episode_0080

80. The Tale of Blackmoney

In his earliest childhood.

A young boy walked across a land covered only in stones and snow.

His body was riddled with unhealed wounds, and his eyes had darkened beyond recognition, as if stripped of all hope.

He gazed upon the merciless land where nothing could grow.

A selfish earth that seemed to have forgotten how to nurture life.

Though just a commoner, the boy dared to harbor a small, defiant wish.

“I want to change this world into one where people can live happily.”

Eventually, he left his parents and clan—no, savages—and sought refuge in a nearby village.

The so-called savages, who refused to submit to the empire and clung to their traditions.

The imperial citizens, who had built their own society within the empire.

The boy chose the empire.

Yet they were no different from the savages.

The harsh lands made farming difficult, and the hardened hearts of the people had no room for an orphaned child of barbarians.

As the boy lay on the frigid ground, fading into a fistful of dirt, salvation came from none other than a priest.

“Lamb of God. What brings you here?”

“…Get lost.”

“Why do you bare your fangs so?”

To the boy, raised his whole life among brutal tribes, this kindness was unsettling—foreign.

Like a starving wolf, he snarled at the priest.

“I’m a savage. If you get close to me, people… they’ll hate you.”

“Who told you that?”

“Of course it’s the villagers….”

The boy, skeletal in appearance, forced the words out between trembling breaths.

But the young priest only smiled benevolently in return.

Wielding a kindness the boy had never known as if it were a weapon.

“I’m a villager too.”

“…….”

“And now, so are you. At least two villagers don’t hate you, haha.”

The priest chuckled, unbothered.

He extended a hand to the boy.

“Your name?”

“…Baltazar Blackmoney.”

“My, what an unusual name. In our empire, only nobles bear surnames.”

“You got a problem?”

“Aye. Nobles are indeed remarkable, dignified souls.”

The priest nodded as he answered.

Blackmoney, still just a child, gritted his teeth and turned away—but the priest continued.

“But… if you cultivate a character and skill no lesser than theirs, such complaints will fade.”

“What nonsense….”

“It means: Don’t betray yourself.”

Blackmoney had learned only one thing living among the savage tribes.

Survival.

A life where survival alone was justice, like a wild beast.

Yet after meeting the priest, his life began to shift, stroke by stroke, as if painted anew.

“How does a priest know this?”

“Because I was once a soldier.”

A former soldier, the priest taught him to fight.

“I don’t like this….”

“Knowledge is a sharper sword than steel.”

“Ugh… I’ve heard that enough to last a lifetime.”

Like a true priest, he passed on wisdom of the highest quality to the boy.

His wolfish ways eroded under the priest’s brush until none remained—though unrecognizable, they were now more beautiful.

At last, Blackmoney grew into a man and fought in countless battles.

“Bring me the head of that traitor!!”

The savages charged, branding him a betrayer.

Yet the harsher the trial, the sweeter the fruit.

He fought the savages with his life on the line and caught the eye of Lord Zheitane.

The aging lord, having no heir, cherished him like a son, and Blackmoney honored him as a father in return.

As they say—the harsher the trial, the sweeter the fruit.

He flattered the lord, joining war after war to glorify his name.

His greatest feat was forcing the savages into retreat, and in time, the old lord bequeathed his title to him.

A foolish, hungry child.

He had taken one step closer to the dream he once held.

“I will change this world into one where people can live happily.”

Yet…

The illusion called “dream” did not last.

He attended an imperial ball, thinking it an opportunity.

All whispered behind his back—a nobleman without roots, born of savages.

Then, framed for an emperor’s assassination he didn’t commit, he was branded a political scapegoat and tortured.

The wrinkled old priest rushed to him when he heard the news…

Only to be executed for aiding a traitor.

So he overthrew the empire.

To forge a better world.

Even if only to cling to a dream crumbling into lies…

————————————————————————

“Did you cough, my lord?”

“Ugh… Ugh-ah—!!”

That voice, dragging him from sweet yet bitter memories.

Was it the trauma of torture? Or the dread of assassination at any moment?

Hearing a stranger’s voice, he reflexively swung the sword kept by his bedside.

“Ghh… Gahk….”

“Hah… Hah….”

A maid.

A servant who tended to nobility residing or working in the palace.

She couldn’t dodge his blade in time—cut down, blood gushing like a waterfall, her breaths ragged.

Soon, she ceased breathing, reduced to mere flesh.

“…Damn it. Get rid of this rotting carcass!!”

Enraged by his own confusion, he roared, summoning the butlers.

Their glances scorned him—*Here we go again.*

Clutching his sword, he glared and spat:

“You staring at something?”

“Forgive me, my lord. My apologies.”

“…Get out.”

The butlers carried the maid’s corpse away.

He gulped down cold water to quell his burning anger, changed clothes, and armored himself.

Sword in hand, he marched to the throne room.

The young emperor sat with her eyes tightly shut.

As if the mere sight of him disgusted her.

Ignoring her, he strode boldly into the throne room—armed and armored.

“Your Majesty, good morning.”

“… …”

No reply came.

A familiar slight, one he brushed off as he threw himself into work.

Why was the empire crumbling?

For one, the Five Lords had bled the people dry.

A simple purge of corrupt officials would fix that.

