Chapter 33

“[Greed]. Hey, [Greed]!”

Called repeatedly by that elegant voice, Horst slowly pried his eyelids open.

“…”

A magnificent chandelier, tapestries of the finest luxury. A large table boasting delicate craftsmanship and a perfectly arranged tea set. It was the same as always—his usual “cell.”

As Horst let out a wide yawn, the woman sitting diagonally across from him spoke up in an exasperated tone.

“Honestly, [Sloth] went through the rare trouble of brewing tea, and now it’s gone cold.”

She was a stunning woman with lustrous silver hair flowing over her shoulders, wearing a negligee-like dress with practiced disarray. This was Heidemarie—the former courtesan who could topple nations, and the undisputed Queen of this prison.

“It is quite alright. The Harnish I prepared today is a blend that remains delicious even when chilled.”

Today, as always, Morgan—the avatar of [Sloth] and a former con artist—wore a gentle smile, dressed like a butler to a prestigious family. Beside him, their other companions were already sipping from their teacups in their own relaxed ways.

“What is it? Were you up all night pulling experiments again?”

The one raising a finely groomed eyebrow in a teasing manner was Liesel—the avatar of [Envy], a former kidnapper who specialized in brainwashing.

“You were muttering some rather unsettling things in your sleep.”

The one sitting next to Heidemarie with his legs crossed, turning his striking blue eyes toward Horst with interest, was Gilbert—the avatar of [Wrath] and a former Hero.

And then there was the giant of a man who took no part in the conversation, focus entirely on devouring scones slathered in clotted cream: Isaac, the avatar of [Gluttony].

“…No, it’s nothing. I think I was just remembering an incident from about ten years ago when I considered burning [Gluttony] to death.”

“Mu?”

The “Elma Getting Lost Incident” was, in Horst’s mind, entirely Isaac’s fault. When Horst muttered this out of lingering annoyance, Isaac looked up with a puzzled expression. Looking at that face—a contradictory mix of ferocity and simple-mindedness—Horst snorted and pointedly changed the subject.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s in the past. More importantly, did you change the cushions on this sofa recently? It was unusually comfortable to sleep on.”

“Oh, you’re just now noticing?”

As Horst pressed his palm against the sofa to test the feel, Heidemarie gave another exasperated sigh from across the table. She shrugged, her movement highlighting the delicate lines of her collarbone.

“I told you before, didn’t I? We had a bit of ‘extra income,’ so I decided to refurbish the furniture in the cells.”

“Extra income?”

As Horst tilted his head in confusion, Liesel let out a sigh of his own. He spread his beautifully manicured, feminine hands in a gesture of surrender.

“It’s no use, Marie. This boy has been cooped up in his lab the whole time while all that business regarding little Clemens’s imprisonment was going on.”

“Clemens…?”

Horst knit his brows at the unfamiliar name, digging through his memories. His brilliant mind quickly pulled up the information, even if it was something he hadn’t cared about.

Clemens von Rottner, the former Marquis. A former Prime Minister who had recently been sent to this prison on charges of attempted royal assassination and human rights violations through false accusations.

While Horst’s sleep-fogged brain wondered how that tied into extra income, Morgan and the others beat him to the explanation.

“The new King who ascended the throne was kind enough to send letters to the ‘victims’ in this prison whom the former Marquis had framed. He inquired if we would like to be released via royal pardon and offered to facilitate our lives afterward. Naturally, we sought our Queen’s opinion.”

“It was a lovely sentiment, but being released now would just be a nuisance, wouldn’t it? Our happy home is already ‘here.’ Since I have absolutely no intention of returning to the outside world, I left it to [Sloth] to convey that message properly.”

True to his title as a former con artist, Morgan had performed his role flawlessly. He had sent a response that—while sounding deeply grateful and persuasive—essentially stated:

“While we appreciate the kindness, the lost years can never be returned. We have no wish to cast a shadow over the new King’s reign, so we would prefer to live out our lives in a humble hermitage near the prison. We would, however, appreciate a small allowance to cover the costs.”

In short—he had filed a claim for damages.

“…How much did you get?”

Horst asked, feeling slightly curious. Morgan smiled placidly and held up three fingers. Horst didn’t get the exact number of digits… but then again, he didn’t need to ask. They had clearly swindled a staggering amount.

“…Well done, [Sloth].”

“Not at all. It is simply that the new King of Luden is a merciful man. In fact, along with his letter granting us permission to do as we please, he even sent a gift.”

“A gift?”

“Yes, he is a toy—intended as a distraction from our boredom.”

That “toy” was none other than Clemens von Rottner, gagged and clad in wretched rags.

Normally, individuals of noble birth are guaranteed a certain degree of human rights, regardless of their status as prisoners. However, King Felix had sought to soothe the lingering resentment of the victims by throwing Clemens into their nest to do with as they pleased. He had even added a note stating they could gouge out his eyes or tear off his limbs if they so desired.

It was a remarkably tactful, resourceful—and utterly cold-blooded—move.

Horst, however, merely raised an eyebrow with an amused “Huh.”

“And where is this Mister Clemens? I don’t see him around.”

