Read The Terminally Ill Young Master is the Mad Dog of the Underworld - Chapter 147

The Terminally Ill Young Master is the Mad Dog of the Underworld-Chapter 147

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[Translator - Pot]

[Proofreader - Kawaii]

Chapter 147: This Kid Is Really Something Else

After leaving the banquet hall, Geninghen headed toward his workshop, located deep within Grunewald Castle.

Too lazy to walk, he stepped onto a flying carpet and chuckled to himself.

“That kid…”

“What’s so funny?”

At the voice coming from thin air, Geninghen looked up.

On a hammock strung between ancient trees, an old man lay resting.

This man, whose presence was so ordinary—or rather, so natural that it bordered on non-existence—was none other than the Duke three generations ago and the greatest swordsman since Vitenfelt: Leszek Grunewald, the Elder of the Sword.

“What else? It’s because of your great-great-grandson.”

“Is he as talented as they say?”

The old swordsman removed his eye patch and asked.

“Even more so. Not just his potential, but his mental fortitude is extraordinary.”

“Is that so?”

“It reminds me of when you were young.”

“I see.”

Leszek nodded expressionlessly.

Whoosh— The flying carpet rose higher.

“You were eavesdropping anyway, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

If Leszek hadn’t lost the draw, he would have been the one attending the banquet.

“But it’s fascinating.”

“What is?”

The two elders, symbols of Grunewald’s glory, gazed at the lights of Grunewald City and the vast sea of night stretching beyond.

“You’ve never shown interest in your children or grandchildren, so what’s gotten into you now? Especially for a great-great-grandson.”

“Venion’s report was just that intriguing.”

“Oh?”

Geninghen studied his friend, who had always been too ascetic and disinterested in politics to be a proper Duke.

“Are you so tempted by his talent that you want to teach him? If that’s the case, you should’ve started with Georg or Verdzig.”

“That’s not it.”

Leszek shook his head, his face still expressionless.

“Georg is a man who completed himself without anyone’s guidance, and Verdzig’s five virtues don’t require my help either.”

“By that logic, Allenvert is the same. So why?”

“…Because I saw something.”

“What did you see?”

Instead of answering, Leszek changed the subject.

“Geninghen.”

“What?”

“I feel like I was born unrelated to the burdens of this world.”

“Hmph.”

Geninghen snorted.

“You just realized that now?”

A being more akin to a sword spirit than a human, with almost no trace of human desires or emotions.

Few within the clan knew his true nature. Not even the other elders.

‘…He’s spent his years in solitude without even realizing he’s lonely.’

Even as almost everyone he had shared an era with turned to dust, this man remained, unblinking in the face of time’s impermanence. He was that cold-hearted.

In stark contrast to Geninghen, who was known for his eccentricity and emotional nature, Leszek was the complete opposite.

“You abandoned the Duke’s throne to live like a hermit, buried in your swords. What burdens of the world could you possibly have?”

“You know. The mission I accepted with my own hands has always been the same.”

Leszek, the Elder of the Sword.

His epithet: Leszek, the Guardian.

Long ago, he abdicated the position of Duke to his young son, vowing to protect ‘something’ instead. True to his word, he rarely intervened in Grunewald’s political affairs.

‘He truly never intervened. He remained devoted solely to his duty, dedicating himself to the path of the sword, forgetting day and night, seasons and years.’

With his exceptional talent, an almost maddening obsession, and the passage of time, it was only natural that Leszek grew stronger.

Though he had long retired and was no longer officially ranked…

Many still considered him the strongest in the Grunewald clan.

‘Having long passed his physical prime, he reached even greater heights through relentless pursuit of martial arts.’

It had been decades since he broke through the 8th tier.

‘Yet, he never surpassed our ancestor, Vitenfelt.’

He still hadn’t reached that dreamlike realm of the 9th tier.

