Chapter 3 - King Cinderella: Two Hearts Entwined in Sin

Translator's Note:

Hello, I hope you've all been doing well

Here you go, and I wish you a good read.

As I said before, if you wish to read ahead, you can head over to my Patreon to get early access to all the translated chapters.

The seasons turned, and Erald, now a grown man, had become one who rose with the crowing of roosters.

 

Even after selling off most of the James estate's land, the grounds remained sizeable. But with the household staff reduced to a fraction of what it once was, Erald had no choice but to begin working at dawn alongside the others.

 

Back when his father passed, Erald had still been too small to lift much, so he'd handled things like cleaning the chicken coop, collecting eggs, and milking the cows. But now, his days were filled with heavier labor: tilling fields, hauling water, unloading wagons—he worked until noon, then sat down in the kitchen with the servants for a shared meal.

 

He no longer dined with his stepmother or stepbrother, nor was he permitted to eat the same food. But Erald preferred it that way—meals apart from them were far more peaceful. He tried not to let it bother him.

 

But that didn't mean he felt nothing. There had been many times over the past few years when his spirit nearly broke.

 

These days, only a few rooms in the James estate retained their furnishings—curtains, rugs, even furniture had been sold off from the rest. Gambling gatherings were no longer held, nor even the afternoon teas his stepmother used to host. While the silence of the nights was a blessing, the rage his stepmother harbored from their poverty found its release in tormenting Erald—dragging him down into the depths of hell.

 

He couldn't recall exactly how old he had been—it was all a blur, burned into him by shock—but one night, Erald had been summoned to her chambers.

 

There, she ordered him to undress.

 

Though they were mother and son only by marriage, what she demanded of him violated every moral law of family. That night marked the beginning of a private torment—of hell.

 

On her whims, she would demand him again, and whenever he resisted, she would pin him down with threats: "If you don't give in, I'll sell your books."

 

The weight of guilt, of filth, crushed him. He told no one. At his lowest, Erald even contemplated ending his life.

 

But somehow, he endured. He escaped to the world of books—retreating into stories when he was not being touched, and even when he was. His body was here, but his mind wandered far, drifting somewhere between dream and oblivion.

 

Time passed. The tides shifted as he outgrew his boyhood.

 

Now a man, he possessed the freedom to leave the house—books in hand. And his handsome features soon drew attention; many suitors sought him as a son-in-law.

 

Finally in a position to walk away, Erald no longer submitted to his stepmother's vile advances. He rejected her in word and action, and at night, he barricaded the door to the library—his room now—with a heavy desk.

 

But the war was far from over. Though he had escaped the defilement of the flesh, he was still trapped—bound to the house, and beneath the heel of a woman who still held power over him.

 

Abandoning her quest to claim Erald's body, the baroness turned to cruelty of another kind. She understood that his attachment wasn't only to his books, but to the estate itself—a house steeped in memories of his mother and father. So, convinced that he would never truly leave, she took aim at the things he loved.

 

She sold off his cherished piano, his violin, even his sword. Then, his bed and blankets. She made him work harder than the servants.

 

Until then, he had at least maintained the image of being the second son of House James. But now, he could no longer afford new clothes or shoes. Dressed in threadbare rags that didn't suit his radiant blond hair or sapphire eyes, he looked a ghost of who he once was.

 

In winter, with nowhere else to sleep, he placed a bench near the hearth in the library, wrapping himself in grimy curtains for warmth.

 

Each morning, he woke covered in ash, looking like something dragged from the chimney.

 

His stepmother and stepbrother stripped him of not just his role and rights—but even his name. They insisted he address them as "Baroness" and "My Lord," and mockingly referred to him as "Cinder-Erald," a cruel play on his name that became "Cinderella."

 

"Hey! Cinderella! One of my shoes is missing! You sold it off for coin, didn't you?!"

 

Just after lunch, while scrubbing the floor of the corridor, Erald was struck by a flying shoe hurled by his stepbrother.

 

Even from a crouch, Erald had to look up to see him. The man's body had grown wide, not tall—his presence more oppressive than imposing.

 

"I don't recall stealing it," Erald said calmly. "Besides, what good is stealing just one shoe? You can't sell half a pair."

