Chapter 12: Skeptic.
"I have no idea."
Stuart's words echoed in Beltrán's ears for several seconds before he finally processed what had just been said.
Huh?
Beltrán stared blankly at Stuart, who had already turned around and started walking toward the door. It took him a moment to realize the boy was actually leaving.
"Wait!" Beltrán called out, his thoughts in complete disarray.
Stuart stopped and turned back. A trace of irritation showed on his face.
"What now?" he asked impatiently.
Beltrán could almost feel a vein throbbing on his forehead.
Was he an idiot, or was he pretending to be one?
Who in the world offered a solution they didn't even have?
Suppressing his irritation and forcing himself to regain composure, Beltrán sorted through his thoughts before fixing Stuart with an openly skeptical stare.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked, unconvinced by Stuart's so-called assistance.
Even in his half-conscious state earlier, Beltrán remembered clearly how Stuart had intervened, helping him and openly earning Noah's hostility in the process. This was the same Stuart who had mocked and harassed him before—right up until Beltrán himself had intimidated him into stopping.
He couldn't understand why Stuart had suddenly decided to help.
Stuart smiled, almost amused by Beltrán's confusion.
"Let's just say our last few encounters made me realize you're not just some weak-minded brat hiding behind a good family name. For now, I'd recommend resting and avoiding any more beatings. Even though you made it out this time, Noah will probably come looking to finish the job."
There was an odd certainty in Stuart's tone, one Beltrán couldn't quite place.
After saying that, Stuart finally left, leaving Beltrán alone in the infirmary.
Beltrán's mind, strained by both physical agony and the mental scars left behind by endless bullying, felt utterly exhausted.
Though he clung to the idea of retaliating against those who had tormented him without end, he still felt hollow.
He had never been an especially vengeful person.
And while he no longer wanted to be anyone's prey, revenge itself didn't feel like it would bring true satisfaction.
My mind is a mess…
He lifted his shirt and grimaced.
Bruises covered nearly every part of his body. Purple and green ointments had been spread across them in uneven patches. His face burned, some cuts already treated while others were still forming into ugly welts.
Across his abdomen stretched a reddish gash where Noah's metal rod had broken the skin.
Beltrán felt disgusted by the sight of himself.
He had always hated the appearance of a battered body.
Still, there was nothing he could do.
As his thoughts churned, exhaustion slowly swallowed him whole.
He was barely given time to rest before the teacher returned, accompanied by Sir Aliss, who had come to take him home.
The knight's face remained as expressionless as ever, showing no reaction whatsoever despite the humiliating state of his young master.
Inside the carriage, Beltrán rode in silence while Aliss stared out the window.
I don't want to say I'm disappointed, but I honestly expected more from knights.
At least some of his doubts had now been confirmed.
Sir Aliss didn't particularly care about Beltrán's current condition.
What surprised him wasn't the indifference itself, but how openly Aliss displayed it. Beltrán had at least expected some empty gesture—a question about what happened, followed by a hollow I'll see what I can do.
Guess I'm still just an eight-year-old kid, huh?
Another realization settled into him.
Unlike his previous world, where childhood carried a certain degree of sympathy, this world considered twelve the threshold of adulthood.
An eight-year-old here wasn't someone to be pitied.
Unless there was some prior attachment, most people simply wouldn't care.
I wonder if you'd still keep that cold facade if the child nearly beaten to death had been your own son.
The thought carried a bitter edge as he closed his eyes and let time pass.
Eventually, the carriage came to a halt.
Beltrán stepped down carefully, doing his best not to aggravate the pain wracking his body, and silently made his way into the manor.
As he crossed the furnished halls, his gaze drifted over the white sheets draped over unused furniture, protecting them from dust.
To most commoners, Beltrán's home would undoubtedly be considered a mansion.
It had an expansive garden, a front courtyard large enough to hold three carriages, and a two-story structure capable of hosting nearly eighteen guests—not to mention the servant quarters scattered across the estate.
Maybe it really was a mansion.
And yet, as he walked through it, Beltrán felt nothing but crushing loneliness.
The covered furniture cast ghostly shadows. The fading daylight barely filtered through the windows, while pale lamplight offered only enough illumination to keep the darkness at bay.
The silence was suffocating.
"For now, your combat training will be suspended. I'll inform your father of the matter."
Aliss's cold voice reminded Beltrán that he wasn't entirely alone.
Cold as a statue. Maybe when you die, you'll become an animated one.
The thought was his weak attempt at humor against the ache of isolation tightening in his chest.
Neither his father nor his mother cared about Beltrán himself.
Aliss's words only reaffirmed it.
The knight's interest in him existed solely so he could keep up with his peers through training.
Shaking his head to suppress the growing pessimism, Beltrán simply nodded and let Aliss leave.
He trudged toward his room, paying little attention to his surroundings.
