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“Huh? Oh, yes.”
Though he didn't know why the offer was made, Weasel wanted to escape this unpleasant space immediately.
He didn't even ask the soldiers when they would be returning. As if this entire situation were a daily routine, they remained in their positions, not even glancing toward the man who was slowly moving.
Having picked up a long rifle, a revolver, and an additional dagger from the desk, the man led the way toward the stairs, lantern in hand. He seemed to limp slightly, yet he walked perfectly fine; it was a truly bizarre sight.
*Creeak.* He had spent barely ten minutes in the basement, but the moment the door opened, he felt as if a breath he had held for ten years had finally been released. Above all, the absence of that sickening smell of burning flesh made him feel like he could finally live again.
“Cigarette?”
Taking a deep breath, Weasel turned his head. The man, now perched on a dusty windowsill next to a bookshelf that had closed immediately after opening, held out a white cigarette from a silver tin case.
After a moment of hesitation, Weasel took one, and the man held out a lighter for him. He took a long drag and exhaled. He felt a deep sense of relief, but unfortunately, as soon as he took a second puff, he began to choke. The man had removed his mask.
“*Cough, cough!*”
Ha. Even as he clutched his throat, a hollow laugh escaped him.
The man without the mask was very young. A face that looked at least ten years younger. He had already known this, but seeing it with his own eyes made him feel strange. And he was damn handsome. To the point where it made the observer feel intimidated. Against a face as white as snow, his turquoise eyes were embedded like jewels, so vivid they sent a chill down one's spine.
It was a special appearance that instantly shattered Weasel's prejudice that tall men were all rugged-looking. To put it simply, without the need for elaborate adjectives, he was exceptionally beautiful.
Furthermore, his beauty was almost holy, framed by a halo of slender silver hair that could be described as sun-like. It was impossible to imagine that this was the man who had gained notoriety for torturing political prisoners and spies in a basement.
“You look like you have something to say.”
He did. However, he didn't have the courage to throw a low-brow joke like, ‘You’re quite pretty. Hahaha, you’re more beautiful than most women,’ to a man known beneath the surface as the Hound of Ohala.
“I just wondered if it was alright for you to take off your mask. I heard that concealing your identity is extremely important...”
“It is. But reading letters through that mouse hole is practically torture. It wouldn't be strange if my eyeballs popped out while reading.”
It wasn't even an imperial decree. Was he exposing his noble status just to read a single personal letter?
Looking at it positively, it meant he trusted Weasel... and combined with his flexible, soft tone—unlike others stagnating in this field—Weasel thought he might be a peculiar individual in a way he hadn't expected.
As he said, the man took a deep drag of his cigarette and began to read the contents of the envelope with his other hand. The letter consisted of two pages.
Leaning his head against the broken window and leisurely holding the stationery, he didn't look like the man who had been interrogating a spy moments ago. Exhaling cigarette smoke, Weasel decided to savor this rare moment of leisure for a bit longer.
Weasel had little information about him.
No, let him correct that. He knew a great deal about ‘Valentin Vladimirovich Dmitriev,’ the man's real name and true identity, but he knew very little about the Hound of Ohala, the leader of the Horgan Unit. That he had entered this line of work five years ago. That he was the head of a special unit secretly established five years ago. And that the mission was a top secret known only to a few in the leadership of Ohala.
Up to this point, the information wasn't particularly surprising. In fact, there were already rumors regarding the purpose of the Horgan Unit to which this man, Valentin, belonged. From their inception, they were experts deployed immediately into actual combat. The common consensus was that while they hunted spies, they weren't ordinary spies.
Considering the Pope and the rebels mentioned in passing in the basement, it seemed clear why they were described as not ordinary. Furthermore, he felt there was nothing to be gained by digging deeper. Especially considering that the leader of the Horgan Unit was none other than the prophet of gabrielism, Valentin.
Before long, Valentin folded the letter. Placing the stationery back into the pretty yellow envelope, he tucked it into his clothes instead of burning it. Of course, this was also something Weasel had been told in advance. An order from his superiors: ‘Do not interfere regardless of how he handles this item.’
“May I ask whose letter it is?”
But his mouth was his undoing.
He was curious about who would send ‘such’ a letter to ‘that’ man, and surprisingly, arrange for ‘that kind’ of letter to be received directly on-site. Of course, part of the reason was that he wanted to try and strike up a friendly conversation with Valentin. After all, he was someone he would likely never encounter again after today.
He had asked the question expecting to be ignored or scolded for his lack of caution. However, Valentin's answer was unexpectedly light.
“A younger acquaintance.”
Was this acquaintance a younger sister? But as far as Weasel knew, Valentin Dmitriev's only immediate family were his deceased mother, his younger brother, and his father, the Duke.
“They must be very precious to you. This is the first time in my career that I've delivered both an imperial decree and a personal letter.”
“I see. Is that all you have to say?”
Weasel rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. Even he thought two remarks were pushing it. Since he had completed his duty as a messenger, only one task remained.
“I should be heading back now. Is there anything I should deliver on your behalf?”
Slowly pushing himself away from the windowsill, Valentin picked up the wooden mask rolling on the floor and replied.
“Has it snowed in Ohala?”
“...Pardon?”
“I asked if it had snowed before you departed from there.”
“No, I recall the weather being clear.”
Dusting off the mask with a few taps, he covered his face again.
As expected, that mask was the problem. Because of that bizarre wooden mask, the man's slender height felt more threatening, his shoulders seemed broader... in short, he looked like a complete lunatic.
“I won't see you out. I'll pray for your safe arrival. Oh, clean up your cigarette ash before you go.”
Leaving those words behind, Valentin returned to the basement.
Why did he ask about the weather? Weasel scattered the fallen cigarette ash and returned to his white horse. He liked the fact that he could return with a much lighter heart since there were no additional missions.
“Alright... let's go, beauty.”
Taking advantage of a lull in the blizzard, he passed the ruined fortress and descended the mountain ridge.
White snow fell over the hoofprints left on the snowfield, slowly erasing the traces. As if no one had ever visited. Leaving behind only the bleak, old architecture.
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