How deeply he must have been disappointed by that…

Even Geninghen couldn’t tell. Though they had become friends, transcending the boundaries of direct and collateral lineage, Leszek had always been an enigma.

‘Can one truly become the strongest by abandoning the world and immersing oneself solely in martial arts?’

This was one of Geninghen’s long-standing questions.

What was the difference between Leszek and Vitenfelt, two great swordsmen born a century apart? To dismiss it as a simple difference in talent would be irresponsible.

‘Our ancestor, who lived through an era of war, and Leszek, who lived a life of ascetic pursuit.’

What is the answer? Or perhaps the truth lies somewhere in between.

‘…A recluse in self-imposed exile.’

Though Geninghen himself was considered an eccentric, he often felt that Leszek, who rarely involved himself in clan affairs and focused solely on the sword, was even more of an oddity. In fact, Leszek had only joined the Council of Elders because he lost a bet to Geninghen.

“Geninghen. I feel my death is no longer far off.”

“…I see.”

Though lifespan can be extended, it is not infinite.

Compared to the vastness of the sea, a human life is no different from the brief flicker of a firefly.

“It’s about time to think about ‘who comes after me.’”

“Are you serious?”

Geninghen frowned, fully aware of what it meant to succeed Leszek, the Guardian.

“But that kid is on borrowed time.”

“If he becomes strong enough, he can extend his lifespan. And along the way, he might even find a way to cure that incurable poison.”

Leszek turned to look at Geninghen.

“Didn’t you stir up all this trouble because you thought the same thing from the start?”

“Well, that’s true.”

Geninghen licked his lips and asked again.

“But if we’re talking about succession, wouldn’t it be better for Grunewald if Georg succeeded you rather than that kid?”

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Georg was the man who had unified Grunewald during a time of crisis, using both strength and cunning to subdue the vassals and repel external threats.

The Duke who had achieved the greatest accomplishments in nearly a century.

Yet, the ‘certain threat’ that Georg, Leszek, and Grunewald had been wary of was still an ongoing concern.

“Someone must inherit the duties of the Guardian.”

“…”

That was the problem. The threat that Leszek, who had almost transcended human emotions, was the only one to guard against.

“It’s not decided yet, is it? Whether that child will become the Duke or succeed me.”

“Don’t say such terrifying things.”

Geninghen spoke seriously.

“That kid is the complete opposite of you. He’s overflowing with human emotions, yet beneath that lies deep cunning and sorrow. He’s more like me or his father than you.”

“…”

Leszek, who had been staring at the darkened sky, suddenly spoke.

“Is that so? But it will flow as fate dictates.”

“Hmph, fate is just a made-up concept.”

Geninghen snorted.

“The future is something no one can predict.”

Perhaps Allenvert could succeed both Georg and Leszek.

Or perhaps he would fail to overcome his time-limited fate and die young.

“The wind is getting cold. I’ll head in first.”

“Do as you please.”

The flying carpet carrying Geninghen slowly descended to the ground.

‘Anyway.’

They were old relics who had long since retreated to the back alleys of history. The rest would have to be left to the next generation.

‘Well, I overstepped today, not acting my age.’

But this was as far as Georg’s plan went, so there was no need for him to worry further. He had merely acted on behalf of the Duke.

“Using an old man like this. What a scoundrel.”

Geninghen chuckled, thinking of Duke Georg, who, though the head of the clan, was like a great-grandson to him.

‘But he’s twice the Duke Leszek is.’

* * *

“Somerset.”

“Y-yes.”

At the sharp voice, Somerset’s head drooped.

“Controlling information and hiding intentions are virtues of a politician. But if you can’t deceive completely, it’s better to be honest in front of this father.”

“…”

Somerset flinched, and I flinched along with him.

‘Oh no, he’s talking about me.’

“Do you understand? Answer.”

“Y-yes.”

Father shifted his gaze from Somerset and continued.

“I’ll give you a warning here.”

“We will listen carefully.”

