The Fat Aristocrat Waltz in the Labyrinth - Chapter 42
Chapter 42: The fat aristocrat makes peace with the past.
When Mitrof met up with Canule and left their usual inn, a horse-drawn carriage stopped before them.
Though well-worn, it was clear that this was a luxury item, distinct from the public carriages commonly seen by citizens. It was a carriage that nobles favored.
It was customary for each family’s emblem to be designed on the door, which was used to determine the owner.
Mitrof squinted at the familiar emblem on the carriage.
“Canule, please step back while holding that.”
“…Do you know them?”
“It’s my father.”
Canule nodded in understanding, holding onto the box while moving away from Mitrof.
At the same time, the coachman opened the door. The first to come out was the butler, Arzo. It had only been a month, but Mitrof felt a sense of nostalgia upon seeing his face.
Arzo looked at Mitrof with a gentle gaze and bowed, then pulled out the mobile stairs from beneath the carriage.
Next to come out, as Mitrof had anticipated, was his father, Count Vansankai.
His father elegantly dismounted and faced Mitrof. He surveyed him from head to toe and snorted in derision.
“It seems like you haven’t forgotten the appearance of a nobleman.”
“It just so happens—I have an appointment with someone now—usually, I wear work clothes.”
Mitrov was wearing the clothes he had on when he was kicked out of the house.
After becoming an adventurer, he preferred cheap clothes like work clothes and hemp shirts, but his father would have frowned upon seeing Mitrov in such attire.
“How did you end up coming to this place?—Surely you weren’t worried about me?”
“I heard you’ve been doing well as an adventurer lately.”
His father neither confirmed nor denied it. Mitrov couldn’t help but smile wryly at his father’s aristocratic way of speaking, veiling the conversation. People involved in adventuring, especially Grace, spoke honestly and directly, which Mitrov found more comfortable than the circumlocutory conversation that masked the true intentions of aristocrats.
He also thought that there was no need to ask about things that were already obvious.
His father is not someone who would just waste his resources by moving around downtown by carriage for petty reasons. Mitrov knows this well.
He moves with a purpose, and only does so when it benefits him.
“I heard that you found a hidden room in the labyrinth and obtained a relic there.”
“…I did not expect Father to know much about the labyrinth situation.”
“Marquis Truffe has made an offer—that old man likes to collect rare things; he wants to see the relic you have obtained.”
His father looked over the wooden box held by Canule, who was standing behind Mitrov.
“Is that the relic?—Just as well, I’ll take it home.”
His father said it as if it were only natural. He was that kind of person. He believed that everything should go according to his own wishes, and he had held enough power to do so throughout his life.
His mother and brother followed suit, of course. Mitrov did too. That was the way of life for a noble household. The word of the head of the family was always right, and following it was the way to protect and grow the family.
Thus, Mitrof lived as the third son of a noble family. The eldest son was to inherit the house, followed by the spare second son, and then Mitrof, who was not expected to amount to anything. Perhaps he could not meet the expectations that his father had once held for him.
His father did not even give him a second glance. He didn’t smile, compliment, or even scold Mitrof.
Eating was the only pleasure in his daily life, and as Mitrof grew plumper due to overeating, his father frowned upon him. It wasn’t until then that Mitrof realized he existed in his father’s world and was within his father’s sight.
Overeating and becoming as bloated as a pig may have been his way of rebelling against his father.
Mitrof had nothing.
No power to earn his father’s recognition, no will to go against his father, and no strength to live on his own.
His father expelled him from his house and told him to perish by himself in the labyrinth.
Preparing for death, Mitrof went to the labyrinth.
and he truly faced death there.
It was Grace who saved Mitrof and had helped him grow up to this point.
His father was looking at the wooden box that Canule was holding. It was the artifact that they had received from the guild, just as he had suspected.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot give this to you.”
“I didn’t hear you right.”
His father looked at Mitrof. He met his gaze with his own.
“But there is already an existing reservation for this artifact.”
“You can change any reservation as many times as you want—I am the father, and I am the one who says I need it.”
“But the other day, I was disowned by the Vansankai family.”
“Oh, is that so?”
His father laughed through his nose.
It was a face that showed that he had seen through Mitrof’s true intention by reading between the lines of what he said.
“Very well then—Mitrof, I will take you back home—I was originally going to pick you up after a month in the labyrinth.”
Mitrof laughed.
His nose made a “Buhhii Buhhii” sound.
His father narrowed his eyes, sensing that Mitrof’s laughter was filled with scorn.
“I refuse.”
Mitrov said.
“…You refuse?”
“You weren’t going to pick me up in the first place—you only came because you heard I had a relic and because you could use it. On the day you abandoned me, I abandoned you as well. Your home and your ties to me, you are no longer my father.”
“Hmph, have you gone mad playing adventurer games?—Are you planning to give up the life of a noble and struggle in the mud? I told you I would take you back.”
“Mud?—Is that what you think?”
Memories of the days of adventure with Grace came to mind. They were the most vivid and colorful days of Mitrof’s life.
Dirty rooms, scarce meals, life-threatening labyrinths, and overcrowded public baths for commoners
He met Canule; he met Mikel; they became comrades, friends, overcame formidable enemies, and praised, helped, and trusted each other.
There was no guarantee in life, no elegant ballroom. Clothes got dirty, injuries occurred, and beans in hand got squished. Maybe they will die tomorrow.
Such a life is like being in the mud. And yet.
“In this past month, I’ve finally been able to live—I feel like my heart is burning—certainly, the life of a noble is peaceful, with no fear of starving and every day feeling like a holiday. But I’d rather live free, writhing in the mud, than live another dead day. Please go back. Your son is already dead.”
Mitrof stated this firmly.
Not using a noble, roundabout way of speaking, but instead speaking honestly like an adventurer, he showed his clear determination.
His father frowned and looked down on him with a sharp gaze. Mitrof did not back down, despite the pressure of his father’s noble status. He shuddered under his father’s gaze. In the past, he would not have been able to stand up to such pressure.
But now…
How much more frightening is this compared to a red-eyed troll?
And he fought that troll, and he won.
In that case, there was no reason to fear. Mitrov stood there, standing firm in his beliefs. There was no reason to fear his father.
“——You have grown up.”
His father muttered softly, turning on his heels and returning to the carriage without leaving any lingering words.
Mitrov watched his father’s back disappear into the distance. He wondered if his father’s back had always been so small.
Arzo bowed to Mitrov and followed his father back into the carriage.
Mitrov watched the carriage as it drove away, as if his whole life was moving further away from him. He was born a noble, raised as a noble, and although he was expelled from his home, he was still a third son of a noble in his heart.
But now it has all come to an end.
The noble Mitrov has left with that carriage.
From this point on, he would never see his father again. This was the turning point of his life. His father would continue to be a nobleman, and Mitrov would become an adventurer. They would each follow their own paths.
“Are you sure?”
Canule appeared next to him before he even realized it.
“Yeah, this is fine.”
Mitrof nodded, as if telling himself something.
“…That was difficult, but you did a great job.”
“Thank you—now, let’s go—we’ll be late for our appointment.”
Mitrof laughed, no longer making pig-like grunts.