Chapter 39
Chapter 39
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“I told him to run away from here. I told him I would help him escape….”
It was an utterly tedious story, so common and predictable it wasn’t worth hearing. Yet, Benedict’s patience held, solely because the woman’s trembling voice was rather pleasant to his ears. Perhaps he should make her weep properly.
If he beheaded the man, she would undoubtedly burst into tears. Ah, but perhaps she would scream first at the sight of the severed head. Screams were also to his liking, so it wasn’t a bad option. Benedict tapped his fingers against his sword hilt as if playing a keyboard, irregularly pressing and releasing them, when…
“…So please, punish me.”
Punishment. The word caught his attention. Benedict chuckled softly.
“And what do you think that punishment will be?”
He asked mockingly, and the woman hesitated. So innocent and fragile, she likely didn’t even grasp the danger in his words.
“A slave who disobeyed her master’s orders twice… and then had the audacity to smuggle out a condemned criminal. Quite impressive.”
Slowly lowering himself to one knee, Benedict met her gaze. There were usually a few reasons for such behavior. Intimacy with the other party, personal gain, or perhaps misplaced pity and compassion. The woman fell into the last category.
“Then, will you die for him?”
Benedict seized the hands she had neatly folded in her lap and lifted them, exposing her slender wrists. The implication was clear.
“If you wish it, I will grant your request.”
Her gentle, round eyes contorted in anguish. Just as he thought. He gave a cold smile.
“Master….”
“Answer me.”
After silently parting her lips several times under his harsh interrogation, the woman finally lowered her head, unable to speak.
“So that’s the extent of your resolve.”
Benedict released the woman’s hands as if tossing them aside and drew his sword.
“No, please no….”
Startled, the woman awkwardly spread her arms, shielding the servant. His eyes narrowed.
“Move.”
“P-Please, spare him.”
“I said move.”
A chilling warning laced his voice. Facing his imposing presence head-on, the woman’s face paled. Yet, she didn’t give up. Trembling, she crawled towards him and cautiously grasped the sleeve of his sword hand.
“Master, please….”
“….”
“Spare him.”
Tear-filled eyes looked up at him. Why was she going to such lengths? His prediction was wrong. Those facing imminent death invariably discarded such pathetic compassion. Yet, this woman persisted in her foolish actions, knowing they would fail.
‘Is this how those born with divine power are?’
He speculated that perhaps the mysterious ability known as divine power could explain his slave’s foolish behavior.
“If you just forgive him this once….”
Benedict gazed intently into the woman’s pleading eyes. They were like pink glass beads, so transparent he could see right through them. So pure, unlike the turbidity and impurity of the world, that they evoked a sense of aversion. And that was why he felt compelled to test her.
Could she maintain her purity even in despair? Could she remain unwavering in her goodness even at the precipice?
The woman stirred a desire within him—a base, sadistic desire to test her, push her, and ultimately corrupt her, to reveal her as a vile creature just like everyone else. Benedict gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“Huu….”
Finally, the woman burst into tears. Teardrops that had clung precariously to her lower lids lost their hold and fell.
“….”
In truth, Benedict wasn’t one to attach much significance to the tears of others. Aside from a childhood he barely remembered, he hadn’t cried himself, and he despised the act of trying to gain something through tears. More than anything, tears were merely another bodily fluid that disgusted him. But perhaps the woman’s tears were something he wanted to see.
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