The Obsessive Male Lead Is Actually Scary
Chapter 31: Kingdom of Ash

Chapter 31: Kingdom of Ash

* * *

"Master, are you inside? Please come out—something urgent has happened!"

A man shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation. His face was half-burned, his clothes in tatters, blood crusting around the tears in his sleeves and down his legs.

"You may not enter without identification," said one of the two armored guards standing before the door.

"Damn it, move aside! I already told you—my name is Kareem, I work under the Master!"

"Even so, we can’t just allow you inside without proper clearance," the second guard replied, tone firm.

"Then summon the Master—Count Belmont—right now! This is important!"

The two guards exchanged a wary glance. One shifted his stance, the other tilted his head toward the door as if debating what to do.

"You think I’m joking?! Today’s shipment might not even happen, damn it!"

His voice cracked with urgency, the kind only a man with nothing left could muster.

Creak.

The door slowly opened.

Count Belmont appeared in the frame.

The commotion had stirred him from bed. Woken by the noise outside his private quarters in the city, he’d summoned a servant to ask what was going on. When told that someone claiming to be from the transfer point was making a scene, he’d rushed down without even stopping to change.

And it showed.

Count Belmont stood in his pajamas—lavish but wrinkled, clearly intended more for lounging than dealing with crises. His embroidered sleeping robe was stretched tightly across a rounded belly, the sash around his waist clinging for dear life. His thinning hair was tousled, and he blinked under the lantern light like someone who hadn’t quite registered he was awake.

"What in the blazes is this racket at this hour?!" he barked, voice groggy but furious.

"Master!" Kareem stumbled forward, almost collapsing as he bowed.

"You are...?" Belmont narrowed his eyes, peering at the man’s scorched face with clear confusion.

"It’s me—Kareem, Master. From the transfer point! Please—you must come at once. It’s the warehouse. It’s urgent."

He flinched at the word. Whatever sleep still clung to him vanished in an instant.

* * *

The warehouse was gone.

Where it once stood was now a smoldering shell—reduced to ash, twisted beams, and blackened stone. The acrid stench of burning wood and oil still hung in the air, though the flames had long since died down.

Count Belmont stood frozen, eyes wide and unblinking.

He hadn’t believed it at first. Even as Kareem pleaded and stammered, he’d thought it was an exaggeration. A fire, maybe. A robbery, perhaps. But this? A full-on explosion?

Unthinkable.

Alessio had calculated the blast with precision. It wasn’t just reckless destruction—it was surgical. A controlled detonation, just enough to obliterate the warehouse and everything inside while minimizing collateral damage. No neighboring buildings had caught fire. No civilians had reported anything strange. Not even the city patrol had noticed it in time.

The location helped—it was in a forgotten, abandoned zone, far from residential blocks. And at this late hour, the city was asleep, cloaked in silence.

Even so... the damage was absolute.

Count Belmont’s lips parted, but no sound came out. He turned his eyes sharply to Kareem.

"You..."

His voice trembled, his hand twitching at his side. Veins stood out along his wrist as his rage boiled over.

"You wretched fool!"

Kareem flinched, lowering his head even more.

"What the hell happened?! How the damn hell did this place end up like this?!"

He wasn’t done.

"Do you even have the faintest idea how much I poured into this operation?!" he roared, spit flying. "Do you?! Every crate in that warehouse was worth more than your miserable life!"

His voice cracked as it climbed into hysteria.

"Artifacts, reagents, special trade contracts, bribed customs permits—gone! All of it! GONE!"

"I-I’m sorry, Master!" Kareem dropped to his knees, bowing until his burned cheek nearly scraped the ground. Every movement must’ve hurt, but he pushed through it—still bleeding, ribs likely cracked from the blast. He’d left his men behind, rushed straight to the manor with the desperate hope that being the one to report it would spare him the worst.

But that hope was crushed beneath Belmont’s boot.

Literally.

With a furious snarl, the count kicked him in the ribs, then again in the side of the head. Kareem curled in on himself, raising trembling arms to shield against the onslaught.

"You worthless dog!"

His face contorted with rage, eyes wild, nostrils flaring as if the sheer force of his anger could set the ruins ablaze.

"Huff... huff..."

Belmont’s chest heaved. His robe had slipped off one shoulder, his thinning hair damp with sweat.

"Now talk. Who the hell did this?!"

His eyes burned red with fury, veins standing out in the whites like spiderwebs. "Who?!"

