The Terminally Ill Young Master is the Mad Dog of the Underworld

[Translator - Pot]

[Proofreader - Kawaii]

Chapter 88: An Expert? Someone Like You?

Verdzig had concluded his agreement with his maternal grandfather, Count Bergen.

"I'll make the necessary preparations within two days."

"I’m relying on you."

The scapegoat they decided to offer was a man named Evan, a distant relative of the Count who worked under Malekian’s orders.

"Will he be able to withstand the interrogation by the Royal Guards?"

"Don’t worry."

Count assured him.

"That man has an aging mother to support. He’s so filial that he spends his entire salary on her care."

"I see."

That very virtue and dedication would become the reason Evan would be executed for a crime he didn’t commit.

"In that case, I’ll try my best to ensure he isn’t executed."

Verdzig remarked, feigning concern.

"Don’t overextend yourself."n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Understood, Grandfather."

It was a meaningless exchange; there was no need to emphasize what was already apparent.

...Having so effortlessly bartered away another person’s life, Verdzig stood up.

"Here’s how we’ll proceed: I’ll claim that, after my direct confrontation with you, Grandfather, you personally investigated the matter, identified the culprit, and apprehended him. That’s the narrative I’ll present."

"Appropriate."

The old Count nodded. The plan preserved everyone’s dignity while absolving them of direct responsibility.

"However, your father is a shrewd man. Don’t think for a moment that this will fool him completely."

"Of course. This is merely to provide the appearance of legitimacy."

‘Father will figure out what happened here in no time.’

Verdzig swallowed those words as he left, and Malekian finally dared to grumble.

"Father, no matter what, isn’t he being far too arrogant? Even if he’s a direct descendant of the Grunewald Clan, how dare he act so brashly in front of his uncle and grandfather…."

"Pathetic fool. Have you still not come to your senses?"

The Count’s sharp reprimand made Malekian shrink.

"That’s not what I meant—"

"One day, he will become the Duke of Grunewald. Do you honestly think you’ll still be able to act like his superior then, calling yourself his uncle?"

"Father!"

"Silence. I’ll be placing you under house arrest for failing to properly oversee your subordinates."

"!"

Clicking his tongue in disappointment, the Count looked at his greedy yet incompetent son.

"Pitiful. Not only do you let your brother-in-law and even his son dismiss you outright, but you lack the shame to recognize your own failures. Instead, you resort to whining behind their backs…."

The Count was disgusted and dismissed him with finality.

"Get out of my sight. I can’t stand to look at you any longer."

Malekian, fists trembling with humiliation, responded through gritted teeth.

"Yes, Father."

"If you cause trouble again, I won’t hold back."

The Count’s voice turned cold as ice.

"What need is there to call someone who can’t even sit still a son of mine?"

"…!"

Swallowing hard, Malekian managed to choke out a reply.

"I will keep that in mind."

Malekian retreated from the room, left to stew in the bitter realization of his inability to challenge his father. He left, humiliated, reflecting on his impotence and shame.

“Damn it.”

The Count, watching his pathetic son leave, turned his thoughts to his bold grandson.

‘Verdzig, you are the only one who can inherit after that Georg.’

If that were to happen, wouldn’t he finally be able to exact some form of retribution against the ‘fearsome and detestable’ Duke Georg?

‘Verdzig, your very existence is a blessing to the House of Bergen.’

The Count leaned back in his chair, letting out a weary sigh.

‘But, my dear grandson, with each passing day, you grow sharper and colder.’

...At times, even this seasoned nobleman felt his blood freeze in Verdzig’s presence.

***

The day after Allenvert left.

“Wow, what a damn mess.”

The building Zizek’s crew had just acquired was in complete disarray.

From the still-visible bloodstains scattered across the premises, it was clear this chaos wasn’t merely the aftermath of a simple move.

“Bastards. If they want to fight, they should just fight—why the hell are they throwing stuff around like this?”

Barely an hour earlier, a large brawl had erupted here.

“Well, isn’t that just how thugs operate? If they don’t break stuff, they aren’t proper thugs.”

“I’m a thug too, but damn, some of these guys are just plain trash.”

Zizek smirked.

“We can’t let this damage slide without payback.”

