Home/The Duke's Revolution Is My Responsibility/ch 3

Episode 3: The Abduction Plan

"That was ages ago, Blanche. And calling me 'Madam'..."

Viktor looked at me with a slightly reproachful gaze—but it didn't last long. His expression softened, and he murmured through lips that seemed to hold flower petals between them.

"Turning an unmarried maiden into a married woman—how cruel."

Looking at his face, I could understand why the unremarkable Hartland barony kept receiving marriage proposals. Those eyes, as pure as if they held morning dew; that innocent demeanor that seemed to have no flaw—it was precisely that which made him a man of many sins. Did Viktor even realize it?

Soon, he asked with a puzzled expression.

"What's this sudden talk of marriage proposals? Are you... worried about me getting married?"

"Of course I'm worried."

Though, to be precise, it wasn't the marriage itself I was worried about—it was the fact that he'd break it off.

A flush crept over Viktor's cheeks at my answer. Fearing he might collapse again, I suggested moving indoors, but Viktor firmly shook his head. That firmness carried into his next words.

"I have no intention of marrying right now. So, Ro—you don't need to worry."

No, that's exactly the problem.

I sighed and leaned against the tree trunk. The clean scent of water lay gently over the entire lakeside. Spring would come soon—after a good rain, the wild grass would shoot up. And before long... when the final marriage proposal fell through and Viktor's health worsened, he'd end up alone in some sanatorium, no one knowing where.

"I hate the thought of you being sold off to some rich old widow."

"Oh, heavens, Ro."

Viktor covered his mouth and coughed as I muttered bluntly. Those slender white wrists—Viktor knew exactly what image he projected to the noble ladies who consumed him.

"The ladies aren't bad people. They're just lonely."

Good Viktor always said things like that. Nonsense. There's no way the clever Viktor didn't know what backroom deals were being made between families. Still, I gladly played along with this act. If it made Viktor feel less miserable, I'd do it a hundred times over.

"Viktor, you're too naive."

"If you ask me, Ro, you're the naive one."

"Even a passing dog would laugh at that."

Viktor smiled and shook his head. Muttering that he couldn't win against me, he set aside the book on Eastern mythology he'd been reading and pulled out a new one. A Refutation of The Prince. The title was written in tiny script, and it wasn't even hardbound—the binding looked shoddy, clearly a banned book. Whether it was published in Yerbayden or translated from the Eastern Kingdom, I couldn't tell.

Viktor was an amateur collector of forbidden texts.

"Where do you keep picking these things up?"

"There are ways."

He winked mischievously like a young boy, his eyes curving into crescent moons. That killer eye-smile was another of the things that made him a man of many sins.

This frail—and indeed, sickly—Viktor was, in truth, a thinker. Though that was putting it kindly; I always teased him as a dreamer. He harshly criticized the current monarchy and constantly devised realistic plans for a new tax system.

"Arthur III's rule is wrong, Ro. This kind of terror can never last."

He was also skeptical of the rigid class system. If he'd had a better family background and a stronger body, he'd surely have become a great statesman.

"Viktor, you're destined to become a revolutionary."

When I said that, Viktor would smile gently.

"Haha, then marriage is off the table for life."

He'd joke like that—but I saw the burning passion within him, the near-mad longing for an ideal. He was someone who pursued nobility more than anyone, and precisely for that reason, was always ready to throw himself into dark and low places.

My purpose in visiting today was, of course, partly to recreate the past as I knew it—but mainly to check on Viktor's situation. How far had the marriage talks progressed? Was his health alright? In the past, it had been an incurable disease that struck him down. Even if I couldn't completely stop the illness, I thought I might at least delay his being sent away.

"Hey, Viktor."

Viktor looked up from his book and turned to me with a searching gaze. His sorrowful eyes were shadowed by fan-shaped lashes.

"Mm, go on."

"Can you come to my place tomorrow night?"

"At night?"

Viktor seemed flustered, snapping the book shut without marking his page. I tried to look as casual as possible, wanting this to seem like childish mischief. But I lowered my voice as I added:

"Yeah. Late at night. Secretly."

I planned to kidnap him to my house.

---

On the way back after getting Viktor's confirmation, I thought about how many days I could sustain this abduction. I should have found a safe place to hide him in advance—but there was no time. The Baron Hartland would surely, within days, tirelessly propose a match to the Vorgneau family.

Viktor, completely unaware, would joke about marriage being off the table forever... but if this proposal fell through, he'd be sent to a sanatorium anyway, so maybe that wasn't entirely wrong.

My fists clenched with involuntary force.

I planned to ask Karin for help. For some reason, Karin strongly disapproved of my association with Viktor—but she didn't hate him. She was the type who couldn't ignore anyone pitiful in this world.

