The Terminally Ill Young Master is the Mad Dog of the Underworld-Chapter 193

“I’m in your debt.”

“This isn’t the time for such concerns.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

Despite his words, Nagan’s face darkened.

“Feeling the weight of it?”

“It’d be a lie to say otherwise,” he admitted.

“Earlier, I realized something. With the Godfather gone… everyone’s eyes are on me now.”

“They’re uneasy. As their leader, you must reassure them—even if it means putting on a front.”

“…It’s heavier than I expected.”

“That’s the burden of responsibility, Nagan.” I leaned forward. “And as the new head, you must avenge the Godfather and rebuild this fractured organization.”

“He carried a far heavier load than I knew… for so long.”

I probed gently, “Was he a good leader?”

“Worthy of trust and loyalty. To us, he was like a father.”

Of course, a underworld Godfather was no saint. But if he upheld his own code and refrained from oppressing the weak, he deserved some respect.

“Futen—and every traitor who sided with him—will die. They betrayed the underworld’s code.” Nagan’s voice dripped with killing intent. “Those who repay kindness with treachery don’t deserve mercy.”

“So, what’s your plan?”

I wanted to gauge his resolve. If he wavered under pressure, I’d reconsider supporting him as the next Godfather.

“First, recover the Godfather’s remains and prepare the funeral—but hold it only after vengeance is served.”

“And then?”

“After killing Futen ourselves, I’ll formally declare succession and seek recognition from the other four major organizations.”

“…Hm.” I nodded. He understood the underworld’s rules.

“But will they accept you? Compared to their leaders, you lack strength and experience.”

My tone carried a warning.

“Wounded prey attracts wolves. They’ll tear into your flank and carve up your territory.”

Such was the underworld’s cruelty.

“Which is why,” Nagan countered, “we must negotiate while the Bisakino Brotherhood and the Godfather’s legacy still command respect. Buy time, grow stronger. I’m young—my potential is limitless.”

“A bold answer.”

Nagan met my gaze squarely. “I know this much: no one survives the underworld alone.”

Now, he—and his fractured organization—needed new allies. We both knew it.

“Before we proceed…”

“Speak freely.”

Nagan hesitated, then asked, “First, your name.”

“I am Karzan.”

I gave the name of a man who died seventeen years ago.

“Karzan.” He tested the foreign syllables, then cut to the chase. “So, what do you want? To control us through Zizek? To become the power behind the throne?”

Sharp. Before asking for an alliance, he demanded to know if I’d be another Futen.

“Fair question.”

Nagan would sooner die than swallow another poison. So I had to clarify: poison and medicine are separated by a thin line.

“You’ve guessed right—I’m the one who strengthened Zizek.”

“I don’t know how you boosted his power so quickly,” Nagan said, “but at least he doesn’t seem coerced.”

“Of course. We share a vision.”

“Which is?”

“Too lengthy to explain now. In short?” I smirked. “To restore order to the underworld.”

“Ridiculous.”

I gestured to myself and Zizek. “Those with grudges who flee into the dark, the weak who rely on the night yet fear it, orphans, fugitives, villains, schemers—they all need laws to follow.”

“Karzan, do you aim to be the underworld’s king?”

How ironic. Condense that title, and it becomes “Dark King.”

“Dream big, I say.” I shrugged.

“That’s why I want Zizek as a Bisakino executive—and your alliance.”

“Sounds like you just want to be the underworld’s hidden powerbroker.”

“Perhaps. But my methods won’t be as brutal as Futen’s.”

Nagan’s skepticism lingered. “Why me?”

“Today proved you lead from the front, shoulder responsibility, and command loyalty. But the clincher? Zizek vouched for you.”

Zizek scratched his head, embarrassed. “Well, it’s true.”

“…Hm.” Nagan’s expression softened. He and Zizek must have had decent history.

“One more thing. How did you arrive at the perfect moment?”

“We’ve partnered with a skilled informant. Frankly, we cut it close.”

“An informant? Who knows our internal affairs so well?”

“That’s privileged intel.”

“…Fair.”

I pressed on. “Honestly? I want the Bisakino Brotherhood as an ally to… the one I serve.”

“You serve someone?”

“Yes. I, too, follow orders. And they need your strength.”

In other words—

“…Hm.” Nagan crossed his arms. Suspicious, naturally. I’d be wary too.

But—

“Nagan, this is your chance.”

“How?”

Time for the truth.

“The Bisakino Brotherhood could gain the backing of Grunewald’s young master—the future Duke of Grunewald.”

“…What?”

Nagan wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, stunned.

“Are you saying… Young master Verdzig sent you?”

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freeweɓnovēl.coɱ.

“……No, not him.”

This guy really knows how to kill the mood.

