The Price Is Your Everything - Chapter 22
“Move aside!”
Frustrated by his repeated failed attempts to leave, Ren finally shouted at the top of his lungs.
The dormitory he lived in was a mansion traditionally reserved for the highest-ranking students of the Kartak Institute’s theology department.
Its architecture reflected an old-world charm, favoring a restrained, temple-like opulence—luxurious without being ostentatious.
This also meant that, throughout history, people had been confined to this building under the authority of successive popes. Much like how Ren was now unable to step outside its gates.
“Return to your studies,” said the white-robed teacher and priest who was blocking the gate. His tone was indifferent, unbothered by Ren’s outburst.
Ren yelled again, “Ah! Normally, you don’t even care what I do! What’s this all about now?!”
“If you’re bored, engage in one of your favorite pastimes. Clear your mind.”
Ren’s eyes twitched, knowing exactly what the priest was implying.
Two individuals from the theology department routinely checked on Ren. One was the kind and forgiving Father Birk; the other was the rigid and unsympathetic Father Adams.
The family servant who attended to Ren was from the Fayel household, and it was he who had secretly provided Ren with ‘pezalcho’. While Father Birk would pretend not to notice with a smile, Father Adams had now clearly caught wind of it.
This stubborn man would undoubtedly report it to the higher-ups, wouldn’t he?
Since hearing Nerys say, “There will be good days if you keep living,” Ren had significantly reduced his habit of chewing pezalcho before the semester started.
But he hadn’t completely quit, and on particularly bad days, he would still chew several in succession.
It was hard and lonely, after all. At least chewing pezalcho helped empty his cluttered mind. On such days, he’d deliberately leave windows open for a long time to avoid being caught by Father Adams.
But the priest already knew.
…Wait.
Just as Ren was about to threaten Father Adams to find out if he intended to report him to the student council, he suddenly stopped speaking and fell into thought.
Father Adams watched him silently, his expression as stern as ever.
Moments later, Ren looked up at the priest, disbelief evident in his eyes.
“…That…”
As a scion of a family that had produced multiple popes, one might expect a devout upbringing. However, the pinnacle of power was always unimaginably filthy.
Ren had heard stories as a child—methods used by the influential within the Papal States to drive their enemies into ruin.
They’d use all kinds of addictive poisons to make once-mighty figures into pathetic wrecks, incapable of regaining their strength.
‘They’d slip it in through someone trusted…’
The overseer would then pretend to be lenient, acting as though they were secretly turning a blind eye to what was supposedly forbidden. The victim, thinking they had found a lifeline, would indulge.
Again and again. Until their death.
It was a simple but effective method. The higher one’s position, the less likely they were to suspect they were being ensnared. Strong self-confidence, combined with the tunnel vision born of despair, narrowed their perspective.
Still dazed, Ren continued, “That… that thing….”
The first time he’d been offered pezalcho, it had been by someone who had subtly suggested it would be fine in moderation.
“Dogon… It was Dogon who…”
Dogon, the loyal servant who had stood by Ren after his older brother—the previous pope—died. He had been someone Ren trusted completely.
Dogon had given him the pezalcho, Father Birk had pretended not to notice, and now it seemed Father Adams was aware of everything.
Had Dogon, in collaboration with Father Birk, intentionally sought to addict Ren to pezalcho? Was Dogon a traitor?
Ren’s trembling eyes seemed to plead for Father Adams to tell him otherwise. The priest responded coldly.
“Don’t shift the blame for breaking the rules onto a servant. I thought you’d reduced your habit, but clearly not.”
Oddly enough, despite the harsh reprimand, Ren didn’t feel angry. He had always found Father Adams’s rigid demeanor infuriating, yet now it didn’t stir his irritation.
Wasn’t Father Adams’s message ultimately this? ‘“Don’t naively place blind trust in those around you. In the end, you are the one who bears the consequences.”’
Dogon, the servant from the Fayel household who had cared for Ren since childhood, had betrayed him.
Not only had Dogon abandoned him, but he had actively sought to harm Ren’s health.
Looking back, it was absurd that Dogon, a mere servant, could have so easily obtained pezalcho. The mastermind behind this was obvious.
“Omnitus.”
Was all of this really necessary? Hadn’t breaking apart his family been enough?
Seeing the gloom on Ren’s face, Father Adams raised an eyebrow. After a moment, he spoke in a scolding tone.
“If you feel your life has no value, it’s because you’ve failed to properly study the word of God. What exactly do you plan to do out there?”
That’s right. Ren had been trying to leave the mansion, only to be stopped at the gate, sparking his anger. With some suspicion, he answered, “I was going to apologize to that girl for the trouble I caused today and take on her punishment instead…”
Sure, Mahradi Ennyn disliked Nerys, but he wouldn’t have been foolish enough to start an argument in front of upperclassmen for no reason. Most likely, it had been an attempt to knock Ren down a peg and boost his own reputation.
“That would be a foolish move,” Father Adams said bluntly.
Ren, who had just started to think he might listen to the priest’s words, flipped his attitude instantly.
“Why?!”
“Do you think Henri Voltaire would overturn a punishment he assigned because of a mere request? He is not that kind of man. Furthermore, Miss Truydd’s punishment has already been passed to the student council. Lord Elandria will ensure his relative is protected, so there is no need for you to interfere.”
‘Protected?’ Ren’s mouth fell slightly open in surprise.
He had some understanding of Nellusion’s character. That guy pretended to be kind and fair but didn’t care about anyone who wasn’t useful to him.
Ren himself was living proof of that.
“Move aside!”
Ren’s voice echoed through the grand halls, frustration spilling over.