"I... I don’t know, Master," Kareem wheezed, his voice raw. His cracked lips trembled as he struggled to speak. "There was nothing out of place—no signs of anyone breaking in, no one spotted near the site. N-no movement at all before it... before it went up."

He coughed violently, barely managing to stay conscious.

"The others... all gone. I couldn’t investigate... I barely made it out alive..."

It was true. From what he’d seen, the fire had started too suddenly—too cleanly—to be natural. It was as if the building had simply... ignited from within. And if someone had caused it, they were skilled. Far too skilled. Not a single trace left behind.

Kareem’s eyes filled with tears—not just from pain, but from failure. From fear. From the helplessness of facing his master’s wrath when he had nothing else to offer.

Count Belmont staggered forward, then dropped to his knees amid the ash, staring at the remnants of his empire.

Just hours ago, this warehouse had housed contraband worth a fortune. A single shipment here could secure months of bribes, supply half the underworld routes, or line the pockets of countless corrupted officials far and wide.

And now...

Nothing.

’What am I supposed to tell the Duke...?’

Count Belmont’s stomach turned. His face, still red with fury moments ago, began to pale.

He could already hear the fallout.

If the shipment wasn’t delivered, the clients would grow suspicious. The auction route would fall apart. The balance between Belmont County and the Wittelsbach Duchy would be shaken. And worst of all—Marius himself might be exposed.

Everything was tied together in a web of illicit deals. Marius used Belmont as his cover—the respectable noble with a pristine public face—but it was Belmont’s black market network that handled the dirty work. In exchange, Belmont’s house received protection, political backing, and unrestricted access to contraband—rare materials and forbidden goods quietly funneled in from beyond the Empire’s borders.

If the black market failed now...

Bribes would dry up. Enemies would close in. The Empire might even notice the discrepancy in taxes and cargo manifests. The entire system would collapse—and Belmont would take the fall.

He stared at the ash, trembling.

"No... No, no, no—this can’t be happening..."

His hands flew to his head, clutching at his hair as if trying to hold the moment together.

"AAAHHHHHH!!"

The scream tore out of him like a man possessed—a sound not of rage, but of despair.

Of a crumbling kingdom built on secrets, now brought to ruin by a single, precise spark.

* * *

The chaos from the night before felt like a distant storm, its roar still echoing faintly in the back of my mind. But morning came anyway, soft and gold, slipping through the curtains like a quiet reassurance that life insisted on moving forward.

The doctor returned just as he said he would.

He arrived early, a faint yawn escaping him as he stepped into the room where Amira lay resting. With the efficiency of someone who had done this many times before, he unpacked fresh bundles of herbs, small vials, and clean cloths from his leather bag.

"As I promised," he murmured, "I’ve brought everything she needs for continued treatment. Now that the worst has passed, we just have to keep her warm, fed, and watched closely."

His hands moved swiftly as he checked her pulse, replaced the dressing, and administered the next round of tinctures. Amira didn’t stir much—she was still clearly exhausted—but her breathing was more even now, her complexion already far less ashen than it had been the night before.

Emir sat close by her side, eyes wide and heavy-lidded. The boy looked like he hadn’t truly slept in days—and now that the weight of constant fear had finally lifted, the exhaustion hit him like a crashing wave. He swayed slightly, fighting the urge to nod off, but his hand never let go of his sister’s.

’Poor thing... they’ve probably been forcing themselves to stay strong for so long, they didn’t even realize how tired they were.’

I made a quiet decision then.

They would stay here. With us.

Not just for Amira’s recovery, but because Emir had already asked three times if there was anything—anything—he could do to repay what we’d done for them. He meant it. His eyes had held that quiet, burning resolve only someone with nothing left could carry.

So I let them stay.

Even if I didn’t know how long we’d be in Kalvena, or what would come next, for now... they could rest.

But some things didn’t change. My morning training continued like clockwork.

The training yard was enormous, the sun glaring overhead as I circled around it again and again, sweat dripping down my neck. I counted every lap out loud.

"Forty-six... forty-seven..."

By the time I hit fifty, my breath was quick and my legs ached—but I still had energy to spare. I finished with a steady sprint and slowed to a stop, hands on my knees as I caught my breath.

Alessio stepped forward, arms crossed, watching me closely.

"Fifty laps," he said with a faint nod of approval. "And you’re still on your feet. Good."

He gave a small smile—just enough to let me know I’d passed something.

"You’re ready for the real training."