Chapter 41: When I Came to My Senses, It Was a Needlessly Glamorous Hell 4

Count Turen abruptly embraced me, calling me his son.

As the subject of this bewildering situation, I momentarily didn’t know how to react.

‘Son? No… What is this sudden, nonsensical…’

The first thought that crossed my mind was whether this man was merely toying with me.

However, for someone other than a condemned ‘spy’ to be addressed as a son and treated this way would be an utterly pointless act, unless he were an exceptionally peculiar deviant.

‘Then… Does this mean his words are genuine?’

In the original work, Count Turen had no son.

While his son was mentioned a few times, he was essentially portrayed as deceased, with only his mage daughters being discussed.

As such, Turen was depicted as someone constantly concerned about a lack of an heir.

And naturally, there was no connection whatsoever between the background character Santana and the supporting character Count Turen in the original work.

One thing, however…

Aside from their surnames…

‘Wait a moment… Come to think of it, both Turen and I share the surname Andreas, don’t we?’

Truthfully, until now, I had simply accepted the name Andreas as that of a fallen noble family…

More precisely, a once insignificant noble family from the vicinity of Milan that had utterly collapsed.

I had never imagined it could refer to the Andreas family of this very Bohemian region, rather than Milan.

“For the past eleven years, I have tirelessly searched for you, but to no avail! Yet the Lord has not forsaken me! For you to reappear before me now, at this crucial juncture…”

Count Turen embraced me tightly, tears streaming down his face as he spoke.

His words and demeanor suggested this was no jest or conspiracy, but a genuine reunion.

It seemed the original Santana was, in fact, Count Turen’s lost son.

‘Shit… No… Is this for real? Was Santana truly Count Turen’s son originally? But then, why had he gone all the way to distant Milan to play at being a Holy Knight? And for eleven years, no less.’

As a central figure among the heretical forces, it would have been natural for Count Turen’s child to be active within those circles.

Yet, the Santana I knew was merely a Holy Knight in Milan, nothing more, nothing less – and his actions thus far had even suggested a rather negative attitude towards heresy.

Of course, after I had taken over this Santana’s existence, such matters as heresy became irrelevant due to my indifferent nature.

Regardless of the actual circumstances, however, I now had to make a choice as Santana.

‘Even if Santana truly was Count Turen’s son, that’s their business… Here, I must assess the situation objectively. Should I accept this fact or deny it?’

Eleven years was a long time – enough for significant changes.

By age, it would be akin to running away as a young teenager and returning as an adult.

Not only physical appearances but also demeanors and memories could have undergone substantial transformations.

Yet, despite this, for Count Turen to instantly recognize me as his son based solely on our shared name and similar appearance seemed rather unnatural, barring a father’s intuition.

In other words, if I were to deny being Turen’s son here, there was a surprisingly good chance of it being accepted.

Moreover, considering the impending war with the Emperor and the urgent need to depart this place swiftly, denying the claim would be the correct choice from a long-term perspective.

However, these considerations only applied if we could emerge from here unscathed.

If I denied being Count Turen’s son, and somehow that claim was accepted, our next destination would likely be the afterlife rather than the Dragonian Empire.

As a supposed impostor who had taken on his son’s identity while acting as a Church spy, Count Turen would have no reason to show us leniency.

Compared to a hopeless journey to the afterlife, wallowing in a cesspit while remaining in this world was undoubtedly preferable.

Although it meant being completely bound to Bohemia, the answer had already been decided.

In the end, I could only arrive at one conclusion here.

“…I have caused you grief… Father…”

“Yes… My son. Thank you… Thank you truly. To have safely returned to me, grown into such a fine man. This father has no further regrets.”

A father-son reunion that could never have occurred in the original work.

Although another soul now resided within this son’s mind, I had no choice but to accept this for the sake of survival.

As Count Turen tightened his embrace, his voice brimming with emotion, I inwardly heaved a heavy sigh.

Whether fortunate or unfortunate, I could not escape this needlessly glamorous hell.

Lamenting my wretched fate that had led me to this quagmire…

‘…Why hasn’t there been any news yet? Surely nothing has happened already…’

Cazeros gazed anxiously at the prison door, her expression filled with unease.

At this moment, her mind was consumed solely with worry for Santana.

‘This can’t go wrong… If something happens to him, I… I…’

Her agitation surpassed mere concern, verging on desperation.

Her feelings towards Santana could no longer be described as mere camaraderie.

Having witnessed Santana’s presence as a Holy Knight, especially during their tumultuous recent journey – albeit spanning only a few months, the most eventful period of her life – he had become more than an ordinary companion or friend to Cazeros.

A person possessing an unfettered freedom, unbound by rituals or formalities.

Someone who understood what truly mattered.

And someone capable of effortlessly resolving any problem through ingenious means, exhibiting truly remarkable abilities.

Observing these qualities, Cazeros had naturally found herself drawn to him.

Now, Santana had become an irreplaceable part of her life.

‘Surely this can’t be the end… No… No, that cannot be… I haven’t even confessed yet…’

Gripped by an ominous premonition, Cazeros clutched the rosary on her wrist tightly and fervently prayed.

‘O Heavenly Father… Holy Mother… Great Magdalena, Governess of the World… Please heed this feeble daughter’s prayer… Protect the noble one who upholds Your will… I beseech you. Safeguard him from the clutches of these vile heretics, that no harm may befall him…’

With her entire being poured into her clasped hands, Cazeros offered her plea.

Although no response followed, at least for this moment, she could quell the unsettling emotions stirring within her.

“Haah…”

Heaving a deep sigh, Cazeros turned her gaze back towards the prison door.

Then, her eyes fell upon Santana’s other ‘woman’ seated beside her.

The woman who had undergone nearly the same treatment, Polena, maintained a serene expression even in their predicament.

As if the current situation warranted no concern, as if everything would inevitably work out given time.

Puzzled and somewhat disgruntled by this, Cazeros addressed the red-haired maid in a slightly curt tone.

“Even in such circumstances, you seem remarkably at ease… Do you have a particular belief sustaining you?”

“Hmm… Who knows?… What do you think?”

“…This is no time for games. If something truly happened to Santana, what would you do?”

“Well, what can we do? Worrying won’t change anything, will it?”

“…”

Once again rendered speechless by Polena’s pointed remark, Cazeros fell silent.

Observing this, Polena smiled and leaned comfortably against the prison wall, speaking in a casual tone.

“For now, simply trust the Master, as you have done thus far.”

“Umm…”

While not particularly reassuring, Polena’s words held a pragmatic truth.

Reluctantly, Cazeros decided to heed her advice and wait patiently, placing her trust in Santana for the time being.

At that moment…

“!”

Soldiers suddenly approached.

They carefully opened the prison door and addressed the two women in a respectful manner.

“Please follow us.”