Chapter 3: Mad as I Am

“Oh, right, you reminded me, Count. Indeed, I can’t just kill a count on a whim. Proper procedure must be followed, so—”

Anselm raised his right hand, the snake-headed ring on his thumb glinting with blood-like flames.

“By the decree of the Flame, Anselm Hydra hereby declares the opening of the Empire’s temporary tribunal.”

Above the snake ring, a circular blood-flame emblem projected with a hum, its central design a bizarre beast—part lion, part wolf—devouring a mass of blood flames.

This was the emblem of the Flame-Feasting Royalty, which no one on the continent dared to forge.

Leaning on his cane with one hand, Anselm announced with utmost delight, “I, Anselm Hydra, shall serve as this tribunal’s chief judge, judge, clerk, prosecutor, bailiff, jury member, and executioner—hm… wait.”

He suddenly turned, beckoning to the beauty he’d fondled several times.

“Lovely lady, come here for a moment.”

After a stunned three seconds, she tremblingly approached Anselm.

Before she could get close, the chuckling young noble pulled her into his arms.

He wrapped one arm around her trembling waist, taking her hand with his right and stroking it gently.

“Besides your neck, your hands are beautiful too—slender, delicate, yet full of strength. Hmm… Count Chishuang’s taste isn’t bad.”

Anselm whispered in her ear like a lover, “Your name is?”

“Y-Yura… Yura Nanaka.”

The woman curled into herself, her voice barely escaping her lips.

“Miss Nanaka, you were a pianist before, weren’t you?”

Yura’s body froze.

In her overwhelming fear, she hadn’t expected Anselm to say something like this—and he was right.

“Looks like I guessed correctly.” Anselm chuckled softly.

“Ah… forgive my presumption, but these are hands that, if not playing the piano, would be a blasphemy to the gods.”

Then, he hummed a lively, spirited tune in Yura’s ear.

She clutched her revealing dress, instinctively exclaiming, “Spring… Spring Concerto…”

“Don’t you think this piece suits you perfectly?”

Anselm’s fingers lightly tapped her waist, as if truly playing a piano, while whispering in her ear, “Imagine yourself in a gown, hair pinned up, your snow-white neck, a work of art, glowing with the holy radiance of angel wings under the lights of the Empire Theater.”

“Your hands… the moment they lift the piano cover, they’d steal everyone’s gaze.”

Yura fell into a haze under Anselm’s murmurs.

She could feel it—the dark, cold, sticky, terrifying thing wrapping around her again, caressing and licking her entire body.

Yet, despite this, she was utterly… utterly unable to resist, as if drowning in that young, slightly husky whispering voice.

—Even if strangled at this moment, she couldn’t break free from that sliver of warmth in the darkness.

“—But that’s a lie.”

Yura’s heartbeat stopped in that instant.

The young man continued whispering in her ear, but that intimate, warm voice now carried a suffocating pity.

“You know, Miss Nanaka, it’s a lie. You’ll never have that day. From the moment Count Chishuang captured and imprisoned you here, trained you to be a plaything for people like me, that beautiful dream slipped away.”

“…Guh, ugh, ah—”

First her fingertips, then her palms, her arms, and finally her whole body—poor Miss Yura trembled violently.

She clutched Anselm’s collar, tears streaming uncontrollably from her wildly shaking eyes, incoherent sounds escaping her mouth.

When she first saw Anselm, she might’ve felt a fleeting relief that, as a “plaything,” her first time would be with such a handsome young man.

But now? What did she feel? Fear? Despair? Yura didn’t know.

She no longer knew what she was thinking.

After that brief, intoxicating demonic warmth, the cruel venom piercing her heart tore her sense of self into pitiful fragments.

Anselm tenderly stroked her hair. “I genuinely feel sad for you, Miss Nanaka and I know mere words can’t comfort you.”

He cupped her face with one hand, gazing into her gray, shattered eyes devoid of any coherent emotion.

“Do you know what else these beautiful hands can do?”

Anselm whispered in her ear, “They’re perfect for shooting a gun.”

“…Shooting… a gun?”

“Yes, exactly.” The young man nodded. “Shooting. It’s simple—grip the handle, aim at the enemy, pull the trigger.”

In her bewildered, broken gaze, Anselm smiled.

The snake-headed cane tapped the ground lightly.

The next second, with the twisting of mechanisms, the grinding of steel, and the harmonious clatter of interlocking parts, the solemn, cold cane transformed into a massive… black hand cannon!

