Chapter 1

The Marigold Count’s Household

The late head of the family, Briang Marigold. Passed away at the age of 38.

The late countess, Senitia Marigold. Passed away at the age of 35.

The late eldest daughter, Aileen Marigold. Passed away at the age of 13.

Buried here.

Soft, white snow gently covered the cold gravesite.

As if mourning the death of the Marigold family.

A man stood before the gravestones, paying his respects with a solemn bow before pouring liquor and sprinkling it over the tombstone.

It was the customary way for the people of the Detroit Territory to honor the deceased.

It was a truly puzzling sight.

That members of the Marigold family were buried in this far-off northern land and receiving such reverence.

Even after completing the ritual, the man remained in place for quite some time.

After a considerable passage of time, a quiet suggestion from his adjutant broke the silence.

“Your Grace, we have been delayed for quite some time.”

The man responded with a slight nod in acknowledgment.

As he turned away from the grave, sunlight danced around him.

Even from afar, his striking features stood out.

He stood tall, his physique lean yet solid, without an ounce of excess.

His silver hair, as if a drop of blue ink had burst within it, and his striking blue eyes made his presence utterly unmatched.

It was only natural.

The man was none other than Kallain Detroit, the head of the infamous Detroit Territory.

Countless titles followed him.

The Grand Duke of Blood, the Living Ghost of the North, the Ruthless Architect of Detroit.

And, true to those merciless epithets, his very existence exuded an overwhelming presence.

But then—

As Kallain turned, a man entered his line of sight like a thorn in his vision.

Seated at an angle, the man passed by Kallain without even the slightest nod of respect.

His steps carried no hesitation as he walked forward.

As if he possessed at least two lives to spare.

Kallain merely let out a light chuckle at the blatant disregard directed at him.

It was his butler—Count Jayden Fiolenne—who couldn’t contain his anger instead.

“How much longer will you tolerate that insolence, Your Grace?”

Kallain’s lazily lowered eyes lifted slowly.

The blue within them gleamed with intrigue.

“I couldn’t ask for a better guard than this.”

He recalled his first encounter with the man who had just walked past him.

It had been ten years ago, in the ruins of the Marigold County, reduced to ash.

In that dreadful mansion engulfed in flames, the child had survived.

Even when a blade was raised against him, the child had only glared back with piercing, unwavering eyes.

He was a rather intriguing child.

A wild energy radiated from him, reminiscent of Kallain’s own younger self.

If not for that, Kallain would never have risked bringing him all the way to Detroit.

Looking back, that day had been an unexpected variable in his life.

Of course, that didn’t mean he had any special expectations for the child.

A well-bred young master would surely crumble soon enough and run away somewhere.

It wasn’t hard to imagine what fate would await him if he did.

He would either starve to death as a beggar or be exploited by swindlers until he met a miserable end.

Either way, it wouldn’t be a pleasant outcome.

But that wasn’t something Kallain cared about.

And yet, after arriving in Detroit, the child endured every grueling trial.

Contrary to Kallain’s assumption that he would give up soon, the boy, filled with sheer determination, never once neglected his training.

In the end, he earned a place among Detroit’s knights.

‘From now on, your name will be Vikel.’

Given a new name, Vikel grew stronger at a remarkable pace, eventually securing a position at Kallain’s side.

Kallain’s butler, Jayden, was far from pleased that Vikel had been entrusted with his lord’s protection.

But what could he do? Before his master’s will, he had no choice but to remain silent.

Yet on days like this, when they visited the Marigold family’s grave, Jayden couldn’t hold his tongue.

“How can a mere guard walk ahead of his master with such arrogance?”

“Perhaps he wishes to guard the front, not the rear.”

“Your Grace!”

Despite Jayden’s sharp call, Kallain remained unfazed.

“Count, your master is not hard of hearing.”

Letting out a sigh at his lord’s indifference, Count Jayden lowered his voice.

“What if that man still holds a grudge against Your Grace for what happened that day?”

Kallain did not bother to respond.

A deep silence naturally settled over the space. As always, it was Jayden who found this silence frustrating.

‘What in the world is His Grace thinking?’

Unable to quell his concerns, Jayden spoke up again.

“If it is out of pity, then perhaps it would be best to at least provide him with separate quarters.”

“Enough.”

Though his tone was languid, the weight of authority in his words was overwhelming.

Jayden could say no more.

In the heavy silence, Kallain made his way toward the carriage.

Each of his steps carried weight, as if pressing down on the past itself.

And within that past, vivid memories resurfaced like a painting.

Flames engulfing the mansion in crimson, a family reduced to ashes.

The annihilation of an entire noble house—
It had all happened in the blink of an eye.

* * *

That Day, Ten Years Ago—The Fall of House Marigold.

The catastrophe began with the rampage of a single Manifested One.

