Chapter 36: The Mask of the Pseudo-Villain

An improvised refugee camp had been set up on the eastern border of the Arkwright territory.

Over three hundred people who had fled the Vine Land County gathered there, their faces a mixture of anxiety and exhaustion.

They had abandoned everything to escape tyranny and starvation. Yet now, uncertainty weighed on them like a suffocating cloud: Would they be accepted, or turned away?

A carriage arrived at the camp.

Out stepped Zenon von Arkwright, the young acting lord of the Arkwright family.

His icy, flawless features and emotionless, piercing blue eyes left the refugees breathless. This was the infamous “Cold-Blooded Zenon,” the terrifying noble who held the power of life and death over them.

For a moment, the camp seemed frozen in fear.

Zenon, however, paid no heed to their terror. He slowly surveyed the gathered refugees as though appraising goods.

Then, he spoke.

His words were ruthless enough to crush even the faintest hope they held.

“First, do not misunderstand.”

His voice was clear, but utterly devoid of warmth.

“I have not accepted you out of mercy or sympathy. I accepted you because I judged that you would be useful ‘labor power’ for this territory.”

A murmur ran through the crowd.

Labor power.

They were not seen as human, but as tools. That realization cut deep into their hearts.

“From today, you will be provided food, clothing, and shelter. But this is not charity. It is an advance on the profits you will generate through your labor—a ‘debt.’”

Zenon continued.

“Each of you will have the cost of your acceptance recorded as an individual debt. You are obligated to repay it through work. Until repayment is complete, you may not leave this territory. Understood?”

It was a declaration almost equivalent to enslavement—merciless and harsh.

The refugees turned pale in despair.
They had fled oppression only to be burdened with debt, forced to work as slaves until death.

Some children quietly began to cry. The camp was enveloped in a heavy, suffocating despair.

Watching this scene from a short distance away was the saint, Liliana.

Next to her, the captain of the guard shook his fists in anger.

“…This is cruel. How can such words even come from a human being?”

“Quiet,” 

Liliana said calmly but firmly, restraining him.

“…Watch. Observe his true nature.”

Her eyes no longer reflected anger or disappointment.
Instead, they held the serene calm of a prophet witnessing a miracle about to unfold.

(It has begun… his clumsy, yet kinder-than-anyone, ‘pseudo-villain’ performance.)

Zenon’s cold speech continued.

“Your tasks have already been determined. Men will work on road maintenance and the construction of a new processing plant. Women will work in existing factories or cook and clean at the orphanage we are establishing. Those incapable, lazy, or disruptive will have their rations reduced without mercy. Providing valuable food to unproductive people is inefficient.”

With that, he turned his back to the refugees.
As if there was nothing more to say.

He then gave final instructions to Marc and Gray, who had been waiting.

“…Begin.”

“Yes, sir!”

At that signal, the camp transformed.

Large pots of warm soup and freshly baked bread were distributed evenly to all refugees—meals many had not tasted for months.

Starving children eagerly bit into the bread, and tears ran down the cheeks of their parents.

Next, doctors and a hygiene team trained by Zenon checked each person’s health.

Injuries were treated efficiently, and medicine was given.
Children with high fevers were wrapped in clean blankets and moved to separate tents.

Marc set up a temporary office under a large tent.

“We’ll now assign work! Report your previous experience honestly. Those with carpentry experience, come here! Women who can sew, over there! Those who can read will be prioritized as clerks!”

Marc’s energetic voice carried throughout the camp.
There was none of the coldness of selecting slaves.
Instead, there was sincere effort to evaluate each person’s abilities and assign them appropriate work.

The refugees began to realize.

The cold words were a harsh treatment to break their dependence and complacency.
They were not given charity—they were given a chance to claim their future through their own efforts, a strict yet dignified message.

Liliana watched it all, a single tear tracing down her cheek.

It was not a tear of sorrow.
It was a tear of admiration, moved by his deep, subtle, and almost imperceptible kindness.

(As I thought…)

She gazed at Zenon’s retreating back with burning eyes.

He understands people’s hearts more deeply than anyone else.
He knows better than anyone what is truly needed for them to stand on their feet.
That is why he deliberately plays the villain…

Liliana gently pressed her hand to her chest.
Her heart raced once again.

She did not yet realize that this feeling—one a saint should not indulge—was the beginning of a “romantic affection.”

Beneath the mask of the pseudo-villain hid a lonely saint.

Saint Liliana’s grand, blissful misunderstanding had now entered a realm where no one could stop it.