***

“Mr. Marco… I mean, Marco?”

“Y-Yes! Right away, Sir Peter!”

As Peter sternly wiped the window frame, Marco nervously watched his lips.

“The dust isn’t evenly cleaned. I told you—the less visible spots require the most attention. Did you forget?”

Peter’s tone was aristocratic yet nitpicky. In short, insufferable.

“M-My apologies.”

“Don’t apologize—explain why you didn’t follow instructions.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Will ‘sorry’ pay your wages?”

“N-No.”

“Then give me a proper explanation. Stop dancing around it.”

“Y-Yes, sir!”

Though Allenvert didn’t notice—

Peter, who had closely observed Allenvert and Olivier, now carried himself with the dignity and authority of a noble clan’s attendant. And naturally, the one he disciplined most freely was this man.

“So… uh…”

“I don’t want excuses like laziness or carelessness. Tell me exactly what you missed and why.”

Watching Marco—once Peter’s tormentor—get his comeuppance had become a minor amusement for the senior staff.

“Pfft.”

Julia, of course, was among them.

“Marco kinda deserves it, don’t you think?”

“After all his smugness? Absolutely.”

“Yeah.”

Like Peter, Julia—now Allenvert’s personal maid—held a higher standing among the servants. The older staff had always looked out for her, and the new ones were intimidated, so her confidence grew daily.

…And it definitely wasn’t because Allenvert’s allowance kept funding her snacks.

“Well, everyone’s growing up.”

Jeffrey, watching quietly, smirked.

“Peter’s got a sharp tongue when he wants to.”

“Quite clever. Had his clan not fallen, he’d have made a bright young baron’s heir.”

Olivier praised Peter warmly.

“Hm, true.”

Jeffrey nodded as if he’d come to the same conclusion.

“But, Butler…”

“Yes?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working? You seem… free.”

“Says the squad leader.”

“Well, a soldier’s duties are routine—shifts, drills, occasional paperwork.”

“And killing time?”

“Call it ‘pre-training rest.’”

Jeffrey grinned.

“And you?”

“Already finished.”

Olivier listed off briskly:

“Morning paperwork, checking progress with Baldun, finalizing Lady Lusatia’s jewelry, and preparing armor and scabbards for the upcoming match with Valkenhain…”

“Ahem.”

Even Jeffrey coughed at the workload.

“Speaking of, the match is in under two weeks. The world will finally see His Highness’s talent.”

“Indeed. A debut for the ages.”

“They’ll be stunned.”

Jeffrey laughed—if he had to be shocked, so should everyone else.

“Ah, who was the 8th seat of Ete Nistyrnur again?”

“Why?”

“If Valkenhain’s young lady drops from 6th to 7th, won’t the 8th be kicked out entirely?”

“Ah, right.”

They nodded, as if Allenvert’s victory was inevitable.

“And I bet he’ll return from the underworld with another revelation.”

“Typical of His Highness.”

“At this point, even you’ve been left behind, Butler.”

“Well, if Sir Harold lost to him, I’d stand no chance.”

Despite being hailed as the strongest among Borgart’s main and branch clan, Olivier couldn’t surpass the 2nd battalion’s vice-commander.

“Hm.”

Watching genius up close usually evokes three reactions: awe, despair, or rivalry.

“Butler, how about a spar?”

Olivier replied flatly:

“If you need a lesson in defeat, I’ll oblige.”

“Tch, who’re you calling rusty?”

“You’d need to be to make it fair.”

“Ha!”

They’d been friends since childhood, after all.

“So… Young master Allenvert was a dormant dragon waiting to soar.”

“Yes. Finally understood?”

***

I sighed after exhaustively explaining my own brilliance—Allenvert Grunewald’s unparalleled potential.

“Now, about Futen.”

“!”

His expression hardened instantly.

“Nagan, where do you think Futen’s hiding?”

“No exact leads, but likely a safehouse. His operations were vast—he’d have bolt-holes all over this spiderweb of a city.”

“‘Spiderweb’ fits.”

I nodded.

“He’s probably lying low like a spider, waiting to strike when ready.”

“But one thing puzzles me.”

I leaned in.

“Why vanish at all? Did he need to hide?”

“My guess?”

Nagan’s voice dropped.

“The assassins of Svaltalfar.”

“Ah.”

I recalled the name Damien had mentioned—the legendary killers.

“I know they came for Futen. Is that why?”

“You’re well-informed.”

Nagan looked impressed.

“Likely. After the Godfather’s ultimatum, Futen probably saw it too.”

“…Hm.”

Crossing my arms, I mused aloud:

“What if we ally with them? We could trap Futen—flush him out or reel him in.”

“…!”

Another alliance might be exactly what we need.

[Translator - Pot ]

[Proofreader - Kawaii ]