My Dear Plunderer - Chapter 4
<4> The Stranger
Müller and his soldiers stood with their backs to the forest, while Renok and his crew faced away from the sea—an odd stalemate stretched between them.
The ones frozen in tension were the ragtag soldiers clad in gleaming new armor. Meanwhile, the pirates who had set foot on this unfamiliar island gripped their worn swords and pistols with utter ease.
The atmosphere was so taut it felt like a single breath could snap it.
It was Renok who cut through it with a single step. His movements, as if the spears pointed at him meant nothing, provoked Müller into barking:
"I asked who you are!"
Renok tilted his chin toward the ship. Only then did Müller step forward, craning his neck to gaze at the flag fluttering in the sky.
'A red flag...?'
The color drained slowly from Müller’s face—shifting from wariness to confusion, then from confusion to elation.
'Good heavens, by the gods! The day a privateer docks at my island has finally come!'
This was nothing short of a windfall.
A privateer.
In this era where the Six Kingdoms fiercely contested the Empire’s hegemony, these were men who plundered legally while safeguarding territorial waters and citizens.
Appointed directly by the Emperor, they were most often central nobles of the capital—or at least guaranteed a path to such status. It went without saying that they possessed the wealth and military strength to raise and command their own fleets.
In short, for a fading noble house in the outskirts, there was no better opportunity to latch onto.
Müller clamped down on the grin threatening to split his face, straightened his hunched shoulders, sucked in his gut, and offered a polished greeting.
"My deepest apologies for the rudeness. I am Müller Lissidike, though my influence is meager, the humble guardian of this island. Might I have the honor of knowing your name?"
"Raise a red flag, and you’re no more than a pirate—no name, no title."
"Oh, come now! Surely that’s what His Imperial Majesty’s Letter of Marque is for—forgive my thoughtlessness."
Merely speaking to someone of such high standing made the Emperor himself a topic of conversation. As if his own status had risen in turn, Müller’s tongue grew looser. He quickly shot a glance at the soldier beside him.
'Go, now—tell Adriana to prepare the guesthouse. And have Laila arrange a proper meal.'
Though he had to tilt his head far back to meet the stranger’s eyes, the thought of the path now unfolding before him made it no trouble at all. With a genial smile, Müller gestured toward the manor with both hands.
"Captain, please—allow me to escort you to my residence."
"......"
When no eager reply came, he hastily tacked on a plea.
"At the very least, let me offer you a meal prepared with the utmost sincerity. It would bring honor to my house. I’d also like to introduce my family."
Renok’s silent stare made Müller’s murky eyes flicker and twitch, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The classic tells of a man with something to hide.
Whether it was the whereabouts of the mage or some other shame, the pirate couldn’t tell—but either way, it was all the same to him. Both were equally interesting.
"Lead the way."
"...!"
In an instant, the lord’s face flushed crimson. Renok strode past him, taking the lead.
The sun beat down unpleasantly. The faded milestone, half-buried in overgrown vines. The moldering shed, slumped to one side...
This island—he couldn’t find a single thing to like about it.
---
The neglected fiefdom lay in disarray, its lands left in haphazard disrepair—save for the lord’s manor, which stood polished and opulent, as if every ounce of care had been poured into it alone.
"I apologize for welcoming a distinguished guest to such a humble place."
Though his tone feigned humility, Müller’s demeanor betrayed his pride. Renok, however, had no intention of indulging him.
"I suppose so."
"...Ahem."
With a flick of his wrist, Müller summoned a servant to guide the crew to the dining hall while he personally led Renok to the drawing room. He made a show of dusting off his knees.
"Ah, these old joints always act up when rain is coming."
"......"
"It’s rather embarrassing, but truth be told, I served as a knight under House Verche in the Battle of Ort over twenty years ago."
For the first time, Renok reacted—just a fleeting glance, but it was enough to embolden Müller. As expected, the name Verche still carries weight.
"The late Count held me in such high regard that he insisted I remain by his side in every battle. Once, he even entrusted me with a critical mission—though I took a blade to the knee from an enemy commander along the way. But I completed the task flawlessly! A scar of honor, wouldn’t you say? Hahaha!"
Müller stole a glance at his guest’s expression.
See? He’s still listening.
Though House Verche had declined somewhat due to that scandal in the previous generation, a noble name built over centuries didn’t lose its luster so easily.
And if the rumors carried by the occasional trade ship were true, the capital’s elite had their eyes fixed on House Verche again—thanks to that infamous imperial bastard.