“But they were only under suspicion….”

“Doesn’t matter. Politicians are all the same.”

Within the throne room, he swung his blade himself, severing heads.

Once the dance of steel ended, he retreated to his office to work for the people.

“I bring news regarding welfare.”

“Out of money again?”

The nameless woman bowed deeply in affirmation.

A sycophant who pandered well—useful enough to keep around.

“Our coffers… Can’t the nobles pay—”

“They’ve turned their backs. None pay taxes now. The revenue left in Romania is a drop in the ocean.”

“The tombs of past emperors—rotten, useless corpses. Looted?”

“Yes.”

“What of the Dragon’s Nest? Plenty was pillaged there!”

“… …”

“Never mind. Pointless question.”

They had ransacked the Dragon’s Nest before leaving.

Not only was welfare funding lacking, but…

He glanced at the lavish jewelry weighing him down.

Power demanded dignity, so he had skimmed some for himself.

But compared to what they stole—peanuts.

Was pillaging wrong?

No—that wasn’t his fault.

“The nobles? Rebellions?”

“The ungrateful curs fail to grasp your grand vision, Lord Blackmoney.”

“Damnable wretches.”

The so-called Blackmoney Annihilation Coalition?

They slaughtered his soldiers, forcing him to rebuild war-torn lands—though little was truly restored due to lack of funds… No, had they never attacked, none of this would be needed.

And here he was, laboring tirelessly, while the high officials did what?

Sitting pretty in the throne room, yapping endlessly, obstructing his work.

Chaos inside and out.

Dripping with ornaments, he dragged his heavy body forward.

“My head’s burning.”

“Stress management is vital. How hunting?”

“Indeed—you alone truly understand me.”

He set off for the hunt with her.

“Your name was…?”

“Isabelle Verakia.”

“Verakia? A noble house—ah, the same as Grace’s subordinate, Lady Aris.”

“A branch family, yes.”

“Ha! No wonder you serve as imperial nobility.”

Mounted, they ventured into the imperial hunting grounds—normally reserved for the emperor alone, an extravagance.

But if a loyal vassal like him, laboring for the nation, couldn’t partake, what did that say of fairness?

So he strode the grounds guilt-free alongside Isabelle.

Beaters drove prey toward them, guarded by Reina, the peerless warrior.

Three hulking officials Isabelle vouched for joined as well.

He drew the bowstring taut—and released.

Without hesitation, the arrow struck the fleeing stag between the eyes.

-*Thwack.*

“Bravo! Truly, the empire’s pillar—Lord Blackmoney!”

Isabelle clapped, showering him with flattery.

Compliments from a pretty woman always went straight to his head.

“Now now, drinks to commemorate the stag!”

She handed him a drink.

Long ago, the grizzled priest had warned against drinking while riding…

But…

“Ahh~, Lord Blackmoney! My arm’s dropping!”

Pressed against him, her beauty too close, he succumbed—sipping while still mounted.

“Bravo! Bravo! The empire’s cornerstone! Another!”

Another sip.

“A marksman like you could cow those obstinate nobles into submission! Another!”

And another… just how much had he drunk?

Enough to overflow a jug.

His vision swayed, stomach sloshing with liquor against bloated flesh.

Each step the horse took sent him lurching drunkenly forward.

“My lord…”

“Wh… what…?”

“I have one request.”

Red-faced, she leaned closer.

Isabelle carried an air of nobility, befitting her lineage.

Now, she pressed herself against him, flirting.

“Let’s be alone… ♡.”

Sticky, honeyed words hammered his pulse.

Then—an axe blade slid between them, forcing them apart.

“Oi oi, none of that.”

Reina, the peerless warrior, his guard.

…

Annoyance flared.

Drunk or regretful of a missed chance?

He grabbed the halberd from his saddle and hurled it at Reina, standing in his way.

True to her title, Reina dodged with effortless grace.

Stunned, she stared at him as he scolded the insubordinate fool.

“You cur! Daring to obstruct your lord’s great work?!”

“…Fine. Do as you please.”

“Should’ve done so from the start….”

The halberd had grazed her thigh, splitting skin—blood welled.

He averted his gaze, feigning ignorance, and wrapped an arm around Isabelle.

“Come. Let us find a secluded spot for… earnest conversation.”

With her, he trudged into the wild grass deep within the hunting grounds.

Untouched by man, vines tangled thickly…

To carve a path for their private exchange, he slashed through the overgrowth with his blade.

“My lord, why treat the peerless warrior so harshly?”

“She dared stand between a lord and his will.”

As he hacked away, he answered Isabelle’s trailing voice.

“But if she were to betray you….”

“Worry not. Dangle coin before her, and she’ll forget it all.”

“From the people’s taxes? Or the pillaged spoils?”

Her question grew colder.

Before he countered, she added:

“Lately—has any welfare coin reached the people?”

“Some must have… perhaps.”

“Oh my, entrusting it to greedy Lord Lyke and Targon? Unlikely. You knew, didn’t you?”

His drunken vision swam, yet he pressed on, clearing the thicket.

Then—his sword’s edge caught Isabelle’s reflection.

“If this continues, everything will collapse.”

Behind him, she drew her bowstring taut.

No trace remained of the coy temptress—only fury, glaring down a killing shot.