“Absolutely.”

"Of course, the guys who got beat up and left will feel wronged."

“Heh heh.”

Zizek’s group had decisively repelled Vincent’s organization assault.

The enemy suffered one death, five severe injuries, and seven minor injuries, while Zizek’s crew only had two lightly injured members—a resounding victory by any measure.

“So, how about it? Do you all feel like you’ve gotten stronger?”

“Yes.”

“It’s like we can actually feel the difference in power.”

In just a few days, Zizek’s subordinates had refined their stances, fighting techniques, and physical conditioning.

While the results weren’t groundbreaking, they were enough to create a noticeable edge in skirmishes among mid-tier underground fighters.

“But boss, are we really stronger now?”

One of the subordinates asked, his face blank with confusion.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“No, seriously. Those guys were so weak.”

“Oh! That’s right. Were they always such pushovers? It felt way too easy.”

“If they were that pathetic, doesn’t that mean you lot were just as weak not too long ago?”

Zizek chuckled dryly.

The special training he developed after meeting Karzan had proven to be both immediate and effective.

Through this, Zizek reaffirmed his long-standing belief: his subordinates weren’t inherently incompetent or inferior—they had merely lacked proper guidance and motivation.

“Zizek, you bastard!”

It was at that moment that the guest they had been waiting for finally arrived.

“You think you can handle the fallout from this mess?”

Vincent, accompanied by dozens of heavily armed men, shouted with confidence.

“If you beg for forgiveness now, I’ll spare your life. Get on your knees and plant your face on the ground!”

Zizek, taken aback by the audacity of the scene, smirked incredulously.

"Wow, what is this?"

"Seriously."

"They're just barging in like this?"

"Looks like they were preparing for this."

Zizek smirked, impressed by the boldness of his adversary.

Zizek admired, saying he was indeed a man who had built an organization with his cunning.

“Ah, we’ve got a big one here.”

Casually flicking away the booger he had just picked, Zizek sent it flying into the air.

“You dare pick your nose in front of me?”

Vincent, clearly irritated by Zizek's complete lack of tension, stepped forward himself.

“I’ve already heard rumors that your little fuckers’ been acting out of character lately.”

“Oh, so you’ve been keeping tabs on us? I’m flattered.” Zizek quipped.

“Looked like you smoking too much pot, so I figured it was about time to cut you down.”

Vincent’s sly grin revealed his grotesque and petty appearance, one befitting his infamous reputation as a small-minded man.

“So that’s how it is.”

Zizek nodded as if in understanding.

“You’re accusing me of being on drugs. Well, that brings up a question I’ve been curious about.”

“What is it? Spit it out.”

Zizek pointed at Vincent.

“So, did you take a drug to make yourself uglier, or one that made your hair fall out?”

“Hahaha!”

Turning to his men, Zizek laughed uproariously.

“Or maybe it’s the opposite? Maybe you took a drug to make yourself handsome, and this is the best it could do. In that case, that’s just tragic.”

“Wahahaha!”

“Boss, you’ve got to stop cracking us up like this!”

While Zizek’s side held their sides in laughter, Vincent’s face twisted into a bitter sneer.

“You stupid bastard. Enjoy your laughter while it lasts. It’ll be the last time.”

“My bad, but could you not laugh like that? It’s terrifying. I’ll see your face in my nightmares.”

“This little—”

Vincent, losing what little patience he had, turned to look over his shoulder.

“I’ll leave it to you.”

At that, a middle-aged swordsman stepped forward, pulling back the hood that had concealed his face.

“Don’t worry. These guys are nothing but trash.”

Vincent smirked with satisfaction, his confidence visibly restored.

“Zizek, prepare yourself. You’re already a dead man walking.”

Meanwhile, Zizek absentmindedly picked his other nostril and muttered. “And who’s this clown?”

“Shut your mouth!” Vincent barked.

“This man is a seasoned expert I hired from outside. He’s got the skill to gut you in an instant, unlike you and your pitiful lot.”

“Oh, really? A so-called expert?”

Zizek snorted, unimpressed.

“Crazy bastard.”

The aura of the swordsman in front of him was laughable compared to Karzan’s.

