Welcome to the Rose Mansion - Chapter 161
Rose’s fury reverberated through the room, sharp and jarring.
In an instant, Richelle felt as if she were being condemned by some god for an unforgivable sin. Overwhelmed, all she could do was clutch her splitting head and stammer in confusion.
“W-What…”
“Damn it!” < Damn it! >
Rose’s curse struck her, both audibly and mentally, as if he himself wasn’t even aware of the words spilling out. His urgency was unmistakable.
Before her racing heart could settle, Rose seized her arm, gripping so tightly it felt as though he might tear it off.
“Agh!”
Richelle whimpered in pain, but Rose showed no concern, instead tightening his hold and jerking her upright as if he were yanking a stubborn root from the ground. Her arm felt close to being wrenched from its socket.
“Shut up and follow me!”
He ordered harshly, displaying a brutality she would have never imagined from someone once so polite and composed.
He stormed toward the door, dragging her along like prey. Richelle suddenly understood.
‘It’s Neil Otis!’
Neil Otis has entered Rose’s room.
Rose flung open the door, but what lay beyond was not the hallway—it was a pitch-black void. Richelle felt a strange familiarity with the dense darkness.
‘It’s exactly like the darkness I passed through to reach the fourth floor.’
There was no need to confirm her suspicion. Rose strode directly into the darkness, still holding Richelle tightly.
A damp, unpleasant humidity clung to her skin. This time, only a single step was needed before the darkness lifted.
They emerged in an ordinary hallway.
The bare wooden floor gleamed faintly, and the glass in the lattice windows was slightly foggy, clearly not of the highest quality. Plain, undecorated doors lined the corridor, and not a single ornament or carpet adorned the space.
It was warm and humble, evoking a curious sense of nostalgia—a stark contrast to the fourth floor she’d seen before.
Among all the doors, Rose unerringly chose one in particular, the one heaped with bouquets and gifts.
He opened it, and a gentle rose scent wafted out, as familiar and inviting as a cherished memory.
And there, Richelle saw it.
In an otherwise typical bedroom, a singularly striking portrait radiated an air of otherness.
It was a beautiful painting, filled with a longing as if the artist had poured their whole heart into capturing an unreachable boy from a dream.
Richelle stared, transfixed, at the boy in the painting. He appeared so full of life, like greenery on a summer’s day, poised to move at any moment.
Soft, reddish-brown hair seemed to ripple like a gentle breeze. His eyes, with their gentle shape and vibrant green hue, shone with a kind, trusting warmth, and a small, black teardrop under his left eye added a touch of mystery. His lightly curved red lips looked as if they were ready to spill forth only the finest words.
It didn’t take much thought to recognize who he was. Although softer, younger, and more innocent, his face was unmistakably similar to Rose’s.
That boy was Edgar Otis.
The one at the heart of all the tragedies at Bertrand, the one who bound Rose to a human form.
A boy so loved that even a god-like being was brought to its knees before him.
“Neil Otis…”
Richelle finally noticed Neil Otis, standing motionless before the portrait, his voice trembling with rage.
“Heh… heh… ha-ha.”
The man let out a strained, painful laugh. He looked utterly horrendous.
The curse of decay and the curse of annihilation seemed to be simultaneously active. A third of his face was long gone, one leg had nearly disintegrated, making him stand lopsided, and his left hand was engulfed in white flames, while his right hand appeared to be entirely missing.
And yet, Neil Otis looked nothing short of blissful.
Watching Rose’s face twist in frustration and anxiety, Neil Otis’s smile widened with overwhelming satisfaction.
Slowly, he raised his left hand, and then—unexpectedly, his ‘missing’ right hand appeared from behind his back.
In his grasp was a single, lush rose and a small, rather pitiful one.
< NO! >
Rose’s urgent shout reverberated as he swung his hand toward Neil.
An invisible force flung Neil Otis to the side, overturning the altar in front of the portrait, sending a glass vase crashing into countless fragments.
But it was too late.
In Neil Otis’s fallen hand, the roses began to burn.
“No… no…!”
Rose released Richelle’s arm as if casting her aside and dashed toward Neil. His hair was in disarray, cold sweat dripping down his face—he looked, unmistakably, like a ‘real’ human being.
With shaking hands, he picked up the roses, disregarding the larger one and clutching the smaller one as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
“Edgar…”
The whisper pierced Richelle’s mind with sudden clarity.
“You… could it be…”
The flames spread, consuming Neil Otis’s fallen body and creeping over the bedroom where she stood.
White flames slithered toward Rose, encircling his feet and flickering upwards. From within the flames, Rose looked back at Richelle.
His face was still heartbreakingly beautiful, yet now appeared utterly exhausted.
“I concede defeat.”
He almost looked… relieved.
“Congratulations, Richelle. This is your victory.”
Richelle was at a loss for words, but then a voice cried out from behind her.
“Richelle!”
She turned, startled. In disbelief, she saw Alan Otis rushing toward her.
“A-Alan?”
“Richelle! Take my hand!”
She instinctively grasped his outstretched hand. The sharp scent of antiseptic replaced the smell of roses, wrapping around her like a protective barrier.
Clasping her hand tightly, Alan shouted.
“We need to get out, now! Let’s go!”
“Alan, wait! How did you…?”
“Explanations later! We’re in real danger here!”
Before following him out the door, Richelle glanced back one last time. There, amidst the flames, Rose was looking at her.
Or rather, not at her directly—but at her eyes.
The fire that consumed the roses had begun to devour his very form. Rose turned away, his final words drifting to her like a fading whisper.
< What truly… beautiful green eyes… >
Ah…
So that’s it.
Following Rose’s gaze, Richelle looked up at Edgar’s portrait. Edgar’s eyes, too, were the exact same shade of green as her own.