“About that—”

Morgan spread his hands with a slightly troubled smile. “When he was sent here, he was in such a… delightfully broken state that [Envy] has been providing him with some ‘treatment’.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Liesel himself, gracefully sipping his tea, answered Horst’s question.

“Well, it seems my brilliant star pupil went a bit overboard with the brainwashing; a few of his screws had completely flown off. His body was constantly swinging side-to-side, and he’d get over-excited every time he saw a piece of string. The moment Marie laid eyes on him, she got grumpy and said, ‘I don’t need a toy like this.’ So, I was the one drafted to fix him.”

Liesel frequently bickered with Heidemarie over trivial matters, but they were essentially close friends, and he seemed to enjoy being relied upon by her. Horst didn’t quite understand it, but he figured it was just that “girl talk” dynamic.

Horst nodded and let it slide with a “Hmm.” “Is he successfully cured?”

“Naturally. I’ve even layered in a perfect brainwashing sequence so he’ll obey my commands in an emergency. Though, I am a bit bothered by how he suddenly gets tight-lipped whenever I try to make him speak about certain specific pieces of information.”

Liesel pressed an index finger to his lips and knit his brows, looking somewhat dissatisfied. His philosophy for brainwashing was “Total, Intense, and Subtle.” His aesthetic demanded that he possess absolute control—to the point where a target would obey even a command to commit suicide—while ensuring the target remained entirely unaware of the manipulation under normal circumstances.

Despite this, there was still a lingering trace of resistance when he commanded the man to “speak.” This was what left Liesel feeling unfulfilled.

“My, how rare. Could it be that even [Envy] has failed a brainwashing?”

“Watch your mouth. Who said anything about failing? It’s only natural that the degree of servitude varies depending on the subject matter. It’s only because my checks are twice as meticulous as anyone else’s that I can notice those minute differences that a normal person would miss. I’ll have you know, manipulating a consciousness so thoroughly that the subject has no memory of being brainwashed—or even of meeting me—requires an incredibly delicate technique.”

Miffed at being teased by his “girlfriend” and rival, Heidemarie, Liesel snapped back sharply. Then, he smoothly steered the conversation back to Clemens’s current condition.

“Hehe, in truth, he’s become quite meek and intellectual—he almost has a priestly air about him now. His vibe is a bit similar to [Sloth], I suppose. …Mmm, but with those dark, murky emotions just barely seeping out from the bottom of his heart, he’s much more charming than [Sloth].”

“How rude. To think you wouldn’t acknowledge the charm overflowing from me,” Morgan interjected, clutching his chest dramatically as Liesel smirked.

Gilbert, who had been listening to the exchange in silence, let out a small chuckle.

“True enough. [Sloth] seems to have the superior poker face. This man… Clemens appeared to be quietly looking for an opportunity to escape. Before long, he might even start plotting to slit our throats in our sleep.”

As he spoke, he gathered a strand of Heidemarie’s hair in his hand. He seemed to welcome the fact that entertainment had been provided for the woman he loved. “It looks like things are going to be lively here for a while.”

“Oh, you think so?”

Heidemarie leaned forward, knife in hand, intending to serve a piece of delicious-looking baked pie to her devoted lover. But then, as if noticing something, she suddenly looked up.

—Whizz!

Without a moment’s hesitation, she flicked her right hand and threw the knife behind her. The polished silver blade struck the door at the back of the room with a dull thud.

“…Though, Gil.”

She kept her eyes lowered as she glanced back at the door, her lips slowly curling upward.

“Instead of saying ‘it’s going to be,’ perhaps ‘it has become’ would be more accurate?”

Pushed by the force of the knife, the door swung open. There, frozen in place and staring at the knife embedded inches from his face, stood Clemens.

“…Wh…?”

“Eavesdropping is such a lonely habit. Please, don’t be shy—come inside.”

Curbing the agitated former Marquis with a smile, Heidemarie gracefully gestured toward the room. At her signal, Isaac dragged the paralyzed Clemens into the room by force. Her smile deepened.

“Welcome, Clemens. We welcome you,” she said in a voice as sweet as melted honey.

As she watched the man struggle to maintain his composure without screaming or collapsing, she narrowed her eyes with satisfaction. “Have some tea. Let’s have a nice, long chat,” she said, offering him a seat.

“…What… what do you intend to do with me—?”

“Please, relax. This place is very quiet, comfortable, and boring. Just keep us company for a little while.”

Heidemarie threw a seductive, courtesan’s gaze at Clemens as he questioned her in a low voice. She studied him—he was barely managing to keep a straight face—and then tilted her head slightly. “I wonder… do you like cards?”

It seemed she had just thought of a perfect game. Her decisions were the rule and the law of this prison.

As Heidemarie cast her smiling gaze around the room, the men who had been languidly enjoying their tea slowly stood up. The con artist, the kidnapper, the mad scientist, the berserker, and the fallen hero—each of them stared at Clemens with expressions that betrayed nothing of their true intent.

“….”

Heidemarie smiled elegantly at the man who had been rendered speechless by the sheer pressure in the room.

“Now, let us begin a new game.”