A Mastermind? No, I'm just the Live-In Son-in-Law-Chapter 5: Lunelle Misthylene

“Ah, yes. This young lady is... not in the best condition, as you can see.”

“R-right... of course...”

“So would you mind helping her out a little?”

Help her? With what? Did he mean... bring out the torture tools or something?

A flood of horrific images flashed through Sasha’s mind, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Thankfully, Whitney’s request turned out not to be that kind of favor.

“First, give her a proper bath and tend to her wounds. There are plenty of unused rooms in the servant’s wing—she can use one of those.”

“Ah...”

“And make sure she gets something to eat. She’s going to be quite busy from now on.”

It was, admittedly, a much more reasonable request than expected. But even so, Sasha couldn’t shake the ominous feeling.

Where had her master picked up such a nearly-dead girl? And what exactly was he planning to make her do?

“...I’ll do my best.”

Of course, this was after she’d received her “mental training” under the guise of a one-on-one conversation inside the carriage, so she simply buried those questions deep down and forced a bright smile as she replied.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

At Whitney’s follow-up, her smile faltered slightly.

“Please don’t touch her shoulder when you wash her.”

“...Huh?”

“She’s a little sensitive there.”

The girl flinched violently, as if in response, but it was nothing compared to how the other maids reacted beside Sasha.

‘So... they must’ve known each other for a while now.’

‘Shhh! Do you have a death wish?’

Still, even among them, it was only Sasha—thanks to her rough childhood—who knew that slave brands were usually placed on the shoulder. She couldn’t help but stiffen at the implication.

‘Forget it. Just forget it. Forget it...’

So it was with that empty, dazed expression that Sasha took over responsibility for Lunelle, who stood there in complete silence.

***

‘She should’ve recovered a bit by now.’

It had been a week since Lunelle arrived at the mansion.

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When I first pulled her out of the slave market, her condition was so dire that I’d been seriously worried. But thanks to Sasha and the maids’ devoted care over the past week, she should’ve at least regained some physical strength.

Still, what really concerned me wasn’t her physical health, but her mental state.

According to the report I received—after I’d calmed down Alfred, who was apparently in hysterics because he didn’t feel worthy to face the Count—the expression on her face hadn’t changed a bit since she was in the prison.

Then again, considering her past and everything she’d suffered, it wasn’t surprising. I’m struggling just from the threat of becoming a fallen noble. But she already is one—and on top of that, she has a slave’s brand burned into her shoulder.

In a situation like that, no matter how luxurious the treatment, you’re not going to recover emotionally.

‘Still, it’s not like there’s no way.’

Unfortunately, I can’t remove the brand from her shoulder right now.

Removing a slave’s brand requires a fairly high-ranking mage. And the one on her shoulder has been infused with ominous black magic, making it even worse.

To remove it, you’d need at least a cardinal of the Church—or a white mage capable of wielding divine authority, like my father.

Of course, the former would get me hauled before an inquisition, and the latter... well, the white mages in my father’s circle are basically our political rivals. They’re not going to help me out of kindness. So until he returns, this route is basically impossible.

Ideally, I’d solve it myself—but after the disaster at Meredia’s tea party, I’ve decided not to mess with magic again until I’ve finished my research.

So, that leaves me with only one option.

‘I just have to solve the root of the problem.’

I’ll return to her what was essentially her entire life—the one thing that could reduce that slave brand to a mere blemish.

Of course, if it were that easy, she wouldn’t be in this state. She wouldn’t have earned the title “Emperor’s Hound,” either.

But I know the truth.

I know why a woman once hailed as a sword genius lost her ability to fight. And I know how the Emperor was the one who fixed it.

And I think it’s finally time to let her in on that secret.

“Sasha, are you there?”

“Yes, sir!”

I stood up and called out to Sasha. I needed to summon Lunelle first, after all. Her reply came quickly from down the hall.

Lately, she seemed to be working a little too hard. I was beginning to wonder if she’d come down with a fever from overexertion.

“Could you bring Miss Lunelle here, please?”

“Um... Miss Lunelle is actually right here next to me!”

Just as I was about to toss out a lighthearted comment, Sasha poked her head through the doorway and answered with a confused look.

Did she... already follow my order before I gave it? Even for someone as diligent as Sasha, that seemed unlikely.

“Y-you said to put her to work once she was feeling better...”

“Ah, I see.”

The moment I heard her explanation, it all made sense.

Eventually, I’d have to make it public that Lunelle was staying in my home—but for now, it was better to keep it under wraps.

If word got out that I was the one who gave her a sword again, while I was still lacking in both power and influence, things could get messy.

So, for now, I planned to pass her off as a kindly hired maid who had nowhere else to go. It looked like that cover story was already being executed without a hitch.

In any case, she seemed fully recovered. That meant I could proceed with the plan without worrying.

“Are you getting used to the work?”

“...Yes.”

When I spoke to Lunelle—who was sweeping the hallway in a maid outfit as Sasha had said—she replied in a lifeless tone.

“You should sound a bit more cheerful...!”

Sasha, watching nervously from the side, nudged her and whispered encouragement. But Lunelle only bowed her head and stared blankly ahead.

“Well, I’m sure Sasha is taking good care of you, but if anything’s too much, please don’t hesitate to say something.”

I stepped forward slightly and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder—partly to check if I could possibly weaken the effects of the brand.

“Ugh.”

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

...but the moment my white magic lingering on my hand reacted with the slave brand, Lunelle’s face contorted in pain, and I hastily pulled my hand away.

“Well, anyway, that’s not the important part...”