The abilities passed down through the imperial bloodline were hailed as a blessing, yet to those who bore them, they were nothing short of a curse.

If left unchecked, these powers would spiral out of control.

Once a rampage began, unbearable pain would consume the body from within, as if tightening a noose around the soul.

No one knew exactly what triggered such outbursts.

All that was understood was that they could be caused by intense emotions or the aftermath of an ability’s activation—nothing more.

For that reason, all Manifested Ones were required to keep a Purification Agent close at all times.

Only through purification could they return to being human—if they were ever human to begin with.

Without it, they would either endure the agony with sheer willpower or succumb to a tragic fate.

‘What a damnable blessing this is.’

Kallain scoffed, climbing roughly into the gilded carriage before throwing himself onto the seat.

As soon as he closed his eyes, thoughts of the past crept in once more.

That day was just another one of many.

His half-brother had lost control in minor rampages before, so Kallain hadn’t thought much of it at first.

That was why, when he arrived at the scene, the first thing that left his mouth was a curse.

“Damn it.”

The Count’s estate had been utterly razed to the ground, leaving behind nothing but ruins.

The scorched earth was littered with corpses.

Among them lay Count Briang Marigold and Countess Senitia Marigold.

It was a small mercy that their bodies were at least recognizable—most of the dead had been reduced to unidentifiable remains.

Somewhere among them, without a doubt, was the thirteen-year-old Aileen Marigold.

For a member of the imperial family to have lost control so disastrously, leaving such a massacre in his wake—
It was nothing short of a disgrace to the royal bloodline.

The late emperor may have overlooked many things, but he never tolerated public humiliation of the imperial family.

Everyone knew about Manifested Ones and their rampages, yet people believed that purification was enough to keep everything in order.

If the truth got out, it would be like handing a weapon to the noble houses—
And that was an idiotic mistake the emperor refused to make.

So, as always, the dirty work was dumped onto Kallain.

And just like that, the truth of that day was buried by his hands.

That sealed box would never be opened again.

The fall of House Marigold was unfortunate, but Kallain felt no particular sorrow for it.

It was no more than a thorn under his fingernail—mildly irritating, nothing more, nothing less.

The only unforeseen variable was the eight-year-old child he had taken in—an orphan brimming with ferocity who still remained in his household.

Or perhaps it was better to call it a disgusting act of hypocrisy.

“Do not place too much trust in that man.”

Count Jayden’s face, etched with age and worry, reflected the weight of his concerns.

“There are rumors that Vikel has been investigating what happened that day.”

His gaze toward Vikel was sharp, unwavering.

“And? Even if he uncovers the truth of that day, what would change?”

“What if he harbors a grudge against Your Grace and turns his blade against you? What will you do then?”

“Jayden, you worry over nothing. Do you still see me as the cursed imperial prince of my childhood?”

“I know that, but…”

“Then stop worrying about such things.”

Kallain’s words were undeniable.

In truth, fretting over something like this was laughable.

As he had said, he was no longer the powerless, cursed prince who had yet to manifest his abilities.

He was Kallain Detroit, the Grand Duke of Blood.

Who in their right mind would dare to harm him?

It was a foolish concern.

And truly, Jayden was the only person left who could speak so freely with him after all these years.

The carriage swayed gently as it carried them toward the estate.

Sunlight flickered across Kallain’s sculpted features, casting a subtle shadow of melancholy.

Then, as if he had been waiting for the right moment, Jayden spoke again.

“Your Grace, isn’t it time you considered marriage?”

“And where, exactly, would I find a noble lady willing to come to this frozen northern land?”

It wasn’t just the harsh northern climate that was the problem—
It was his iron-cold face, or rather, his monstrous reputation.

But instead of saying that outright, Jayden chose to soften his words.

“If I had Your Grace’s face, I’d have noble ladies lined up for the chance to court me.”

At his lighthearted remark, Kallain let out a small chuckle, shaking his head.

His gaze drifted toward the window, where he caught sight of Vikel’s back, walking ahead.

And over that image, the gravesite from earlier resurfaced in his mind like an unwanted ghost.

A wry smirk tugged at Kallain’s lips.

“Romance? As if.”

With this tainted blood running through his veins, there was no chance of such a thing.

Just sharing the same lineage as those monsters was enough to disgust him.

A storm of emotions swirled within him—anger, resentment, something else he couldn’t quite name.

Unnoticed, that surge of emotion heated his body, creeping up his skin.

Kallain pressed his palm against his burning forehead, letting out a dry, bitter laugh.

‘Damn it.’

It was happening again.

TL/N: Count (백작, Baekjak) in the dialogue is Jayden Fiolenne, Kallain’s butler. Despite serving as a butler, he is still of noble rank, which is why he is addressed as “Count.”