The terrifying attack left no trace once it ended—save for the lingering fear in people’s hearts.

Everyone knew “something happened at Count Doraf’s residence,” but that was all. At most, it became post-dinner gossip.

Only the Doraf family remained in utter chaos.

Though the Doraf surname matched the imperial house, he was not of royal blood.

Sharing a name did not grant the Carasco bloodline.

Hence, he remained a Count—not a Prince, not even a Duke.

The empire’s system was slowly reverting to antiquated ways. Whether that was good or bad remained unclear.

But for Rhode, who had zero interest in an official career, it hardly mattered.

All attention centered on Shilo—the attack had clearly targeted him.

As for Rhode, visitors came, yes, but only out of formality.

Ironically, Shilo cared the most. Worried Rhode might feel bored, he quietly brought over a stack of books.

They now sat neatly by the bedside.

Rhode sat on his bed, gazing absentmindedly at the white clouds outside.

Though the assassin “Uncle” had given him potions that barely kept him alive, wounds don’t vanish. So Rhode stayed put—this bed, once his own, had now earned the title “sickbed.”

Strange… that night, dragging his bloodied body home, he felt oddly numb.

Resentment? Anger? Relief? None surfaced.

Even when his mother clutched his soaked form and wept, he felt little. Calmly, he reached out to comfort her tear-streaked face.

Even Doraf’s gaze held quiet worry.

Thinking it over… he wasn’t forgotten. His family did care—or so it seemed.

That night, many asked what happened. Could he say he fought the assassin to protect Shilo and miraculously won?

No way. Even if he did, no one would believe it. Rhode himself found it dreamlike.

So he claimed he escaped one assassin, then was saved by another unknown one.

Hunted by an assassin, saved by another? Absurd—but more believable than saying he took one down himself.

Hearing this, people comforted him: “So lucky! A moment later and you’d be gone.”

Rhode knew his luck was insane. But…

He couldn’t name his feelings—then or now. Too tangled. So he kept it to himself.

If gratitude had a name? That enigmatic “Uncle,” and the dark dagger.

The unassuming blade rested quietly on the nightstand.

Sunlight touched its edge—barely a glint reflected.

Dull. Unremarkable. Yet it was the weapon that let him fight and survive.

He actually wanted to chat with the Black Sword “Uncle” inside. Found him fascinating—so chuunibyou, so wildly passionate.

It was the “Black Key,” yet he insisted on “Black Sword.” How much did he hate the real name?

Rhode had no idea what the full weapon looked like. He’d only gotten a fragment.

Not that he planned to hunt for more. This dagger-sized piece? Perfect.

He picked up the “Black Key,” studied it awhile, then set it down.

Wished he could wield it properly—but his body wouldn’t allow it.

Fingers flexed lightly around the hilt, rehearsing the dagger basics Black Sword taught him.

Wait—dagger basics, not sword.

Finally, something he genuinely wanted to learn. And the best part? He could do it lying down.

He still couldn’t reliably enter the Mind Manifest Realm, but occasional success felt exhilarating.

Each time he succeeded, he’d pester Black Sword for lessons inside.

“Hey, I heard you were injured.”

The door swung open mid-thought. A young girl’s voice chimed in.

“Your Highness, please knock,” Rhode said flatly, glancing at Leona.

“I did. You just didn’t hear.”

“Fine, fine.” Rhode sighed. Since when did knocking mean you could walk right in without an “Enter”?

He held zero interest in Leona—no princess complex.

A princess? Just someone born noble.

A commoner? Someone born ordinary.

Both human. Right?

Compared to princesses, Rhode preferred warm elder sisters and sweet younger sisters.

“Oh? So this is a ‘get-well’ visit?” Rhode arched a brow, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Leona blinked, puzzled. “Of course. Why else would I be here?”

“Gift?”

“N-no…” Leona stammered after a beat. “What… what would you like?”

She seemed to realize arriving empty-handed was awkward.

“Books. I like reading. Lately, I’m into assassin-themed novels.”