From the Tip of the Tongue of the Lowliest Maid - Chapter 80

This work contains scenes of sadistic coercion and hardcore depictions of BDSM. Reader discretion is advised.

Just like now.

Ragnar held no human trust toward Theogrim, but he believed in the divine prophecy given to him.

And more than the prophecy he had received with his own hands, Ragnar placed greater certainty in what he had personally seen and experienced of Theogrim.

This boy would raise up Impellias.

In his generation, Theogrim would establish this great truth as the state religion.

That conviction came from one thing alone.

Not from Theogrim’s exceptional intelligence, political ability, or his stunning looks and charisma that captivated others.

“……”

Ragnar calmly looked into Theogrim’s beautifully cold eyes, devoid of emotion like ice.

…What gave Ragnar certainty was Theogrim’s inhuman coldness.

This heir, beautiful like an angel, would stop at nothing to fulfill the will of Impellias—of that Ragnar had no doubt.

A heart cold enough to endure excruciating pain without so much as a groan would lead Impellias to a great victory.

“Endure.”

With those words, Ragnar turned around. Behind him, he heard the sound of priests pouring holy water.

Ragnar’s faithful and beautiful heir revealed not even a sliver of pain, nor did he let his overwhelming hatred toward Ragnar—who wielded the whip—show.

“Stand against it.”

Ragnar repeated the words he had just spoken to Theogrim as he walked away.

“You will not burn even in flames,”

It was the teaching of Impellias that Ragnar had engraved into his own heart.

“You will breathe even in water. Even after a thousand lashes—”

“My Lord.”

“……!”

His heavy military boots came to a sudden halt.

With no warning at all, the voice of a woman surged from deep within him, and Ragnar froze on the spot.

The greenish eyes that had once looked up at him wavered like an illusion. The sensation of hair brushing against his cheek in the wind was vivid.

Ragnar’s firm nape moved with a large heave. He inhaled deeply, then resumed walking.

“Even after a thousand lashes…”

“I cannot leave you.”

The woman, who always trailed off uncertainly, was, in that moment, unbelievably resolute. Though it was no more than a quiet whisper, as if spoken to herself, it could not escape the sharpened senses of a Holy Knight.

Ragnar stopped and took a few steps back.

“You, who have never once fled even before savage heretics, now flee from me.”

Daphne’s mocking voice lingered in his ears. A woman who desired him. A young lady beautiful enough to be desired by anyone. But even Daphne, who could be considered the very embodiment of the ideal woman, had not been able to shake him for even a single moment.

Daphne never concealed her desire for Ragnar. But she was far from the only one.

Countless women desired Ragnar. For this great Holy Knight, who was also a young lord armed with masculine strength, charm, and power, there was no end to the pursuit and temptations.

Ragnar could discern every kind of desire directed at him—mature and full affection, tender longing, ambition for power, or even burning, tangled s****l obsession.

All of them tried desperately to seduce him—whether out of love, desire, or hunger for power. The number of ploys orchestrated by depraved heretics using beautiful women as bait was too many to count.

Though he had experienced the love and seduction of countless people, he could say with certainty that not once had his heart wavered. Not even for a single fleeting moment.

…And yet.

“…Please let me stay by your side, my Lord.”

Ragnar leaned back against the cold wall. Walking alone in the dark, he felt suddenly lost.

The woman’s voice always came from the lowest of places.

The filthy back alleys, the laundry quarters overflowing with waste, the slaughterhouse steeped in the stench of blood.

“Even after a thousand lashes.”

He could not finish the sentence. Perhaps the words he had spoken to Theogrim were, in truth, what he had wanted to say to himself.

“My Lord.”

“Enough.”

Ragnar replied firmly to the voice echoing within him. But the more he tried, the clearer the image of the maid in his mind became.

In response to his firm answer, the Arzeletta in his vision had tears welling sorrowfully at the corners of her eyes. In the fleeting flicker of her gaze, Ragnar felt as if he were suddenly falling into a bottomless abyss.