by a strong conviction that she must be his mother.

No one in Marquis Clarence’s household knew Blake’s identity. They didn’t even bother to look at him. That day, only she had watched him persistently from a distance—this fact remained etched in his mind.

Calculating the dates, if she were truly his birth mother, she would have married the Emperor just three weeks after giving birth to Blake.

The Clarence family was obsessed with bloodlines and raised their illegitimate children within the confines of the marquis’s estate. But Blake had never belonged inside the walls of the Clarence household.

He had grown up in an isolated rural farmhouse, with his only contacts being Viscount Heiler, Blanche, and the butler.

Blake stared at his own wavering shadow reflected in the water. Everyone in Marquis Clarence’s family had red eyes. But Empress Stella had the lightest eye color in the family, with irises closer to pink. His eyes were the same.

Stella, now the Dowager Empress, had a son four years younger than Blake—Emperor Dias III. While both were sons, one stood in the sunlight while the other lived a life in shadows.

Dowager Empress Stella had never once looked at Blake since that day. No, she had never even been in close proximity to him. He laughed softly, looking at his reflection in the water.

Just wait, Mother. I will surely reveal my existence. You’ll watch with your own eyes how the power you chose over me crumbles in your hands.

* * *

“Now, look this way.”

Camera flashes kept popping as photographer Black took pictures of the models. Sometimes they shot in the publishing house’s studio, but occasionally they went out to photograph singers or showgirls from entertainment establishments.

When preparing such feature articles, Debbie was called out to handle all sorts of miscellaneous tasks, leaving her incredibly busy.

“How will I find time to write my column?” she wondered, feeling her lips drying out from stress. 

The editor had been pressuring her about when she would deliver her follow-up column, making her even more anxious.

“What if my follow-up is completely worthless?”

She unconsciously chewed her fingernails. She had carefully selected potential interview subjects and submitted proposals, only to have the editor ruthlessly reject them. A couple of proposals survived, but then the subjects themselves refused.

“I can’t just make up lies to write about.”

According to Gray, today’s photoshoot location was Hotel Delachia.

“The bar Voluptas on the first floor is famous,” he had said.

Gray told her that if she could just catch one famous showgirl from that bar, she would have more than enough material for an interview.

Then he casually added, “By the way, I think the president wanted to see you. The top floor is his private space. Go check it out.”

Being summoned alone by the president made Debbie nervous. Why? For what reason? She couldn’t just meet him and immediately ask about the suspicious circumstances of how he became the lord of Terium, as the masked man had suggested.

Worried, she had asked other employees what kind of person the president was, but they all just shook their heads.

“Stay away from him,” they warned.

How terribly must he have lived his life for all ten out of ten employees to unanimously advise against getting close to him, despite his being the company president?

While pondering this, she spotted a familiar face among the passersby—Fret.

“Excuse me!”

Fortunately, he stopped walking when he heard Debbie’s voice and turned around.

“Hello! This is the first time we’ve met since the company dinner, right?”

He greeted her with a smile.

“Debbie Jones, was it? Nice to see you. What brings you here?”

Even his slight eye-smile seemed remarkably similar to Gray’s. Having seen him standing with Gray smoking cigarettes together, she tried to shake off this strange sensation and answered.

“We’re here to photograph the dancers from Voluptas for the magazine. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“It increases our sales too, so it’s a good opportunity for both of us,” Fret shrugged dismissively.

“Can we also photograph the singers and dancers performing tonight?”

“By all means.”

She hesitated before explaining her situation to Fret.

“Could you recommend someone among them who might be willing to share more personal stories for an interview?”

“An interview?”

For a moment, hesitation flashed across Fret’s face. Fearing rejection, Debbie pleaded more desperately.

“Everything will be published anonymously, and we’ll remove any elements that could identify specific individuals. Please! If our magazine does well, it ultimately benefits Voluptas too. We essentially have the same boss, don’t we?”

After brief consideration, Fret nodded willingly.

“Alright. I’ll send in a friend.”

Debbie entered the room Fret indicated and waited patiently.

“Do I really have to do this? Will it truly be anonymous?” a woman’s voice soon came from outside the room.