Anselm aimed the dark “muzzle” at Count Chishuang, declaring expressionlessly, “Count Cantrell Chishuang, this prosecutor charges you with thirty-two crimes, including embezzlement, tax evasion, illegal taxation, malicious grain hoarding, market disruption, smuggling national resources, heinous murder, large-scale robbery, and human trafficking.”

“With irrefutable evidence, this jury member, judge, and chief judge declares the charges immediately upheld. You will be stripped of your count title, all assets confiscated, and executed on the spot.”

“Method of execution: firing squad.”

“Executioners: Anselm Hydra and… Yura Nanaka.”

With that declaration, Anselm placed the black hand cannon into Yura’s palm.

“Don’t be afraid, Miss Nanaka.”

He gently pressed his cheek to hers, his hand guiding hers to the trigger.

That warmth—embracing her, deceiving her, redeeming her… that dark warmth.

“I told you, you’re perfect for shooting.”

At that moment, the suffocating darkness enveloped Yura once more.

For some reason, Yura was almost… no longer afraid.

In her ears, there was only that voice.

“You’re suited to play the piano, and you’re suited to shoot a gun. Since His Excellency the Count stripped you of your right to play, how should you repay him?”

“I…”

Yura stared at Count Chishuang sprawled below, the man who filled her with dread and hatred day and night, now strangely motionless like a dead pig.

“I want…” the woman’s shattered self murmured softly, “I want…”

“To shoot, right?” That voice, as if from the abyss, enveloped her, yet she had never felt so safe, so fulfilled, so… free.

“To shoot the one who killed your beautiful dream, your future, your life, right?”

“…Yes.”

The oversized hand cannon, which seemed too much for Yura, no longer trembled in her grip.

In her eyes, which seemed to have shattered, something was coalescing again.

Something utterly black.

“I want… to shoot!”

Yura Nanaka, who had seen the sights of hell, spat pure hatred from her throat.

Anselm kissed her earlobe with satisfaction.

“Then do it, my good girl.”

In that instant, Yura felt the darkness completely envelop her.

She pulled the trigger without hesitation.

“Bang!!”

The exaggerated roar echoed through the banquet hall.

The woman’s slender fingers and pale face were splattered with scarlet petals.

Most striking was the one that landed in her eyes.

Those… completely black, lightless eyes, yet eerily alive, burning with fanaticism.

Yura felt herself falling, felt herself suffocating, felt as if her insides had been ripped out.

But none of this brought her pain—only joy, unparalleled joy.

She wanted to be strangled, wanted those gentle fingers to wrap around her neck and tighten, to let her body truly experience that moment of ecstasy.

She collapsed into Anselm’s arms, not even feeling the pain of her fractured wrist, convulsing as she savored the peak of bliss.

“Congratulations, Miss Nanaka.”

The source of that darkness said with deep satisfaction, “You’re free.”

The next moment, before Anselm could announce the end of the execution, the still-unsated Miss Nanaka kissed him, grabbing his hand to place it on her neck, pressing herself fiercely against him as if trying to meld into his body.

Anselm didn’t push her away.

Like calming an anxious, impulsive young lady at a ball, he gently held Miss Nanaka’s waist, embracing her fiery madness with infinite tenderness.

Soothing the woman who had regained her freedom, Anselm glanced at the gruesome corpse with its head blown apart.

The edges of his beautiful, holy sea-blue eyes…

Burned with the color of the abyss.

***

When Anselm hung Count Chishuang’s headless corpse on the rack, the blizzard stopped, and the sun broke through the clouds, as if driven by the frenzied cheers of the commoners.

Sunlight bathed the tall, upright young noble, his smile proud, like a valiant soldier who had fulfilled his promise, performing a great deed and basking in the light of justice.

But no one knew—not the cheering masses, not Saville by Anselm’s side, not Anselm’s father, who wielded the Empire’s hunting authority, nor even the aged, senile Emperor who could still terrify and annihilate all—that Cantrell Chishuang was supposed to die four years later, at the hands of a “protagonist” destined to become a hero.

A protagonist fated to destroy the Empire, to destroy the Hydras.

But now, that protagonist was a gift sent by Count Chishuang, residing in Anselm’s temporary mansion and the hero bathed in all the cheers and praise was none other than Anselm Hydra.

The perfect prodigy praised by the Empire’s nobles, the cruel hunting dog with madness in his blood, the trusted confidant of the Emperor, the singularity that devoured the world’s anomalies from the moment of his birth.

A villain bent on destroying the protagonist, a madman daring to slay fate itself.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep