I Start with a Bad Hand!

“Anyway, I was one of the artists who used Reveta, just like the others. But I survived. Want to know why?” His voice dropped even lower as he sensed my curiosity. The tension in the air made me swallow nervously. His eyes, magnified by his crooked, cracked glasses, gleamed sharply. He gestured for me to come closer.

“It’s the alcohol.”

“Pardon?”

“Alcohol washes away the disease.”

…I hadn’t noticed the madness in his eyes. I was still a novice. Nevertheless, I asked, trying to stay calm and hopeful.

“Did the others die because they didn’t drink?”

“No. They drank.”

“Then why did they die?”

The drunkard-artist whispered with a solemn look.

“They didn’t drink enough.”

“Ah, thank you for your time. I’ll be going now.”

“Wait, wait! That was just a joke. What I drank wasn’t just any alcohol.”

“What?”

“It was a special infusion passed down in my family for generations.”

I suppressed my annoyance and asked,

“What kind of alcohol?”

“There’s a fruit called Abeter. It blooms just before winter for a very short time. We infuse it in alcohol, drink it, and even make tea from it. It tastes horribly bitter and astringent… but it’s good for the lungs.”

“The lungs?”

It seemed rather odd.

“What does that have to do with Reveta?”

“Those who died had symptoms similar to lung disease. They looked pale and weak, coughed, and then suddenly coughed up blood and died.”

The symptoms matched those of Baron and Baroness Degoph. As I listened intently with a serious expression, the old artist lowered his voice even more.

“I know an undertaker who said the lungs looked strange when he examined them. I was there when they opened the bodies of those artists.”

“You were present during the autopsies?”

When I looked at him with a face full of curiosity, he replied confidently,

“You need to understand the human body to paint it accurately. How else can you depict it? We all agreed to study each other’s bodies when one of us passed. Now, I’m the only one left.” The artist’s eyes were uncharacteristically clear.

“Can I meet this undertaker?”

***

“The lungs looked like they were covered in frost?” The thin, pale undertaker nodded weakly. The old artist stood beside him, looking proud as if to say, “See? I was right.”

“In my 30 years as an undertaker here, I’ve never seen lungs like that.”

“Are you sure it’s because of Reveta?”

“There’s no other explanation… I’ve never seen such lungs since those bodies came in together… But there is an antidote. Some nobles died, so people researched an antidote… It’s been so long, though, you’ll have to gather the ingredients yourself…”

The undertaker, with a strangely weak voice, began searching through a bookshelf about to collapse, then started listing various medicinal ingredients.

“For Reveta… you mix a solution with a mineral called Nadite… No, there’s a silent letter before that… Never mind, I’ll just write it down for you.”

Seeing my struggle to write down the names, the undertaker, frustrated, pulled out a bundle of papers from under his dirty desk and wrote it down for me. To cover my embarrassment, I tried to make conversation.

“But it’s impressive. I heard you’re an undertaker, but you know the antidote for such an old poison.”

“I was originally a doctor. But for some reason, more dead people started coming to this alley… So when a living patient became a dead one during treatment, I took on the role of an undertaker.”

What? My jaw dropped at his nonchalant explanation of his career shift.

Seeing my expression, which seemed to ask why such a capable person was in this alley, the undertaker smiled faintly for the first time, revealing his teeth.

“But I don’t really like living people.”

Okay, that makes sense. The dirty paper was filled with the names of necessary herbs and fruits. After thanking the undertaker, I left with the old artist, heading back to the art shop street. 

On the way back, the artist gave a long lecture about the direction young artists should take, the contradictions of the Empire’s academy-centric art style, and the lack of innovative works surpassing the previous generation. By the time we reached his filthy home and my left ear was a bit numb from his loud voice, I bowed deeply in gratitude. 

I couldn’t say I enjoyed my time with the artist, but without him, I wouldn’t have gained this information.

“Thank you for all the information.”

And perhaps, cut back on the drinking a bit. I added a hint of concern as I spoke to the artist, who was fiddling with an empty bottle. He scoffed and gave me a knowing smile.

“Kid, whatever you’re planning, don’t dawdle. Don’t end up with regrets like me.”

The artist, somewhere between an old man and a middle-aged man, picked up the bottle he had thrown and said.

“Pardon?”

“You didn’t come to me to paint with Reveta. You’re here because you’re concerned about that painting fragment.”

The artist blew his nose on his sleeve with a snort.

“How did you know?”

“One look, and it’s obvious you’re not a painter. Your hands tell the story.”

Wow. What is he, a fortune teller? The artist, who had been looking smug, finally adjusted his crooked glasses.

“I don’t know what you’re dealing with, but you should gather the ingredients as quickly as possible. You can find Abeter in the mountains north of the capital. Look near the cliffs.”

That homemade brew, what a fuss over it. Made from precious fruit, yet he never shared it with anyone. If he had known it would come to this, he wouldn’t have kept it all to himself. The artist, having neatly arranged the bottles, closed the door with a bitter expression, telling me to leave.

***

The street without street lights was turning crimson as the sun set.

‘My feet are killing me.’

Stretching lightly, I quickened my pace. I wanted to return to the academy before it got completely dark.

That’s when it happened.

“Ah!”

Someone yanked my hair roughly from a dark corner. It happened in an instant.

“Why are you looking for that pigment?”

Only their red eyes gleamed from beneath the hood of the robe.

“Speak. I asked why you’re looking for this pigment.”

My breath caught in my throat when I saw the face of this madman. It was an unmistakable face.

“…!”

The most handsome face of anyone I had encountered, the male protagonist of the original story, Elius. But now, I was struggling to breathe for another reason.

‘Damn it… Where is he grabbing?’

Was he really holding my hair? The mix of bewilderment and humiliation made it hard to breathe. The pressure of his grip on my scalp brought tears to my eyes. I tried to push his hand away with all my strength, but it wouldn’t budge.

‘This is exactly what I hate.’

Living my life with occasional bouts of irritation whenever I was reminded that this world was set up with such extreme scenarios. Why use such force and an authoritarian tone when words would suffice? Strangely, I was more infuriated by Elius’s excessive reaction than by having my hair grabbed.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

The echoing scream reverberated through the alley. It became increasingly clear what kind of situation I was trying to avoid. As the screams died down, I could hear the sounds of doors opening in the art shop alley and the murmurs of people from the main street beyond the alley.

Elius glanced towards the outside of the narrow alley where he had shoved me, and I did the same.

“Let go, and then speak,” I repeated.

Elius finally released his grip.

***

‘Why does she even bother with that lowly scum?’

Elius thought as he glared disdainfully at the unimpressive child of a minor noble in front of him. The downcast eyes and slow speech grated on his nerves every time they encountered each other.

‘Barely maintaining the facade of proper manners, speaking irreverently, with eyes even more insolent.’

Most of all, Elius had seen eyes like Dietrich’s before. Deep in the underground dungeons, in the filthiest cells, the rebels had those very same eyes. No matter how hard they tried to hide it, their arrogant gaze always shone through, irritating him to no end.

‘What on earth is so captivating about that one?’

Above all, the expression, the gestures, the behavior—everything about them seemed steeped in misfortune, as if simply speaking to them would spread that bad luck. This was especially true for someone as pure as Roxanne. The jet-black hair and even darker expression contributed to the impression that this person was a plague bearer, radiating misfortune wherever they went.

So whenever Roxanne couldn’t tear her eyes away from this plague-like figure, wearing that inexplicable expression, an unfamiliar rage bubbled up within Elius. Why did she look at them like that? She was so much more valuable than that rootless being.

Elius wanted to protect Roxanne from anything that could have a negative influence on her. Always.

“Find out about Dietrich Degoph. Discreetly.”

This was why Elius, who had never shown interest in anyone other than Roxanne, decided to investigate an otherwise unremarkable lower noble.