To My First Love, With Regret (Libenia) Chapter 41

Content Warning: This chapter contains scenes of extreme cruelty, including graphic depictions of torture and bodily mutilation.

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At first, the duke truly believed it was the Grim Reaper. The air itself grew cold at his appearance, and he was dressed head to toe in black.

When the reaper removed his fedora, cold pale hair was revealed. Then gray-blue eyes—filled with bloodlust—fixed on him. Though many years had passed, he could never forget his mortal enemy.

The duke, choking, convulsed violently. Ethan Fairchild, as if pleased by his reaction, smiled, baring white teeth.

“Your Grace has never welcomed a worthless man like me so passionately. I have eagerly awaited the day of our reunion—and I hope you have waited for me too, spending many sleepless nights.”

He had. From time to time, he had nightmares in which this bastard, after killing Harry, came for him too—and he would wake up screaming.

But in those dreams, not once had this monster granted him the peaceful death he prayed for.

No. This bastard was not the reaper he had been waiting for!

The death he expected brought no joy. He convulsed again, raging against God.

God, why must I die by the hand of the one who killed my son? This bastard is the murderer who deserves death—so why have You granted him freedom!

“U-oh! Aaaagh!”

When the duke let out a beastly roar, Ethan Fairchild rolled his eyes as if embarrassed to hear it. He raised his brows, looking at the subordinate guarding the door, and pointed at the duke. He acted as if he were examining a monkey at the zoo.

“Mikey, do you know why the duke is in this state? He tried to rot me in prison, but I got out anyway—and the bastard went crazy. Then his head…”

Ethan made a pew sound with his mouth and gestured with his hand as if his head had exploded. Then he looked down at the duke and sneered.

“Old man, you should have been kinder.”

An oily tone. Vulgar expressions. The duke’s eyes, which had immediately recognized the future gangster in him, had not been wrong.

Ethan’s face was very close. The duke’s eyes flashed.

“Khaa—ptoo!”

The moment he spat, Ethan jerked his head back. The saliva the duke had spat landed on his own face.

“You stupid fool. Just like Harry’s father.”

He couldn’t speak—only make monstrous sounds. He couldn’t control his body—writhing and drooling. And this ill-mannered bastard frowned as if he’d seen something obscene.

“Just like a rabid dog. Ah, he’s like Harry in that way too.”

The duke could only watch with wide eyes as he insulted the son he himself had brutally murdered—then sat down at the foot of his bed and put a cigarette in his mouth.

He smoked leisurely, enjoying the spectacle of his agony. His gaze showed pleasure: the great Duke of Kentrell has become so pathetic. The duke stopped struggling and stared coldly at the monster.

“Ah, I used to be afraid of that look. But that was when I was young and weak.”

Sssss.

“AAAAH!”

The stench of burning flesh hit his nose. Ethan stubbed out his cigarette on the duke’s eyelid. He screamed, gathering all his strength. The scream must have echoed down the corridor—but no one came.

“Kha-AK!”

Even when the cracking sound of breaking finger bones rang out and the screams came again, Ethan Fairchild, meeting no resistance, tortured him slowly—as if savoring it—the one who felt everything but could not fight back.

“AAAAH!”

“Ah, now you’re making quite human sounds. It’s satisfying to kill.”

He smiled softly, looking at the man trembling in pain as if he were an obedient dog.

“And finally, you have the eyes of a man about to die.”

At this statement—that the time to die had come—the duke turned blue with terror. The torture had completely crushed even his aristocratic pride.

Please! Please just kill me quickly!

This despicable, murderous maniac—suddenly curling his lips—looked down at him, having abandoned all pride and begging with his eyes. And then he put on a gentleman’s mask—completely at odds with his madness—neatly tightening the knot of his black tie all the way to his throat. The tie that had until now been hanging vulgarly on his chest. He looked almost solemn, as if dressing in ritual garments before a sacred ceremony.

“This was my grandfather’s. I’ve been saving it for the day of revenge. That is, for today.”

Ethan stroked the perfectly tied tie with satisfaction and asked:

“Do you know how the Captain died?”

He hanged himself.

