“My underwear,” Owen’s low voice affirmed.
“I let it slide once.
But you and your friends steal so many, I have nothing left to wear.
What am I to do if you take them every time I do laundry?
This is nothing short of bullying.
Do you understand?”
Owen delivered the lie with such a placid expression that Gefael was thrown into utter confusion.
‘What is this nonsense?
Underwear?
What underwear?’ The thought was so absurd, the words would not form on his lips.
‘Is this truly about underwear?’ When Owen had first struck him in the hallway, and the ensuing scuffle had left him pinned to the ground, Gefael had assumed it was retribution for the previous day.
That in itself was baffling, as Owen had acted completely uninterested while standing behind that little Appleton girl.
He had not spared them a single glance, yet now he sought revenge the very next morning?
It was ridiculous enough, but underwear?
Damnation.
“What are you talking about?
I know nothing of the sort.
Do you think I have nothing better to do than steal your damn underwear?”
“Why are you asking me?
You are the one who stole it.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Even Gefael began to wonder if someone had truly stolen Owen’s underwear and he was being mistaken for the culprit, or if Owen had simply fabricated the story as a pretext to beat him.
The onlookers, naturally, believed every word.
Even Sylvia could only stare, her expression blank, completely unable to make sense of the confrontation.
“Like I said, it was not me!” Gefael shouted, fearing he was about to be branded a common thief.
Owen, as if expecting this denial, did not so much as blink.
He simply grabbed the waistband of Gefael’s trousers.
“Then we shall see.”
“S-see what?”
“Your underwear.”
“This man is completely insane.”
With a roar that seemed to rise from his very core, Gefael scrambled to defend his trousers.
The most maddening part of it all was the sinking premonition that, given the disparity in their strength, he would not be able to hold on, no matter how desperately he tried.
The crowd watched, their eyes alight with morbid curiosity.
They could not imagine how a nobleman like Gefael had come to steal another man’s undergarments, but Owen was so deadly serious that they accepted it as fact.
“We will know once we look.
Why resist?
We are both men, after all.”
“No, damn it, what does that have to—”
Man or woman, it was humiliating to have one’s trousers stripped off while being physically restrained.
Red to the tips of his ears, Gefael began to plead.
“I-I will pay for the… the underwear.
Will that not suffice?”
“This cannot be settled with coin.
I am merely displeased that it occurred, and I wish to ascertain the truth.”
As he spoke, Owen’s grip tightened.
Gefael cried out to the gods and held on for dear life, but it was useless.
His trousers were yanked down as if by destiny, and he squeezed his eyes shut as a cold draft hit his thighs.
His underwear was exposed to a crowd of twenty people.
They were plain—white, square, and thoroughly wrinkled.
But he trembled with the shame of being so exposed, a sight that was rather pitiful.
By then, even Gefael had started to believe Owen.
‘He must be doing this because someone really stole his underwear,’ he thought.
‘Otherwise, no matter how mad he is, he wouldn’t go this far.’
‘Now that he has seen them, he will let me go, right?’ Gefael desperately hoped Owen would clear up the misunderstanding and apologize.
But Owen merely stared down at Gefael’s lower half and said quietly, “It is you.”
‘Huh?’ Gefael blinked blankly.
“Gefael!”
Just then, Walden arrived, having heard that his friend had been captured and was being publicly humiliated by Owen.
He stopped short, aghast at the sight of Gefael lying on the ground in his undergarments.
Buckley, who had followed, was equally stunned.
“Wh-what is the meaning of this…”
For young men raised as nobility, to be subjected to such an indignity was unthinkable.
“You coward,” Buckley spat, trembling with rage.
“Is this about yesterday?
You should have challenged him to an honorable duel, not resorted to the tactics of a street ruffian.”
Gefael squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could faint.
At Buckley’s words, Owen turned his head as if just remembering something.
“Come to think of it, you two were with him.”
“…What are you talking about?”
The onlookers seemed to grasp the fate awaiting Buckley and Walden before the men did themselves.
“Surely not.”
Even the crowd was doubtful.
They could not believe Owen would actually strip all three of them.
But he did.
Losing interest in Gefael as if he were a fish already caught and skinned, Owen rose to his feet.
The full impression of his large frame was startling as he stood.
As Owen slowly advanced, Walden instinctively took a step back.
“What is it?” Buckley demanded.
“Seeing you in person has angered me.”
Not understanding, Buckley furrowed his brow and assumed a defensive stance.
But in the blink of an eye, Owen was upon him.
He grabbed Buckley’s shoulder and… yanked down his trousers.
Buckley froze, having expected a fist to the face, not this.
A cold wind swept past, revealing Owen’s cool expression from beneath his hair.
He ground his heel into the trousers pooled at Buckley’s ankles as if to vent his fury.
His rage was so palpable that, even then, the crowd still believed his story.
That is, until Walden cowardly turned to flee, abandoning his friends to their fate.
Owen caught him from behind, flipped him onto the ground, and tore off his trousers.
“Oh, my.”
“Why are you doing this?” Walden pleaded, his face crimson as he clutched at his half-lowered trousers.
Every eye in the crowd was fixed on his underwear.
Even Buckley and Gefael, still exposed themselves, could not look away.
Walden’s hands tried to cover himself, but they could not conceal the puffy, pumpkin-shaped undergarments, the sort a small child might wear.
Owen furrowed his brow, studying the offending article with a contemplative air before stating quietly, “You see.
This one is mine as well.”
He seemed slightly pained to make the declaration, his embarrassment evident, but he did not waver.
‘He is sticking to his story to the very end.’ But by now, no one believed him.
His demeanor, and Walden’s utter humiliation, told the true story.
Besides, even if the undergarments had been Owen’s, the crowd would have willfully ignored the truth to preserve their own illusions about him.
Owen was far too handsome for such things.
Walden could read it all in their gazes.
“What is the meaning of this!”
Before Walden’s group could even pull up their trousers to retaliate, the Vice-Commander appeared, drawn by the commotion.
With a listless air, Owen stood and offered his arms to the guards.
They quickly bound him, their faces betraying their shock.
The Vice-Commander gestured, removing his own cloak and ordering his men to cover the disgraced knights as if hiding corpses from view.
“What is all this foolishness?” the Vice-Commander clicked his tongue.
Beneath the cloak, Walden and his friends pulled up their trousers, their hands trembling with shame.
Sylvia and the others, still struggling to process what they had witnessed, blinked as if waking from a strange dream and were guided back to their posts.
Only Owen, the architect of the chaos, was neatly led away.
“What on earth happened?”
“I have no idea.
I heard they did something truly terrible to Owen.”
“Even so, how does he plan to deal with the consequences?
His background… well, you know.”
“Count Walden already came storming in, demanding to know who would take responsibility for his son being made a public spectacle.”
“It was hardly a spectacle.”
At the sullen addition, the group fell silent, exchanged glances, and then burst into laughter.
“No, it was most certainly a spectacle.
Where does one even acquire pumpkin-shaped undergarments?”
“Did you see Owen hesitate before claiming them as his own?”
Another wave of laughter followed.
Meanwhile, Sylvia listened, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach.
Everyone had seen her bruised chin, and a few knew of the previous day’s events, yet no one drew a line between the two incidents.
For an act of vengeance on behalf of a wronged lady, it was far too childish, and the excuse he had concocted was far too… personal.
Sylvia was just as confused, but she knew Owen better than they did.
‘He is perfectly capable of it.’ This was the man who had once grabbed his own crotch to demonstrate their magical connection.
Why would this be any different?
The thought, once it took root, hardened into conviction.
‘Owen is a madman.’