Nellusion, who had once been overly familiar when Ren’s brother was pope, now treated him with complete indifference.
That change in attitude had surely not gone unnoticed within the theology department. Father Adams’s advice was, in essence, a pointed warning: ‘Stay out of it. Nerys Truydd is already being targeted by the Elandria family. Don’t get yourself involved.’
The Elandria Duchy’s power was immense—far beyond what a young boy, now betrayed even by his last remaining servant, could hope to oppose.
But still.
“Hmph!”
As if that would make him back down! Was he supposed to sit in silence during classes and avoid speaking to anyone?
And what about her? Was he supposed to just leave her to be used by Nellusion, no matter what happened?
Ren let out a derisive snort, his mind flashing back to the day he first met Nerys.
He had thought about that day often. Her words, though spoken coldly, had offered him warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time.
And look at her actions today.
As the son of the Fayel family, Ren at least had some places where he could still show his face.
But what did the daughter of the Truydd family have?
Even so, that young freshman had stood her ground against Mahradi Ennyn, an older and much larger upperclassman. If Ren, who was taller and older, couldn’t muster the same courage, it would be shameful.
Hearing Ren’s scoff, Father Adams raised an eyebrow. Ren frowned deeply and muttered, “Fine, I’ll go back inside. Now go do your job instead of standing in front of someone else’s house like a gatekeeper!”
Ren knew he had nothing left. Nothing except his divine power.
And yet, he didn’t think Father Adams’s advice was born purely out of pity.
It felt as though there was still something more he could do.
That instinct told him the answer wouldn’t come today. Slamming the mansion doors shut, Ren deliberately stomped loudly down the corridor.
Dogon poked his head out.
“Young Master, is something the matter?”
Dogon, who had only now appeared despite Ren’s earlier yelling and chaos. Ren couldn’t believe he had been so blind to Dogon’s betrayal until now.
He wanted to hit him, to kick him. Wasn’t that the least someone deserved for trying to harm their master?
But what would that accomplish?
For perhaps the first time in his life, Ren managed to feign calm despite his lingering anger. It was only a surface-level calm, but that was all that mattered.
“Dogon.”
“Yes, Young Master?”
Dogon smiled warmly, the same way he had since Ren was a child. Ren stared at him for a moment before speaking casually.
“Go visit my uncle in Verlaine.”
The journey to Ren’s uncle in Verlaine was perilous. There was no guarantee Dogon wouldn’t fall into Omnitus’s hands along the way. And if that happened, Dogon would undoubtedly be asked, ‘What is Ren Fayel trying to achieve by sending you to Verlaine?’
Ren intended to prepare a list—one that Omnitus would find agreeable. A list of so-called “traitors” helping Ren Fayel, including Father Birk’s name.
For the first time, Ren consciously chose to sever ties with his past.
Ren Fayel, who had lived through a sheltered childhood, had never imagined himself growing through such painful experiences. But his once-great brother was gone, and he had no choice but to accept that.
He could only hope to walk this path strongly, as proudly as she did.
Thinking back to the Ja’an girl he had met under the white pavilion roof, Ren whispered to himself.
—
The freshmen enjoyed the changing season at the academy while studying outdoor tea parties.
The summer flowers had all withered, and the autumn leaves set the water ablaze. Iron-colored migratory birds skimmed the surface of the lake with sleek bodies, and the air grew increasingly chilly.
The students warmed themselves with tea and refreshments at the lakeside gazebo, admiring white daisies and marguerites.
“The scent is wonderful,” said Aidalia, gracefully complimenting the aroma.
Megara, wrapped in a cape embroidered with gold thread and with a small yellow chrysanthemum tucked into her buttonhole, looked radiant. Her soft, honey-blonde hair framed her porcelain cheeks perfectly, drawing all eyes in the social class to her.
Aidalia, whose ash-beige hair didn’t draw as much attention as Megara’s honey-blonde, understood this well. She believed it unseemly to strive for popularity—it was unbecoming for someone as “dignified” as herself.
Megara’s popularity wasn’t something she tried for; it was natural. Friends flocked to her because she was exceptional.
Aidalia glanced at a girl sitting alone in the corner.
The least popular student in the class had always been Angharad Nine, but recently Rhiannon Berta had joined her ranks.
This was the price for daring to aim for one of the academy’s most popular boys. The other students, knowing she pretended not to remember the letter, found her disgraceful.
“Dal, don’t stare,” Megara warned gently. Aidalia complied but couldn’t fully bury her resentment.
At their table, Nicholas Yende interlaced his fingers behind his head. “She acts like she’s better than Angharad Nine, but her dad doesn’t even have a title. That’s low-class nobles for you.”
“Nick,” Megara admonished him softly. Nicholas pouted but shrugged.
As the pleasant atmosphere of the tea party continued, Sir Sheridan stepped into the center of attention.
“As we discussed, today we’ll be doing recitations. Reciting poetry adds charm to gatherings and showcases the reader’s personality, making it a staple at indoor events these days. Classical poetry, in particular, is essential for refined social activities.”
Sir Sheridan didn’t elaborate on why classical poetry was trending or why it was necessary to memorize it, but Nerys already knew.
The Empress had been an avid supporter of classical poetry, even founding an association to promote it. Nerys remembered attending the 15th anniversary party for the Classical Poetry Association as the crown princess. By now, the association must have just been established.
“True classical poems can be complex, so I’ve prepared a short fourteen-line poem in classical form, written by a friend of mine. We’ll leave analyzing meter and diction to your literature teacher. Today, let’s focus on reciting it with elegance and grace.”