The Hartland family physician was unreliable. I planned to contact a famous doctor from the capital. If Viktor had to collapse, he'd collapse in my bed.

I'll borrow money from Karin.

Though she seemed reckless—giving artifacts away to the poor for free, swapping silver coins for crates of rum whenever she could—she always said: "I don't do business on credit. Remember that."

Yes, Karin was generous to poor commoners, but she charged nobles steep prices for artifacts. You could say she robbed the rich to fill the poor's coffers. Not that she acted out of some noble sense of duty—Karin simply lived her life that way. So surely, she'd be willing to lend a large sum to her beloved disciple for the treatment of Viktor.

From the moment she'd pulled me out of the gutter, from the instant I'd returned to the past—it was fated.

As I entered the city, I naturally turned into the back alleys. I knew these winding, ant-nest passages as well as the lines on my palm. More than anything, this place was the beating pulse of the Yerbayten Empire. The poor, the sick, those who had no way to survive except selling their bodies, the disabled—all of them had carved out their lives like shadows just behind the glittering main streets.

Children raised here learned to wield knives by age five. Because they had to intimidate naive passersby who took the wrong turn—because that was their livelihood.

Ironically, it was my deep knowledge of these slums spreading like mold across the empire that had made me fall into Arthur III's hands. The emperor and his ministers persuaded me with serpentine tongues—that victory would bring prosperity to the empire, that the wealth gained from war would be distributed equally down to the lowest ranks...

I naively believed them. I'd been drowning in the foolish delusion that their words would come true.

It's different now.

I won't create weapons for futile wars. To never forget that, I kept walking these streets.

Lost in distant thoughts, I was almost at the workshop. Just one more alley and—

"Hands up, you bastard."

I rounded the corner and froze. Pressing myself against the wall, I peered out cautiously. A tall man in a dark red robe was surrounded by five or six thugs. His attire was clearly expensive—the robe, made of fine fabric, gleamed even from a distance. His boots too. Walking around a back alley dressed like a walking target—he must have been utterly clueless about the world.

The young master probably didn't know, but all those thugs were likely armed.

I watched the situation a little longer. The thugs snarled like half-starved mongrels, and the robed man slowly raised both hands as they demanded.

At this rate, they'd strip him to the bone.

I fiddled with the artifact in my pocket, hesitating. Should I help? Maybe a few gold coins would settle it—did I really need to get involved?

The decision came quickly.

Since it's in my sight, I can't just pass by.

I put on the experimental goggles hanging around my neck and gripped the artifact in my pocket. It was something I carried for self-defense in case of emergencies—useful whether against one opponent or many. Though I'd never imagined I'd use it for someone else's sake.

"Hey there, scumbags."

In an instant, all eyes turned toward me. I hoped the robed man would take the chance to run, but instead, he too turned toward me and stood still.

"How about not picking rich folks' pockets and enjoying the joy of honest labor for a change?"

"What's this crazy bitch saying now?"

A shaggy-haired man spat on the ground. "Good thing—one more pocket to rob."

A thug with a long scar on his chin twirled a knife between his fingers and sauntered toward me with a swagger. I drew my own weapon—a jackknife about the size of my palm.

The men burst out laughing, clutching their bellies. One jeered:

"Oh my, missy. Why don't you go home and use that to cut your meat—what're you pulling that out for?"

"Exactly what I was thinking."

I shot back flatly. "Humans are meat too."

The moment I lunged forward was instantaneous. I struck the leading man's inner wrist hard with the flat of my blade.

"Ow!"

Startled by the sudden shock, he dropped his weapon. I took the opening and drove my knee into his groin.

"There!"

The man crumpled like a sack of grain, trembling. I kicked the fallen knife far away.

"Alright, who's next?"

"That little—!"

"Cheeky brat!"

The remaining thugs roared and charged at me all at once. The robed man seemed frozen in fear—even as they rushed at me noisily, he didn't budge an inch. What an idiot who didn't even know how to use the opening I'd made.

Instead of swinging my knife, I pulled out a palm-sized octagonal artifact from my pocket and clicked the central button. The artifact emitted a blinding flash of light.

"Aughhh!"

"My eyes!"

It was an artifact used like a flare. Using it in civilian areas—especially against people—was strictly forbidden, but no one was going to stop me from carrying a self-made defense tool. Especially in these back alleys where banned weapons were as common as dust.

Thanks to the experimental goggles, I was unaffected and slipped among the thugs. I grabbed the wrist of the man standing dumbstruck amidst the chaos.

"What—!"

The man, tugged along by me, tightened his grip. His fingers clasped mine firmly. Startled, I turned my head—and saw his face clearly. Beneath the fallen hood, silver hair tousled by the wind; eyes the color of dark amber, like his robe.

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