That black tie… it must be the very thing Jeremiah Robinson hanged himself with. For a moment, that terrible noose of death looked like the only lifeline out of this hell.

Yes! Please, kill me the same way!

Compared to the torment he had already endured, strangulation would be an easy death. Showing that hope in his eyes was a stupid mistake.

“No. Strangling you the same way would be too merciful. And it would be an insult to my grandfather.”

Sssss.

“Kha-AAK!”

“How dare you wish for the same death as the Captain?”

The devil, burning his other eyelid too, asked his subordinate:

“Mikey, what’s the most painful method of execution in the world?”

“Isn’t it death by cutting off flesh, piece by piece?”

As soon as Mikey answered, the smile completely disappeared from the young boss’s face. He just stared blankly at him, as if stunned.

“Was that too cruel? I’ve never tried it myself, I’ve only heard…”

“Mikey.”

The man, larger than him, stepped closer. The atmosphere was ominous. Mikey shrank back.

“A genius is different.”

But the young boss just patted his shrinking shoulders—then grabbed his forehead with the hand holding the cigarette, as if he had a headache.

“Damn it, and I told the guys to prepare a barrel and gasoline. How embarrassing.”

“Ah, is that right? Burning is also very painful.”

As if demonstrating that pain, Mikey began to dance, grotesquely writhing his long arms and legs—mimicking a body shriveling in the fire.

“No. Burning is too easy a death compared to your genius idea.”

“But… ‘piece by piece’… won’t that take too much time?”

“On the contrary. That’s why it’s perfect.”

The young boss looked at the body soon to be carved and sank into imagination. He smiled, in ecstasy—as if just the thought thrilled and relieved him. He had a face that even a man would find charming. He should smile like that at women. What a pity that he only showed this smile when destroying the Kentrell family.

“Mikey, I really think I can’t live without you.”

And those were words he should be saying to a woman.

“As thanks, I’ll buy you drinks every day until the Duke of Kentrell dies.”

“Then I can only hope that His Grace will die slowly.”

“AAAAGH! AAAAAH!”

“Though it seems the future corpse wants to protect the boss’s wallet.”

The boss’s assistant leisurely approached, step by step, as if teasing cornered prey. He had been enjoying himself all this time—but now he seemed happier than at any moment since entering this room.

Approaching the head of the duke’s bed, Ethan put on black leather gloves. Like a surgeon preparing for surgery.

“Shall we start with the tongue that killed the Captain?”

Ethan had always thought this was unfair. He had spent a lot of money and effort to kill this man today. For him, killing was such a difficult task—but this guy had just sat there and easily killed an innocent man with a mere flick of his tongue. If killing was that easy, then the world was definitely insane.

Ethan had a conviction: when killing, look your enemy in the eye—it was basic courtesy. In the sense that you took the weight of the murder upon yourself. That cowardly tyrant hadn’t even observed that basic courtesy. The reasons not to forgive this man were endless.

“U-ugh, mmp!”

A gloved hand plunged into the duke’s mouth. He tried to resist, biting down—but the hand stuck in his mouth didn’t budge. Ethan forced his fist in. There was a crack, and the jaw hung helplessly loose. He desperately tried not to give up his tongue—but it was useless. The monster grabbed his tongue and pulled.

The madman licked his upper lip, as if drooling at the sight of someone else’s tongue, and pulled a dagger from inside his coat. The silver blade glinted dully in the moonlight—but even its predatory gleam seemed swallowed by the madness blazing in those murky blue eyes.

“Uuuuuu, kkh…”

The knife entered his mouth. The more he struggled to dodge, the longer the tongue-cutting process lasted. No one would lie still while having their tongue cut out—even if it prolonged the pain. Not that the executioner had any intention of cutting it off in one clean motion to reduce the sinner’s suffering.

The longer the execution went on, the more the duke’s eyes rolled back and the stronger his convulsions became—and eventually, unable to bear the pain, he lost consciousness.

When the screams stopped, only the wet sounds of cutting flesh and the excited breathing of the butcher remained—but at some point, even that fell silent.

“Magnificent.”

Ethan Fairchild proudly showed his subordinate the enemy’s severed tongue.