Distracted, he bumped into a piece of furniture, making it wobble before it steadied itself.
Finally reaching his bed, he let himself collapse onto it.
Every ounce of strength he had managed to gather vanished at once.
His thirst for revenge still burned like a flame, but like any fire deprived of fuel, it was already beginning to die.
One part of him wanted nothing more than to bury himself beneath the blankets and sleep.
The other, more analytical side of him, replayed the day's events.
Then a question surfaced.
Why did Noah run?
Looking back, it was obvious Noah had protection.
Even if Beltrán had screamed for help, the metal rod from his family's garden made it easy to frame him as the aggressor.
Even if he'd been beaten half to death, it could still be twisted into self-defense.
It didn't need to make perfect sense.
It only needed to be plausible enough.
Someone was backing Noah inside the institute.
Just like Beltrán's family carried prestige, so did Noah's.
The difference was that Noah's family actually used theirs.
Beltrán had little doubt that if Noah ever got into trouble, his family would pressure the institute until any punishment vanished.
Meanwhile, Beltrán's own family hadn't even intervened to protect him from lesser nobles and wealthy commoners.
There was no reason to believe they'd save him from the Gibraltars.
The Leonhards were clearly noble in origin.
Though Beltrán didn't fully understand his family's exact standing, he remembered his father's endless displays of wealth and status, along with the deference shown by others during aristocratic gatherings.
And yet none of it had made Beltrán arrogant.
Quite the opposite.
His nature was gentle, but stubborn.
He always sought a balance—lifting his head high enough not to be trampled, but not so high that someone would cut it off.
Then Stuart's words and Noah's behavior clicked together.
Stuart had acted on instinct, not full understanding.
If Noah feared no punishment, then what had frightened him?
Of course… How could I have missed something so obvious?
Noah was everything Beltrán wasn't.
Arrogant. Gifted. Born into status.
The kind of person praised by everyone around him.
And preserving that image mattered.
Maybe he doesn't care what his peers think… but what about the teachers?
Was someone watching him?
Beltrán pieced it together through intuition alone.
Noah was the primary heir of a powerful family.
That meant his safety would be a priority.
Just as Sir Aliss existed to watch over Beltrán outside the institute…
Noah likely had a guardian of his own.
Someone placed there by his family.
If that were true, it explained everything.
Noah might not fear consequences from ordinary people, but being caught using underhanded tactics by someone tied directly to his family would be another matter entirely.
That would explain why he fled so quickly.
If he has a guardian, they'd stay close… with very few exceptions.
The more he thought about it, the more sense it made.
Noah had already been inside the bathroom when Beltrán was dragged there.
A guardian probably wouldn't follow him into a restroom.
Especially if Noah was aware of their surveillance.
His instinct had been to run before his actions could be reported.
But then another thought struck him.
What good does any of this do me?
The wave of pessimism returned.
This realization changed nothing.
If he wanted Noah to pay, he'd now have to account for a hidden protector watching over him.
Even if he identified the guardian, what then?
How was he supposed to separate Noah from them?
Provoke him while they were nearby?
And in the worst-case scenario, the guardian could be a teacher—or even a high-ranking member of the institute.
At first, Beltrán considered the possibility that Noah's guardian might be another student.
But he quickly dismissed the idea.
If that were the case, they could have followed Noah and his group into the bathroom.
No matter how he looked at it, the risks were too great.
And in his current condition, there was little he could do.
Was he supposed to just sit here, drowning in plans that would never work?
The thought was unbearable.
Just as another wave of dark thoughts threatened to consume him, a voice called from beyond the door, preceded by several gentle knocks.
"Young Master Beltrán?"
It was an older woman's voice.
Eliette.
A sudden warmth spread through his chest.
He half-sat up, staring silently at the door.
Part of him wanted to answer immediately—to let her in and lean on her presence.
The other part felt ashamed.
How was he supposed to face her like this?
"Young Master Beltrán, I'm coming in."
Before he could respond, the door opened.
Eliette stepped inside, her quiet footsteps carrying her deeper into the room.
Beltrán immediately hid beneath his blankets.
All he could sense was her drawing closer.
"I heard what happened… I'm sorry I couldn't comfort you or help you in any way."
Even through the blanket, he could hear the genuine pain in her voice.
She cared for him as though he were her own child.
And he hated the storm of childish emotions that welled up inside him because of it.
They made him impulsive.
Contradictory.
Weak.
No matter what he did, it felt like he'd only make things worse.
"However… I brought something that might ease your discomfort."
Slowly, cautiously, Beltrán lowered the blanket.
There stood Eliette in her servant's uniform, holding out a small glass vial.
Inside swirled a crimson liquid that emitted a faint glow.
The orange in Beltrán's eyes reflected its light.
And then recognition struck.
It was a potion.