’t help but be like that, after all, Leo is really handsome.”

“That may be true, but I think it’s Edgar who’s the good one…”


“Ah, and, oh, oh, my brother… yes, I think he’s also cool.”


Surprised by the sudden mention of his own name, Edgar somehow seemed both relieved and a little sad at the declaration of “my brother is cool” that followed.

“I agree.
I remember that Artie used to tell me that.
Rembrandt and I are the big brothers you can count on.”

Edgar smiled as he continued.


But Beatrice couldn’t nod back to it.

That’s right.
Indeed, Beatrice used to say those words often in the past.

The older brother, who was not very talkative but takes good care of Beatrice in any way he can.

And Edgar, who was always quietly by Beatrice’s side.

She said he had two dependable older brothers.

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Something was different.

Rembrandt was as reliable as ever, a mean but kind brother.

But Edgar is…

Kind, gentle, and always worrying about Beatrice.
This bookworm only treated himself second to Beatrice.

Whenever and wherever this overprotective person hears that Beatrice has fallen, he rushes to her no matter what.

She always said that he was like an older brother, but he was clearly not her own brother.

Then, Edgar is…


Edgar’s usual gentle and concerned voice fell on Beartice, who had fallen deep into trance as she silently stared at Edgar’s face.

“Nothing”, Beatrice replied.
There was nothing else she could do but to reply.

Because Beatrice herself did not know what was going on.

She still didn’t know the identity of these slightly bitter, sad, and ticklish feelings she had, which she had never felt before towards her family or her favorite Leopold.

“Rembrandt, sorry to keep you waiting.”

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“Ah, no.
I just got back here too.”

After spending five days returning from the neighboring country of Drieste, Edgar went straight to Rembrandt’s private room after checking on Beatrice’s condition.

He was called in to talk to him.

“Listen, about what you told me before…”

Rembrandt opened his mouth as he poured brandy into a glass.

“What did I say?”

“You know, the thing about Trice having something in her mind.”

“Ah, about that.”

“She told me about it just the other day.
So I thought I should tell you about it.”

As soon as he said this, Rembrandt took out a bundle of papers from his bag that he had left by his side.

“It’s a pretty messed up story, but I think it’s a story you can trust.
No, it’s a story that you might be particularly angry about, so I’d appreciate it if you’d calm down and listen to it.”

“Angry? Me?”

Edgar, who was aware that he has lived a life that has had little to do with anger, repeated that word curiously, but Rembrandt nodded back with a wry smile.

“No, as expected, I think even you would be offended if you heard this.
Because, you know…”

He fluttered and waved the bundle of paper he had just taken out.

“Beatrice told me about this… And even though I’ve only partially investigated this guy, it was already pitch black.”

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