To My First Love, With Regret - 41

At first, with his mere appearance chilling the air and the blackness from head to toe, he was truly believed to be the Grim Reaper.

When the Reaper removed his fedora, cold blonde hair was revealed. Then, cold, slate-gray eyes, solidified with murderous intent, fixed on him. Even after so many years, he could not forget his enemy.

The Duke gasped, throwing a fit. Ethan Fairchild smiled, revealing his white teeth, seemingly pleased with the reaction.

—It’s the first time Your Grace has welcomed this lowly person so fiercely. I have only looked forward to the day we would meet again, and I hope Your Grace has also lost quite a bit of sleep while waiting for me.

It was true. Sometimes he would wake up screaming from nightmares where this monster came to kill him, following right after Harry.

In his dreams, that monster had never once granted him the peaceful death he ultimately longed for.

No. That guy is not the Reaper I wished for!

The death he had waited for was unwelcome. He threw another fit, rebelling against God.

My God, why do I deserve to die at the hands of the man who killed my son? This fellow is the murderer who deserves to die—why have you granted him freedom!

—Ugh! Uuuaaagh!

As he made that animal noise, Ethan Fairchild rolled his eyes as if he himself was embarrassed to hear it. He lifted his eyebrows at the subordinate standing guard by the door, pointing a finger at the Duke. He was acting as if he were watching a monkey at a zoo.

—Mikey, know why the Duke’s in this state? He tried to lock me up in prison and kill me, but I broke out anyway and it drove him completely mad. Then his head…

The bastard made a pew sound with his mouth and used his hand to mime an exploding head. Then, he looked down at the Duke from above and sneered.

—Old man, you should have been nicer with your heart.

That unctuous tone and vulgar language. His eye, which had recognized early on that this man would become a thug, was indeed accurate.

The man’s face was quite close. The Duke’s eyes flashed.

—Cough, spit!

As soon as he spat, the bastard tilted his head up. The saliva the Duke had spat landed back on his own face.

—Bad brains, just like Harry’s father.

As he shrieked because he couldn’t speak, writhed because he couldn’t control his body, and drooled, the offspring of a low-life, who knew no manners, frowned as if he had witnessed something repulsive.

—He looks a bit like a dog with rabies, too. Ah, this is also a trait he shares with Harry.

The Duke could only watch with his eyes wide open as the man casually spoke of and insulted his son, whom he had cruelly killed, then sat on the edge of the Duke’s bed and put a cigarette to his lips.

He leisurely smoked the cigarette, taking in the Duke’s screaming. His eyes held the pleasure of seeing the great Duke of Cantrell reduced to such a pathetic state. The Duke stopped his frantic struggle and glared at the monster with cold eyes.

—Ah, I used to be so afraid of those eyes. But that was when I was young and weak.

Chiiiiiick.

—Uwaaaaaagh!

The stench of burning flesh stung his nose. The man had used the cigarette to burn the Duke’s eyelid. The Duke summoned every bit of strength he had left to scream. It must have echoed down the hallway, but no one came.

—Kkuaagh!

Not even when the sound of his finger bones cracking began, followed by another scream. Ethan Fairchild, completely undisturbed, slowly, as if savoring it, tortured the Duke, who felt every pain but could not resist.

—Uwaaaagh!

—Ah, now you’re finally making a sound like a human. Makes me want to kill you.

The bastard’s eyes curved gently into a smile, as if the Duke, trembling in agony, were a well-behaved dog.

—And now you finally have the eyes of a person right before they’re about to be murdered.

At this declaration that it was his turn to kill, the Duke turned deathly pale with terror. The torture had utterly crushed even the nobleman’s pride.

Please! Please, just kill me now!

The vile, murderous lunatic watched him closely as he begged with his eyes, having thrown away his pride, a sharp curve to the corner of his mouth. Then, he put on a gentleman’s mask that did not suit his madness. He did this by neatly pulling the knot of his black necktie, which had been vulgarly loosened to his chest, all the way up to his throat. It was almost solemn, as if he were putting on formal wear before a sacred ritual.

—This is my grandfather’s keepsake. I saved it for the day of revenge. Which is, today.

The man smoothed down the perfectly knotted tie with a look of satisfaction and asked,

—Do you know how the Captain died?

He hanged himself.