"Do you still exchange greetings with the late Count?"
"He was truly a man who cherished his comrades. Even someone as insignificant as me receives a letter or two from him each year."
"I don’t recall hearing of you."
"Haha, well, unless you were close to him, he wouldn’t have mentioned me."
"So, my grandfather and I weren’t close. How unfilial of me."
"That’s usually the—... what?"
"Pleasure to meet you. I had no idea I’d find one of my grandfather’s loyal retainers on this island."
With the ease of a man reclaiming his rightful seat, the stranger finally offered his name—settling into the head of the table as if it had always been his.
"Renok. Verche."
Those crimson eyes, calm at a glance but churning beneath the surface, held nothing but open mockery.
---
Renok Verche.
Even to this remote island village, his name had come carried by wind and wave.
The Emperor’s bastard, born to a daughter of House Verche.
Cast into the sea, yet the conqueror who now ruled the four oceans.
A notorious prodigal son, legitimized by the Emperor himself and granted the Verche title—unthinkable in an empire where divine law scorned illegitimacy.
Müller had been caught red-handed, boasting of false connections.
Yet rather than humiliation, he felt only dizzying possibility. The lifeline he’d spent his life fabricating was now real.
'If this goes well...'
"Adriana! Come greet our guest at once!"
At his signal, Adriana—who had been fussing with her hair behind the second-floor railing—descended the stairs with deliberate grace.
She may be my daughter, but she carries herself well. And her temperament is flawless. If I play my cards right, this connection could become blood.
"Forgive my unworthy daughter, Your Excellency."
The uncommon title made Adriana’s ears perk up.
Your Excellency? The maid did say he was someone of high standing, but—Your Excellency?
"Tch, where are your manners? This is His Excellency, Count Verche!"*
"......!"
Catching the scent of rising status, Adriana lifted the hem of her azalea-colored dress in a practiced curtsy.
"The honor is mine. I am Adriana of House Lissidike."
"We are but a modest family of three tending this fief. My wife is currently visiting the village nursery, so—"
Then—
Knock. Knock.
A sound as small and cautious as a click of the tongue.
Through the cracked door peeked a face so pale it might never have seen sunlight.
And then—
"Uncle, shall I serve the meal now?"
A voice like seawater flooding the ears, muffled and distant, as if the eardrums had been submerged in the depths. Renok’s eyes narrowed faintly.
"Yes, go ahead. And ensure the others are served as well."
The lord’s tone had sharpened. His hands fluttered like startled birds, urgency radiating from him—as if he wanted this woman gone as quickly as possible.
Hiding something.
People concealed things for two reasons:
Because they were valuable.
Or because they were shameful.
Either way, it aligned with why he’d come to this manor.
"She’ll join us."
"Ah, there’s no need to trouble yourself. My niece is... painfully shy."
"Sit."
"...Come here, Laila."
The woman hesitated before setting the meal on the table and taking the farthest seat—like prey positioning itself for escape.
The lord’s expression had hardened. That he, who had been fawning moments ago, couldn’t mask his displeasure spoke volumes.
Laila’s chapped fingers brushed against a jade teacup.
Clink. Clink.
As tea met glazed porcelain, the scent of the sea unfurled.
It seized the senses—first sound, then smell, then sight.
Some people were like that. Every movement a still ripple, making you want to stir them into a storm.
She lifted a small cup and stepped forward. Her gait was like a windless ocean—smooth, unreadable.
Yet emotion was easiest to trace in motion. As she drew near, Renok deliberately spoke.
"The waters ahead were rough."
"Ah, yes. They’re quite infamous."
"By all rights, we should’ve sunk before reaching this island."
Clack. The cup met the table.
"Divine protection, perhaps. Or the sea’s own design."
At the barely perceptible tremor in her fingertips, Renok’s gaze sharpened.
---
Laila lifted her face, her expression unchanged.
Don’t act strange.
He’s just fishing. Any sailor could say the same—
Then their eyes met.
Ah—
Those eyes. Dissecting. Like teeth at her nape, ready to drag her under.
An untamable tempest. Or a storm that would devour her whole.
Rain lashed against the windows. Thunder rolled through the blackened sky.
The whispers of the power that had always lingered at her side now felt distant, like a fading hallucination.
Run, Laila.
The moment you step into that downpour, you’ll be drenched to the bone.
That savage pirate will tear you apart and swallow you whole.
***
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