We answered in unison.

“It’s fine if each of you has your own goals and plans to reach out to ‘external forces.’”

“!”

That was quite unexpected.

“Politics is inherently about coordinating and controlling the intentions of various factions. No one can do everything alone. So, whether you borrow the strength of your maternal clan, seek the help of vassals, or bring in external forces, I haven’t stopped you.”

His words sent a chill down everyone’s spines. It meant that everything was still within Father’s control.

“Barclava.”

“Yes! Father.”

Barclava straightened up, startled.

“Are you studying history well?”

“I’m lacking, but I’m trying.”

“Then do you know the story of the prince who brought in foreign powers during a succession dispute, only to lead his own kingdom to ruin?”

“…”

The meaning behind the question was clear.

But if Barclava answered, it might provoke Somerset, so I stepped in with some brotherly love.

“In the past, when many kingdoms coexisted, it was common to take in princes from other countries as guests, intervene in their succession battles, and then turn them into vassal states or extract concessions.”

“Correct, Allen.”

“If a single incompetent heir shakes or even destroys a centuries-old dynasty, it would be an unforgivable sin.”

“Then what should be done?”

“It must be stopped. By any means necessary.”

As the conversation continued, Somerset’s face turned ashen. It was all too clear that this warning was directed at him.

“Listen, all of you.”

“Yes.”

Father spoke in a stern, admonishing tone.

“How can I entrust the throne to someone who only seeks their own authority, regardless of whether Grunewald weakens or suffers harm?”

“…”

“Coordinating your subordinates and sometimes using their rivalries to achieve your goals is the mark of a king. If someone seeks the throne only to become a puppet controlled by their underlings, I will not allow it.”

I nodded at Father’s lesson on kingship.

‘He’s right.’

“Grunewald’s legacy belongs to Grunewald. It cannot be handed over to outsiders.”

That’s right. This is Somerset’s greatest mistake. Being swayed by his maternal clan and, worse, bringing in the underworld to scheme against Grunewald.

‘This is a warning not just for Somerset, but for all of us siblings and our maternal relatives.’

I glanced at Somerset and Bianca, the Third Lady. Their faces were as pale as the moon.

‘Somerset, your sin is incompetence.’

Yet, Father did not directly interrogate Somerset. Does Somerset understand that this is his great mercy?

‘Who knows.’

Judging by his lifeless expression, probably not.

“Father, I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well…”

As Somerset staggered to his feet, Father closed his eyes and dismissed him.

“You may leave.”

“Yes.”

The sight of Somerset and the Third Lady leaving the banquet hall was pitiful. Only their servants followed them.

‘They’re like tails with no heads.’

With this, Somerset had slipped significantly in the line of succession. Already lagging behind his siblings, his desperate flailing had turned into the worst possible move.

‘Goodbye. Don’t go too far.’

I mentally bid farewell to Somerset from my seat. That pathetic fool. Even Barclava is better than him.

‘Does this mean it’s effectively a two-way battle between me and Verdzig?’

Of course, Karl isn’t the type to give up power easily either. But since we’re allies, it’s effectively 2 against 1, or even 3 against 1 if you include Ulbhild…

‘Wait, what?’

Suddenly, a strange and eerie intuition led me to look at Verdzig’s expression.

He was smiling as he watched Somerset leave. His eyes were like a wolf eyeing its prey.

‘Wait a minute.’

A sudden realization sent chills down my spine.

‘What if Verdzig devours Somerset, who’s now incapable of recovery, and the Agrippa County?’

Finally, all the pieces fell into place. I think I understand Verdzig’s plan.

If I have the support of the Viscount of Visquera and the nearly annihilated Eisenach clan behind me—

Verdzig would still have the thriving forces of the Bergen and Agrippa counties.

“Haha.”

At that moment, Verdzig laughed and met my gaze. The satisfied smile on his lips seemed to ask me:

‘Did you figure it out?’