That black necktie… it was clearly the very object Jeremiah Robinson had used to hang himself. For a moment, that terrible noose of death seemed to the Duke like the only lifeline that could pull him out of this hell.

‘Yes! Please, just kill me that way!’

Compared to the pain he had endured so far, strangulation was a peaceful death. It was a foolish mistake to reveal his expectation in his eyes.

—No. Hanging you the exact same way would be too merciful, and an insult to my grandfather.

Chiziiik.

—Kkuaagh!

—How dare you aspire to the same death as the Captain?

The demon, who had just seared his remaining eyelid, asked his subordinate.

—Mikey, what is the most painful method of execution in the world?

—Isn’t it slowly slicing the flesh until the person dies?

As soon as Mikey answered, the smile completely vanished from the young boss’s face. He merely stared blankly at Mikey, seemingly speechless from shock.

—Was that too cruel? I haven’t tried it myself, I only heard the rumors…

—Mikey.

The man, who was larger than him, strode forward, and the atmosphere grew serious. Mikey tensed up.

—Geniuses really are different.

However, the young boss just patted Mikey’s slumped shoulder, then pressed his hand, the one holding the cigarette, against his own forehead, like someone suffering a headache.

—Damn it, I told the guys to prepare a drum of oil and gasoline. I’m embarrassed.

—Ah, is that so? Execution by burning is also extremely painful.

As if demonstrating the agony, Mikey twisted his long limbs into a grotesque dance, mimicking a body shriveling up in flames.

—No. Execution by burning is too easy a death compared to your genius idea.

—But doesn’t slicing the flesh take too long?

—Rather, that’s why it’s perfect.

The young boss fell into a reverie as he looked at the body that was soon to be sliced. He wore an ecstatic smile, as if the mere thought of it made him thrilled and relieved. Even to another man, it was a very attractive face. He should reserve a smile like that for women. It was a waste that he only showed it when ruining the Cantrell Dukedom.

—Mikey, I really don’t think I can live without you.

He should say things like that to a woman, too.

—As a token of my gratitude, I’ll buy you liquor every day until the Duke of Cantrell dies.

—Then I suppose I should hope for His Grace to pass away very slowly.

—Ugh! Uwaaaagh!

—But it seems the soon-to-be-deceased wants to save the boss’s wallet.

The second-in-command leisurely approached, one step at a time, teasing prey cornered in a trap. He had been having fun all along, but he looked the happiest now than at any point since entering the room.

When he reached the Duke’s bedside, he put on black leather gloves. Just like a surgeon preparing to operate.

—Should we start with the tongue, the one that killed the Captain?

Ethan always thought life was unfair. He had spent a lot of money and effort to kill this man today. While murder was so difficult for him, this man simply sat still and used only his tongue to easily kill an innocent person. The world must be deeply wrong if murder was easy.

Ethan had a belief: it is basic courtesy to look your opponent in the eyes when you kill them. It is a way to bear the weight of the murder yourself. This cowardly tyrant failed to uphold even the most fundamental courtesy. The reasons why he could not forgive this man were endless.

—Uuuuuh, Mph!

The hand in the leather glove plunged into the Duke’s mouth. He tried to resist by biting the hand, but the hand lodged in his mouth wouldn’t budge. The fist shoved deeper. With a crunching sound, his jaw was helplessly pried open.

He struggled desperately not to give up his tongue, but it was useless. The monster grabbed his tongue and pulled it out.
The lunatic licked his upper lip with his own tongue, as if salivating at the sight of someone else’s, and pulled a dagger from inside his jacket. The silver blade flashed blue in the moonlight, but even that icy, murderous intent seemed about to be swallowed by the blazing madness in his murky blue eyes.

—Uuuuuh, a-ugh…

The knife finally entered his mouth. The harder he struggled to avoid it, the longer it took to cut his tongue. Nobody remains still while their tongue is being sliced, as it only prolongs the agony. From the start, the executioner had no intention of reducing the criminal’s suffering by making a quick, clean cut.

As the time for the execution dragged on, the Duke’s eyes rolled back and his convulsions became extreme. Eventually, he couldn’t bear the pain and passed out.

When the scream abruptly stopped, only the slicing sound of cutting flesh and the excited breathing of the butcher continued, until that, too, ceased at some point.

—Magnificent.

Ethan Fairchild held up the severed tongue of his enemy for his subordinate to see, displaying it with pride.