“Your predecessor was far too greedy.”

As the viscount’s heir spouted unpleasant words with a flushed face, relishing in his own amusement, Roir furrowed his brows.

He had failed to notice earlier, as the man had acted subservient and maintained decorum before him, but now it was clear—he was truly of the lowest kind.

The pathetic type who belittle others under the guise of jokes and pranks to elevate the mood.

Judging by the way he spoke to the baron, this was not the first time he had casually thrown such abusive remarks around.

“Relax your expression. It’s all in the past, isn’t it? Now that our family is taking responsibility for you, you should at least be grateful for this advice—”

“Enough…”

Just as Roir was about to cut him off to put an end to this disgraceful display—

Slash!

It happened in an instant.

The throat of the man who had just been laughing and talking was cleanly severed, spraying blood like a fountain.

The viscount’s heir could not even scream before he died. Stunned, Roir stood frozen, his entire face stained red.

The thick, metallic scent of blood filled the air, and the sound of droplets hitting the floor rang in his ears like thunder.

The sheer suddenness of the event half-paralyzed Roir’s rationality.

Gazing blankly at the viscount’s heir, who had perished in mere seconds, Roir slowly turned his head to look at the perpetrator.

The one who had so effortlessly sliced through a man’s throat had a body so frail and underdeveloped that it was almost unbelievable.

The baron gripped a longsword that seemed too heavy for him, his shoulders trembling violently as he exhaled ragged breaths.

Seeing his pale, youthful face and the pool of blood forming beneath the sword, Roir let out a sigh.

This should not have escalated to such an extent!

It wasn’t even an argument—just an ill-mannered noble brat losing his restraint and spewing garbage from his mouth.

Sure, he might have been humiliated to the point of never showing his face again, but did he truly deserve to have his throat slit at this table?

Well, that was only considering the situation at face value.

“Viscount Piastre! I will claim the blood price my family is owed through your son!”

The baron, who had just killed the viscount’s heir in one stroke, shouted with a voice filled with rage.

At that moment, Roir snapped back to his senses.

Simultaneously, he recalled the past incident where the head of the baron’s household took his own life following a dispute with the Piastre family, and soon after, his wife and young daughter also perished.

‘The Viscount Piastre may not have broken any laws, but morally, he resorted to such despicable tactics. Tsk, tsk. In the end, all that remained was a lone heir who had lost his entire family. I wonder how long that young baron can endure.’

Roir looked at the baron, who still appeared youthful despite his face being contorted in vengeful fury.

My god. The Piastre family not only destroyed his household but also took in his last remaining kin?

And judging by the way the viscount’s heir spoke earlier, it was clear that the baron had not even been treated with proper hospitality.

Unlike the young baron, who grew more frenzied after drawing blood, Roir wiped his damp face and composed himself with icy calm.

He assessed the situation carefully.

No one seemed to have expected the baron to act so boldly today.

How careless. If you behead your enemy and take a hostage, you must either hold the leash firmly or treat them well enough to sway them. At the very least, you must choose one of the two.

He picked up a water glass that had luckily been spared from blood splatter, rinsed his mouth, and spat.

“Viscount Piastre! Come out! Get out here! Look at your son! Witness with your own eyes the fate of my family and feel what it’s like!”

As the young baron bellowed with a voice drenched in hatred, Roir silently observed him before rising to his feet.

At this moment, the baron, consumed by years of pent-up resentment, would hardly notice someone unrelated to this matter leaving.

It would be best to leave before the viscount arrived and things grew even more chaotic.

As he turned to walk away from the blood, the screams, and the corpse left behind, Roir suddenly stopped in his tracks.

Beyond the suddenly opened hall doors, the Viscount of Piastre appeared, his eyes wide with fury.

He slowly scanned Roir from head to toe before turning to face the baron who was charging toward him. Even in the midst of this chaos, Roir could sense neither concern nor goodwill in the Viscount’s gaze—only suspicion and hostility.

This is bad. Very bad. If I don’t get out of here now—

But he couldn’t move. The Viscount’s knights and brawny servants had flooded in, blocking the doors and standing in formation as if surrounding him.

Roir furrowed his brows and glared at the Viscount.

“Viscount! Viscount! Your son won’t find peace even in death… Kuhk.”

The baron, who had continued spewing curses even as he was forced to kneel before the Viscount, finally fell silent. The Viscount had personally struck him unconscious.

The moment the baron’s head slumped forward, Roir spoke up.

“You’re late, Viscount.”

Though he held the title of a Duke’s heir, he addressed the Viscount of Piastre with formal respect, as he was a senior noble who had led his house for many years. However, there wasn’t a hint of reverence in Roir’s expression.

“Step aside. I’m leaving. I’ll hear your explanation for this commotion another time.”

It was an entirely reasonable demand. In fact, he was being extraordinarily generous—he wasn’t even holding the Viscount’s house accountable for dragging him into this dangerous mess, merely asking for an explanation later.

But the Viscount, his bloodshot eyes glaring, remained silent.

A suffocating standoff stretched between them.

‘Should I have brought guards?’

‘No. If I had, it would have been no different from spitting in the Viscount’s face.’

Attending an invitation while bringing my own protection, as if saying, ‘I don’t trust you, so I’ll ensure my own safety’?

It would have been better not to accept the invitation at all.

Clenching his fists, Roir carefully assessed his surroundings.

There’s no way out.

The knights blocking the way weren’t particularly elite, despite being from the Viscount’s house. Among them were even a few untrained servants, but they were still enough to form an effective barricade.

He had learned swordsmanship as a necessity, but he was by no means exceptional. Worse still, he didn’t even have a decent weapon on hand.

As Roir searched for a way to break through, the Viscount gathered his son’s mangled corpse.

Cradling his son’s now-cold body, the Viscount finally spoke.

“An explanation… You want an explanation?”

“It can wait. Just clear the way—”

Before Roir could finish his sentence, the Viscount let out a voice like molten iron.

“Do you mean the reason my son was here instead of me?”

Gripping the blood-soaked fabric of his son’s clothing, he continued.

“My son should not have been here. I insisted on greeting the heir of Greuga myself.”

In that moment, a chilling sensation crawled up Roir’s spine, and he took a step back.

A murderous aura erupted from the Viscount.

But not toward the baron who had slain his son—toward Roir himself.

Even as Roir recoiled, the Viscount did not take his eyes off him. His blood-filled eyes, glistening as if tears had been replaced with crimson, remained fixated on him as he spoke again.

“The one who was supposed to bleed today was not my son.”

“The one who was supposed to bleed? Viscount, do you even hear yourself?”

Though the Viscount of Piastre appeared eerily composed, he was anything but.

How could a parent who had just lost their child be sane?

The Viscount, as if deaf to Roir’s words, continued speaking in a strange, detached manner.

“Yes. My son should not be the one lying here. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.”

After muttering to himself for a while, the Viscount suddenly turned his piercing gaze toward Roir and asked abruptly,

“Aren’t you responsible for my son’s death? The wine… You should have drunk the wine first. He would have offered it to you first.”

It was utter nonsense.

His son’s death was a consequence of the Viscount’s own misdeeds, accumulated over the years.

Roir was merely a bystander, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But before he could object, the Viscount, his face like that of a ghost, had already closed the distance between them.

“Viscount, what are you—urk!”

Before he could finish, a short dagger buried itself into his side.

The Viscount had plunged it deep enough that only the hilt remained visible.

Slowly, he released his grip and murmured,

“I didn’t twist it, so if you receive treatment in time, you’ll recover.”