Chapter Seventy-Seven

———In the Midst of Memory———

"Father, please have some tea." Arthur bowed once more, respectfully offering the tea with both hands.

Rivers glanced at Arthur, who was bent low with his head lowered, his expression cold as he took the cup. With graceful movements, he lifted the lid, gently skimmed off the tea foam, took a light sip, and set the cup down on the desk.

"Alright, you may go. See if there's anything else that needs preparing for the wedding," Rivers said, picking up a book and paying Arthur no further mind.

Arthur stood straight before the desk, not in any hurry to leave, but instead watched Rivers, as if waiting for something.

Rivers, immersed in his reading, raised his head, impatience flickering in his eyes.

"Is there something else?" Rivers' brows furrowed, irritation evident in his demeanor.

Arthur gazed at Rivers, then suddenly flashed a wicked, alluring smile.

"Father, is the tea to your liking?"

"The taste is—"

Before Rivers could finish, a sharp pain stabbed through his chest. His right hand clutched at his heart as he looked up at Arthur.

"You... What did you... give me... to drink... What... is it?" Rivers pressed his hand to his chest, collapsing onto the desk, his gaze like arrows fixed on Arthur, his left hand reaching for the telephone.

Arthur's rose-colored lips curled into a captivating arc. He strode elegantly to the phone, and with slender fingers, gave the cord a gentle tug. The wire fell away with a soft sound. Then Arthur turned, settled into the chair before the desk, and extended his right hand to stroke the diamond-crafted wolf's head, which howled at the moon.

"I've heard that in the land of bitter cold, there grows a plant that, upon maturity, bears small purple flowers. Because of their violet hue, they're called 'Roland.' Yet unlike the purity and beauty of violets, Roland radiates a seductive allure. Its tiny petals carry not beauty," Arthur paused, glanced at Rivers, then returned his gaze to the wolf, "but deadly poison."

Arthur finished, ignoring Rivers' struggles, and walked to the window behind him, gazing out at the blood-red sunset, speaking in a calm, detached voice.

"Roland’s hallmark is that it causes the one who consumes it to suffer spasms throughout the body, as though every vein were being severed—every organ, every muscle racked with the agony of being torn apart."

As Arthur spoke, Rivers convulsed uncontrollably, the veins bulging along his temples and the backs of his hands.

"It also drains all strength from you, leaving you unable to cry out, unable even to grit your teeth."

"You... will not... will not... have... a good... ending," Rivers forced out, summoning the last of his strength.

Arthur laughed softly. "You’re too hasty. I haven’t finished. The wonder of Roland is—" He suddenly turned, leaning down close to Rivers, lips curved wickedly. "—it leaves no trace. That is, the one who takes it will have a healthy complexion, no cold sweat, and on the corpse, not a single sign remains. Anyone who sees will feel comforted, thinking the person passed peacefully."

Rivers glared at Arthur, his eyes nearly bursting, lips working furiously though no sound escaped.

"You see, I told you not to rush. Now you don't even have the strength to speak," Arthur's gaze scorched, filled with hatred.

———To be continued———