 

"That's exactly the trick! This one has silver buckles—you could sell it by itself! A commoner like you, with no noble blood, uses your filthy little brain to come up with these schemes! You thought one shoe would raise less suspicion, didn't you?!"

 

"Perhaps it was a cat… or a rat," Erald murmured, picking up the leather shoe.

 

Clad in coarse linen rags, he examined it, and then looked at his stepbrother with measured indifference.

 

"I'd say it's very small."

 

"Wh-what?! What did you say?!"

 

"I said it's very small. But despite its size, it's surprisingly heavy. A bit much for a rat to carry off, wouldn't you say? Likely the weight's from the high heel."

 

"Y-you insolent brat! What are you trying to say?!"

 

"I'm simply stating the facts. It's a small, heavy shoe… with a tall heel."

 

That faint, unbothered smile—so gentle, yet laced with barbed irony—made his stepbrother flush red with rage.

 

Just as Erald had anticipated, he was kicked hard, his hair seized and his forehead shoved against the floor.

 

"—Tch…"

 

If he tensed his muscles beforehand, the kicks weren't too painful. But his brow throbbed fiercely where it had struck the stone. It hurt. But he had brought it on himself, and he didn't regret it. Staying silent had felt far worse.

 

"I'll tell you why your body and feet are so big!" his stepbrother spat. "You were born to labor, that's why! You're the same as a workhorse—meant to toil for nobles like me until the day you die! Even you must know that in the East, a full figure is seen as a sign of power and dignity! It's the ideal form for the ruling class!"

 

The impact of his head being slammed into the floor again sparked both pain and fury behind Erald's eyes.

 

Though Erald was the stronger of the two in body, the fact that they were both men meant his stepbrother often lashed out with little restraint. More than once, the beatings had left Erald so bloodied he'd had to stitch his own wounds.

 

But compared to the wounds inside him, that kind of pain meant nothing.

 

That's why Erald never hesitated to speak the truth, no matter how harsh the consequence.

 

His stepmother and stepbrother loved to say things like "That body of yours is proof of your lowly blood." But such statements were just that—opinions. Subjective, baseless. There is no such thing as noble or ignoble blood. In their more theatrical moments, they would even claim, "Blue blood flows through our veins!"—and yet when they bled, their blood was as red as anyone's.

 

Their words were lies.

 

But Erald's remark about the shoe had been a fact—and facts, he believed, were fair weapons when used to combat slander.

 

Still, Erald knew his heart now resembled his clothes: worn, frayed, and weathered thin.

 

He no longer had the strength to pretend love for a family he could not love. He no longer expected kindness.

 

The only reason he remained in this house was to protect what still mattered—the good-hearted servants, the books, and the home that carried his parents' memory.

 

"Master! Please—stop! What are you doing to Master Erald?!"

 

The voice of Hannah, the maid, rang out just as Erald gritted his teeth against the searing pain in his forehead.

 

He had made sure no one was watching before provoking his stepbrother. He knew how worried the servants became when he was hurt. But luck hadn't been with him today. She had seen.

 

"Shut your mouth, servant!" his stepbrother roared. "I am the master of this house!"

 

"I-I understand that! But Master Erald is your brother! At the very least, please—just a little more… treat him as family!"

 

Tears streamed down Hannah's cheeks like boiling water as she threw herself at her master's legs to stop him.

 

Once plump and sturdy, Hannah's body had grown thin from hardship and grief. She looked fragile, now.

 

His stepbrother, unwilling to strike a woman, merely curled his lip in disgust and spat, "You pathetic coward, hiding behind your old wet nurse!"

 

Thanks to Hannah's intervention, Erald avoided serious injury, but a dull ache remained in his chest.

 

He hadn't meant for her to see. And yet, his stepbrother had been right in one sense—he had been saved by her.

 

It probably would've been wiser to deny the theft alone and let the rest slide.

 

"Sorry," Erald murmured. "I just couldn't help myself. I wanted to say something—anything cruel."

 

"I understand," Hannah said gently. "As far as I'm concerned, this is nothing more than a squabble between brothers. And if one of them is acting shamefully… well, we both know which one that is."

 

 

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