"Master Charles, here is the Saint Crystal you requested. All of it."
Richardson handed over a thick, tightly wrapped package. Charles took it, feeling the heavy weight in his hands.
"Impressive, Richardson," Charles said with a cool smile. "As expected of a third-order searcher, able to gather so many Saint Crystals."
“Release him,” he ordered.
The waiter's sharp nails, digging into Richardson's neck, left several bloody marks as she backed away. Richardson, a man who’d once carried himself with quiet dignity, now looked defeated and disheveled. His dark hair hung in loose strands around his face, obscuring the rage in his eyes.
He’d come to the rendezvous as arranged with Mrs. West, expecting to meet her in person. Instead, he was ambushed by the waiter's lethal claws. The past few weeks of effort—seven dangerous excursions for these crystals—were about to be wasted.
“Master Charles, how can you do this?” Richardson demanded, eyes wide. “Is this how the West family repays loyalty?”
“Loyalty?” Charles scoffed, pulling out a few crystals from the package and tossing them to the waiter, who pocketed them with a strange, satisfied grin. Her nails lengthened further, glinting dangerously in the dim light.
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Seeing her approach, Richardson stumbled back, the hem of his long coat dragging through the dirt. His voice shook, pleading, “No… no, please…”
But his cries were quickly swallowed by the alley’s shadows, his scream slicing through the air. The passerby on the street ignored the echo, as though nothing had happened.
Five minutes later, Charles divided the remaining Saint Crystals, handing half to the waiter, who smiled in appreciation. “You did well. Flawlessly executed,” he said, satisfied with the arrangement. “Jack won’t hear of this, will he?”
The waiter’s mouth curved into a sweet, unsettling smile as she licked a spot of blood from her nails. “Of course not, Master Charles. This is strictly between us.”
“Good.” Charles nodded, reassured.
Even if Jack did find out, it wouldn’t breach their agreement. And as for Richardson—Charles felt no remorse. The precariousness of his position left no room for charity. As he had learned, survival in the West family demanded cold detachment, and Richardson, in his greed, had known the risks of working with nobles.
Growing up, Charles had been exposed to countless betrayals. The blue blood in their veins marked them as born predators, incapable of sympathy. Bounty hunters avoided dealing with nobles for good reason. Richardson had gambled, and he had paid the price.
On the walk back, Charles remained silent, his expression unreadable as the waiter led him by the hand.
He thought of the old knight who once accompanied him. In the past, the knight would lift him onto his horse, guiding him with the steadiness and warmth of a father. But he knew his loyal knight would never return. Since Charles had been named Miss Wilton’s fiancé, the Duke would never allow him a retainer who was unwaveringly loyal to him alone.
Charles could only hope the old knight found peace, perhaps even a new life somewhere beyond this world—one untouched by nobles and the relentless cruelty they carried.