Even If Everyone Hates You - Chapter 3

Purgatory

“Huk, huuk…”

Sjoerd sat up, his upper body soaked in cold sweat. Panting, he ran his rough hands through his hair, sticking to his forehead. It felt like he had woken from a terrible nightmare, his stomach twisted and his mood foul. It seemed like he had witnessed something, but upon regaining his senses, he couldn’t recall anything.

It was as if he had woken up from a fall from an endlessly high place, his entire body aching. It was a familiar pain. Like a ‘price’ that comes after overusing his abilities, a sensation he lived with as winter approached.

Feeling this was not unusual. What was strange, however, was the situation in which he was feeling this sensation.

‘I was definitely dead. Even if I hadn’t been executed, I was in a state to die anyway.’

Sjoerd raised his hand to check his chest. The touch felt smooth. His cool, pale upper body showed no signs of any wounds, although his body should have been crushed and without a single intact bone.

Frowning with particularly thick eyebrows, Sjoerd lifted his head. The dimly shadowed room was very familiar to him. There was hardly any furniture touched by hands, and wood was burning in the fireplace. There was not a single difference from the room he had used in his lifetime.

Was this what hell looks like?

As he scanned the scene that defied any logic, he got out of bed. The sound of his sweaty robe fluttering was clear. Stepping onto the cold wooden floor barefoot, he walked to the window. As he pulled aside the thick curtains and opened the window, a howling blizzard burst in.

Chills ran down his spine from the biting cold. The scent of dry branches carried from afar and the cold, frozen air felt too realistic. The endless white snowy landscape was a scene from his homeland, but the thought crossed his mind that this might be his hell, trapped in endless cold and solitude, a punishment that suited him best.

“Your Grace, did you cough? May I come in?”

Just then, a voice calling him from outside accompanied by a knock sounded. Startled, he turned with an incredulous expression towards the door, then strode over and opened it.

Swinging open, behind the door stood a young man holding a bucket of wash water. At the sight of him, Sjoerd’s cool eyes wavered.

“Quilly?”

Quilly was the son of the butler, a servant who had looked after Sjoerd since childhood. One of the few who spent Sjoerd’s childhood with him, Quilly had died 5 years ago.

He died on the first day of the Origin Festival that marked the beginning of the harsh winter, due to ‘that incident’. Sjoerd, always stoic, was momentarily shaken, having never expected to see a being that had long turned to ash and disappeared.

“…? Are you alright, Your Grace? You don’t look well.”

Quilly seemed equally surprised, his eyes wide as he cautiously examined his master.

“Shall I call a doctor? Because of the Origin Festival, we have some on standby, so they can come immediately.”

The word ‘Origin Festival’ robbed Sjoerd of his words. The Quilly before him was acting exactly as he used to in life. It was Quilly’s role to assist the master of the northern estate, which became busiest in preparation for the Origin Festival.

Quilly was part of the burden Sjoerd carried. One of those he was supposed to protect but failed to. Quilly was always loyal and diligent. Even without explicit commendation, he always worked for Sjoerd, and when everyone else turned their backs on Sjoerd, Quilly silently stood by his side.

Sjoerd could perhaps belong in hell, but not Quilly. A butcher who slaughtered hundreds of lives could not compare to Quilly. For Sjoerd, who believed that if there was life after death, it would be in hell, this situation was inexplicable.

With no way to deduce the truth by his own power, the only path left was to ask and find out directly.

Sjoerd, with an even colder expression than usual, asked Quilly.

“Where am I?”

Quilly’s eyes widened at the question. Struggling to hide his confusion, he barely managed to reply.

“Pardon, Your Grace?”

As if not understanding the meaning of the words, Quilly faced a barrage of almost accusatory questions.

“Since when have you been here? And what happened to the wounds on my body?”