“No need for long speeches. If you don’t want to see your men slaughtered, fight me one-on-one like a real man.”

“Look at you, acting all noble, even though you’re not the one fighting.”

Zizek mocked, pointing at Vincent.

“I’ll take the fight. But the moment anyone interferes, all of you are dead.”

“Don’t worry. All I need is your head. There’s no need for unnecessary trouble.”

Vincent replied, motioning for his men to step back.

The hired swordsman, now standing alone, moved forward, clearly eager to earn the hefty sum he’d been promised.

"Did you say your name is Zizek? If you've made your living with a sword in the underworld, surrender now. I won't kill you."

Zizek's reply to this dignified warning was simple.

"A guy who looks like a maggot is acting all serious."

That was enough of a conversation.

Whoosh!

Zizek lightly deflected the sword aimed at his throat.

'Huh? What is this?'

Zizek thought after exchanging several blows.

'Why is he so weak?'

The opponent definitely showed signs of having made a living with a sword in this world. If it were Zizek from a few days ago, he would have struggled considerably.

But not now.

'This guy is definitely a swordsman at the early stage of the 3rd-tier.'

That level of skill is enough to be called an expert who can still take the head of a novice knight by using his experience.

But in Zizek's eyes, that expert's sword didn't feel threatening at all.

"……."

Movements, the way he used his sword, the momentum and footwork when thrusting and swinging, his eyes, gestures, and the way he used psychological warfare to disrupt the next move.

Everything was no different from a beginner. There was no sense of thought or study, he was just swinging thoughtlessly according to instinct and a bit of experience.

"You call a guy like ‘that’ an expert?"

"Kkyaaaak!"

The swordsman, realizing the difference in power the moment his ear was cut, screamed.

"Vincent! You son of a bitch, this is different from what you said……."

His desperate struggle couldn't continue to the end. Zizek, who had deflected the thrusting sword, penetrated his chest, piercing his heart.

Thwack!

As if lava erupted from a volcano's crater, blood gushed from the punctured heart.

Zizek who was covered in the blood started walking toward Vincent with a smile.

"……!"

At the martial prowess rarely seen in this periphery of the underworld, Vincent and his subordinates staggered back.

"Those who don't want to die, throw down your swords and kneel now, and I'll spare you."

"……!"

At those words, some knelt, and some scolded those who did, but –

Most were frozen and couldn't even move.

'Is this the feeling of suppressing enemies with fear? Not bad.'

Zizek muttered inwardly.

'I am Karzan.'

As he repeated those words, he felt as if he was stealing even that man's madness.

"Come here. If you're also the head of an organization, you should fight head-to-head like men."

Vincent's face turned ashen.

***

I waited for Venion at the same training grounds as yesterday.

"Young Master."

"Oh, you're here."

I waved lightly at Venion.

"Looks like you shat early today."

"I took care of it beforehand."

"Excellent."

Venion looked at my face and smiled slightly.

"It seems you didn't sleep well last night? You look more tired than yesterday."

It was a meaningful remark, but I responded nonchalantly, as if I wasn't at all bothered.

"Hmm, that might be so. There were many things that happened, so I might have been tired."

"I see."

"My great deeds shook Grunewald, so isn't it natural for my heart to be somewhat elated?"

"I suppose so."

Venion replied vaguely, and I asked.

"But what kind of lesson is it today?"

"Ah, about the lesson."

Venion grinned.

"As you said, we progressed too much yesterday. Today we will review, and tomorrow we plan to have practical training outside the castle."

"……Huh?"

I blinked blankly like Peter.

"Practice?"

"I've sufficiently confirmed your martial talent, Young Master, so this time I plan to test other qualities."

"Hmm."

A secret test conducted outside the castle. This is also unexpected.

"It's fine. I was just wanting to get some fresh air anyway."

Officially, Allenvert is a bird in a cage who has only been out to the Grunewald port once and to his father's winery once. Even before he got sick, it didn't seem like he went out often.

"This might be too difficult a task for someone who has grown up like a greenhouse flower."

"Then I'll ask you to go easy on me."

I said something I didn't mean.

"Of course, I will."

Venion probably felt the same way.

[Translator - Pot]

[Proofreader - Kawaii]