CHAPTER 55: CURSED KNIGHT

Growl.

My stomach screamed from hunger. I woke up from my soft bed, groaning, and instinctively placed a hand on my abdomen.

Growl.

I was starving. I really regretted not eating more this evening. I glanced over at Bob, he was sleeping like a log. No surprise there. The man had devoured so much during our double date at the café, and even before we arrived at the building, he had polished off a whole cup of chickpeas by himself. No wonder he was out cold.

Ugh. I was in a dilemma. I flopped back onto the bed. Sleep... or go find something to eat?

We had less than ten coins in our savings. A small voice inside me whispered regret about giving away all our money to the townspeople. We would definitely need to take on quests soon to replenish our funds. But the idea of questing just for money, it did not bring joy anymore. It felt more like a responsibility than something I actually enjoyed.

Hey, why are you thinking like that, Alan?

I slapped both cheeks with my hands.

There was nothing wrong with helping people. No regrets. One day, we might be the ones in trouble, needing someone’s help. That was what my parents always said.

Thinking about them made me wonder... what were they doing right now? Were they out there searching for me? Had we made the news yet, two missing adults, vanished without a trace?

Growl.

This time, it was louder and angrier. My stomach had spoken. I sat up immediately.

There was no way I could sleep like this.

I shuffled to the cupboard and changed into a thick, comfortable outfit. Before heading out, I glanced at the clock.

10.00 PM.

Quietly, I unlocked the door, stepped into the hall, and began my hunt for food.

---

In one of the quieter outskirts of the city, a woman walked alone under the pale moonlight. She wore a thick black jacket, its collar raised against the cool breeze. Her long, dark hair was tied back neatly, and both her hands were tucked into her pockets. In her right pocket, her fingers clutched a folded invitation, a formal letter to her grandfather’s birthday celebration. He was the patriarch of the Devan family.

As she passed a small intersection, two patrolling guards came from the opposite direction. Upon spotting her, one of them abruptly stopped in his tracks, standing upright and saluting with practiced precision. The other, caught off guard, quickly followed suit.

"Good evening, Lady Cynthia!" one of them called out.

Cynthia nodded curtly, not breaking her stride as she walked past them.

Once she was a good distance ahead, the guards finally relaxed. One of them, a younger man with fresh armor, turned to watch her retreating figure.

"So that’s Lady Cynthia... the first woman to ever become a Royal Knight of Rose. She is stunning. How can we apply to join her brigade, Vince?" he asked, eyes still locked on her silhouette.

Vince grabbed the younger guard by the arm and pulled him forward. "Forget that thought, Wigan. You’re new, so you wouldn’t know yet," he muttered, lowering his voice. "She’s cursed."

Wigan blinked. "What? What do you mean?"

"She became a Royal Knight at just seventeen. This year marks her fifth year in service, and in those five years, dozens of men have died under her command," Vince explained grimly. "The worst incident was three years ago, when she led a brigade against a monster attack. Twenty men died that day. Guess who the only survivor was?"

Wigan’s face went pale. "Lady Cynthia...?"

Vince nodded. "Since then, no one wants to join her. She’s become a one-woman brigade."

"That has to be a coincidence, right?" Wigan said, clearly unsettled.

"I’m not done," Vince added, leaning in closer until his lips were near Wigan’s ear, muffled by the chainmail coif. "There’s a rumor... Five years ago, her parents died, both of them, under mysterious circumstances. The whispers say... she killed them."

A chill ran down Wigan’s spine. "T-Then why didn’t anyone do anything if they suspected her?"

"Because of Sir Kelar’s interference. He took her in, made her his personal Royal Knight. Ever since, no one dares lay a hand on her. Some say there’s a scandal between them, but I don’t buy it. They don’t seem like lovers to me."

"That’s terrifying..." Wigan muttered, rubbing his arms as if to shake off the goosebumps. "Thanks for the warning. Good thing I haven’t joined any brigade yet."

"You should join mine," Vince offered. "We’re under Sir Saul, Royal Knight to Prince Reid. Our brigade’s growing fast, and we’ve had a lot of success in past campaigns."