For some reason, it felt like I had just done something terribly wrong. I should just get to the point.

“Ugh...”

“Huh? What’s wrong?”

Just as I awkwardly opened my mouth, Lunelle, still wearing a pained expression, suddenly staggered.

“Are you alright?”

“...I’m sorry. I’m fine now.”

Fortunately, Sasha was nearby and managed to catch her before anything serious happened, but just from looking at her face, it was clear she wasn’t in good condition.

It didn’t seem to be lingering trauma from the slave market... more likely that issue. If so, then now might not be the time to have this conversation.

“If you say so... but for now, make sure to get plenty of rest—”

“Thank...”

“When you feel better, even if it’s in the middle of the night, come to my office quietly, alone.”

So, as a gesture of consideration, I lowered my voice and whispered softly to her.

‘Because there’s something I need to talk to you about.’

Lunelle stared at me in a daze for a moment after hearing those words, then lowered her head in silence.

“...Understood.”

I had just been about to tell her she didn’t need to push herself if she wasn’t well—but then she responded with that subdued, sunken voice before I could even speak.

For some reason, it felt like I was hurting her instead of helping, and it pained me. But for Lunelle’s sake, I had to push forward.

“Sasha, please br—”

“Eep! I didn’t hear a thing!”

“...Huh? Just, please take her and let her rest.”

“Yes, yes, understood!”

I quietly watched as Lunelle leaned on Sasha’s shoulder and walked away down the hall, then turned and walked off with a faint smile.

“She won’t be making that kind of face again after today.”

“I didn’t hear anything, I didn’t hear anything, I didn’t hear anything...”

Still, I kept hearing strange muttering lately. Was it just my imagination?

***

That night. The Count of Ringaarden’s estate, under cover of darkness.

In the deep hours of the night, when most of the household had already fallen asleep, a lone figure walked quietly through the hallway.

“......”

It was Lunelle Misthylene. Thanks to Whitney’s care over the past week, her physical condition had improved significantly, but her steps toward the office—tight and suffocating—felt heavier than ever.

“...Mm.”

Even so, she walked forward in silence. But the maid outfit she was wearing—her first in life—suddenly felt stifling around her chest.

Of course, the kind-hearted Sasha had adjusted the uniform several times to make sure it didn’t pinch or chafe, so it wasn’t actually the clothes squeezing her.

But to Lunelle, the outfit was like a symbol of her status—one more crushing weight. A physical reminder of what she’d become.

Still, compared to what was about to happen, that discomfort was nothing but the beginning.

The boy who radiated that bone-chilling aura... there was /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ no way he would’ve bought her on a whim just to assign some meaningless task.

Sure, there were people who took twisted pleasure in turning fallen noble daughters into maids—but Lunelle didn’t cling to such small, fleeting hopes. She knew better.

Whatever the reason was, her life was already in ruins. What remained now was merely to find out what kind of ruin it would become.

All she could hope for was that he would assess her quickly and then discard her, before she shattered completely.

That was the most hopeful outcome her current self could imagine.

“Come in.”

After many halting steps, she finally reached the office. The boy’s soft voice called out from inside.

Creak—

The moment she opened the door, she felt it again—the same chill that had run down her spine back in the prison when they first met.

There was no other choice but to step inside. Gritting her teeth, she pulled one of the doors open.

“I’ve been waiting.”

And there he was—Whitney Ringaarden, seated at the desk, coming into view.

“You didn’t push yourself to come here, did you?”

“...No.”

“Haha... That’s good to hear.”

When their eyes met, Whitney’s already narrow eyes curved into a gentle crescent smile, and Lunelle’s body trembled faintly.

Bathed in the faint moonlight streaming through the window, his smile was powerful enough to make even someone who’d brushed past death hesitate instinctively.

“Well then... shall we get to the point?”

She remained motionless, standing silently. But the moment the main topic came up, she closed her eyes tightly.

“There’s only one thing I want from you.”

She began bracing herself internally, vowing that no matter what happened, she would never give him the reaction he wanted.

“Pick up the sword again.”

And with that single, casual remark from Whitney—her resolve shattered instantly.

“And serve me—”

“...Impossible.”

She told herself she had no room left for feelings like that anymore. But before she realized it, her once-lifeless eyes were burning with tears.

“If I could’ve picked up the sword again, I wouldn’t be standing here like this in front of you.”

No matter how broken a dragon becomes, it always retains its reverse scale.

For Lunelle, that reverse scale had always been the sword.

“Do whatever you want with me. Use me however you like. But if you ever mock me again using the sword—then I swear, with everything I have left, I will—”

“What if I told you I know how you can wield a sword again?”

Whitney’s expression hadn’t changed at all as he cut in—and Lunelle was stunned into silence.

“...What?”

“To be precise—”

And in the very next moment, her ears refused to believe what they were hearing.

“I know how to repair your completely burned-out mana circuit.”

Lunelle’s body trembled violently—far more than before.

“Would you be willing to give up everything for that, like you just said?”

But the cause of that trembling wasn’t the helplessness or despair she’d carried for over six years, nor was it the suffocating presence of Whitney that still filled the room.

‘...If what he’s saying is true.’

It was the tiniest sliver of possibility—no way of knowing if it was real or false—that entered the pitch-black abyss she’d fallen into.

“I’d sell my soul.”

“I don’t even need that. I won’t ask for your soul... or for any relics.”

And for that sliver of hope—Lunelle was willing to give everything.

“Then we have a deal.”

Even if it meant selling her soul to the devil before her eyes.