Wigan’s eyes lit up. "Count me in, Vince! I want to join!"

Vince chuckled. "Smart choice. I’ll talk to Sir Saul for you."

The two continued their patrol under the night sky, their footsteps echoing softly under the silence of the night.

---

Cynthia arrived at the gates of the Devan family estate. The mansion stood at the center of a sprawling yard, serene, yet imposing. The Devan family was one of the five great noble houses within the city. While most noble families owned lands beyond the city walls, the five were unique, having been granted estates within the capital itself. This privilege allowed them to conduct business more efficiently and amass influence and wealth at an accelerated pace.

As she approached the main gate, two guards stepped forward. Unlike the city guards, their armor was distinct, crimson-red mail adorned with the Devan family crest: a black, winged horse mid-gallop. Without a word, they opened the gate for her, bowing in recognition.

Cynthia walked through the manicured yard, her boots crunching lightly against the gravel path. The air was crisp, and the manor loomed ahead, as dignified as she remembered.

Her thoughts drifted back, five years ago. The last time she walked this path, she had come with her parents for the very same occasion, her grandfather’s birthday. A celebration of legacy, of bloodlines.

But as her mind recalled their faces, warmth turned cold.

Suddenly, the images of that night surged into her memory. The tragedy. The screams. The silence that followed. Her hands trembled. She looked down at her hands instinctively, pale and tense. She could almost feel it again. The blood. Sticky. Warm. The blood of her parents.

Her breathing quickened, shallow and rapid. Panic began to rise in her chest like a tide, suffocating her. The world spun slightly, and her vision narrowed.

Then, a gentle hand touched her shoulder.

"Cynthia, dear... are you alright?" came a soft, familiar voice.

Cynthia looked up and saw a woman standing before her, a motherly figure with gentle eyes. It was her aunt, Martha, her father’s sister.

"Aunt Martha..." Cynthia muttered. She straightened herself slowly, her gaze briefly falling to her hands. No blood. Just skin. But the illusion had felt real, too real. Every day, the attacks were getting worse. The memories, more vivid. "I’m fine. Thank you," she replied, not meeting her aunt’s eyes. With a subtle shrug, she tried to remove Martha’s hand from her shoulder.

Martha let her hand fall away. Her eyes lingered on her niece with quiet sorrow. Poor girl, she thought. So young when it happened... Since that tragedy, Cynthia had never returned. Martha had invited her countless times over the years, and each time, the response was silence. Maybe it was the painful memories... or maybe it was something else..

Cynthia turned away and began walking toward the manor’s grand doors.

Martha followed quickly behind. "Cynthia, I’m so glad you accepted my invitation. But... you know what other family members might say, now that you’re here."

"I know," Cynthia replied without hesitation. Her eyes were fixed forward, her face unreadable. "That’s why I came. This will be my last."

"Cynthia..."

They stepped through the tall wooden doors and into the main hall.

The grandeur of the manor unfolded before them. A plush red carpet ran the length of the hall and climbed the wide staircase that split at the second floor into two grand hallways. At the far end, a pair of massive wooden doors stood.

Above them, a giant chandelier shimmered with golden flames, casting warm light across the space. The hall glowed beneath its gaze.

Servants moved briskly through the room, carrying silver trays of food and polished utensils. The air was filled with motion, chatter, and the clinking of porcelain and glass.

But Cynthia expression did not change. She walked forward, unbothered by the bustle.

The enchanted grand door creaked open on its own as Cynthia approached. Magic pulsed faintly in the air, humming like a soft whisper.

She stepped into the room.

About twenty people were seated at a long, lavishly set table. Platters of rich food lay untouched, roasted meats, fresh fruit, golden loaves of bread, yet all activity came to a halt. One by one, every head turned toward her.

Their eyes bore into her like needles.

At the head of the table, seated in a high-backed chair adorned with crimson cushions, an elderly man stared at her. His gaze was sharp despite his age. He held a wine goblet in one hand, the other resting atop a silver cane.

A slow smile tugged at his wrinkled lips.

"Well, well, well..." he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "The cursed child graces us with her presence. Bless me."