The Terminally Ill Young Master is the Mad Dog of the Underworld #Chapter 182 - Read The Terminally Ill Young Master is the Mad Dog of the Underworld Chapter 182 Online - All Page

The Terminally Ill Young Master is the Mad Dog of the Underworld

Chapter 182

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[Translator - Pot ]

[Proofreader - Kawaii ]

Chapter 182: One Wrong Move

"Young master, are you not going out today?"

"Nope."

Having slept in, I gave Peter a simple answer.

"Tomorrow's my duel with Harold, so today I'll rest my body and meditate."

"Wow, that sounds profound. Sharpening your senses before the decisive battle?"

"Something like that. So don't bother me—get out."

"Yes."

After shooing Peter away, I sank into deep meditation to consolidate the martial arts I'd learned and the insights gained from training.

'Good. My mastery of the Seven Stars of the Black Sea Technique has advanced another stage.'

Not only that, but my Scarlet Cloud Ghost Path, Whispering Snow in the Night, and Flowing Cloud Thunder Fist had all developed evenly through sparring. Naturally, I'd grown adept at combining them.

'So today...'

I planned to refine them into practical techniques for real combat.

'Still no reply from Mother, huh, Friederun...'

To distract myself from the unease—

I needed to immerse myself and steady my mind.

***

Meanwhile, Barclava was quietly swinging his sword in the Special Operations Division's training grounds.

'Now is the time to swing my sword, even just a little. I need to ingrain the sensation into my body.'

Throughout the training period, he had watched Allenvert from the sidelines, constantly battling feelings of comparison and inadequacy.

But.

'Giving up in despair would be too weak.'

He swung his sword as if whipping his own wavering resolve—partly because of what Allenvert had told him.

"Accepting your inferiority is also strength. If you forge an unbreakable blade within, you won't wound yourself by comparing yourself to others."

Somewhere during the grueling training, Allenvert had offered his disheartened younger brother blunt advice.

"Some men are born fast runners. Others are born with sturdy bones and exceptional strength. And then there are those who are neither."

"...I guess I'm the third type."

"Maybe."

Allenvert looked him straight in the eye and asked:

"Does it feel unfair?"

"A little."

"No need to obsess over what you weren't born with. Life is unfair by nature."

"......"

"Imagine two boys. Similar faces, similar builds, similar intelligence."

Allenvert launched into an inexplicable analogy.

"Coincidentally, both dreamed of becoming wealthy merchants around the same time. But one was a poor farmer's son, while the other was the son of a fairly wealthy merchant. The first boy learned the trade from the bottom, endured insults, got injured in multiple places, and had his spirit worn down. But..."

Allenvert pointed upward.

"The other boy received his father's generous guidance, absorbed the wisdom of seasoned merchants, and smoothly accumulated experience over the years. Though he nearly fell for scams a few times, his father always comforted and helped him. Fast forward twenty years—who do you think became the greater merchant?"

"...Obviously the latter."

"Actually, not necessarily."

Allenvert shook his head.

"Life is long. Whether the path is smooth or rugged, every human life faces moments where they could stumble into temptation or traps."

This was, in fact, based on two men Karzan had observed in his past life.

"The first boy happened to strike it rich in one trade and, building on his failures, cautiously managed his business to eventually become a great merchant. Because war suddenly broke out, driving wheat and barley prices up severalfold."

"!"

"Meanwhile, the second boy suffered heavy losses in the same war. The jewels and fine fabrics he dealt in were useless in wartime. Having never faced such a loss before, he made reckless investments to recoup—only to lose even more."

"...What happened to him?"

"His spirit, unaccustomed to life's bitterness, crumbled under the shock. He drowned in alcohol, his business collapsed within years, and his once-harmonious family fell apart."

"...I see."

"Of course, that's an extreme case. But in the long run, life favors those who stubbornly walk their own path. That's what I believe."

Barclava gave Allenvert a strange look for the uncharacteristically comforting advice.

"What if you never become the best? If a man lives proudly with a sword in hand, that's enough. As the Duke's youngest son, learn to be grateful for what you have."

"...It was all good until the end, where it just turned into cliché nagging."

"What, you expected groundbreaking wisdom? You're hilarious."

......Knowing Allenvert was right, Barclava accepted his inferiority and silently trained in his shadow.

It was proof that Barclava was truly maturing in his own way.

***

Some had been quietly observing Barclava.

"Young Master, you're here again today."

"Yeah."

"You've improved so much."

"Compared to two weeks ago, he's a completely different person."

The Special Operations Division members who had watched and guided his training couldn't help but smile at the boy's unprecedented determination.

"Training is inherently tedious, painful, and uncertain. Anyone who endures it has the makings of a martial artist."

Harold nodded at Chase's words.

"To think he'd become this tenacious. I never imagined it before."

"...Blood will tell, I suppose. His maternal lineage is—"

Harold frowned at the suggestive remark.

"Mind your tongue. That's disrespectful."

Chase flinched.

"Right, sorry."

Having disciplined his subordinate, Harold quietly studied Barclava.

'What changed him so much?'

Likely his brothers.

Verdzig.

And Allenvert.

"By the way, Deputy Commander."

Chase cautiously broached another topic.

"What?"

"Are you confident about tomorrow's duel?"

Harold answered gravely.

"I plan to go all out from the start."

There was no other way.

***

Morning of the 14th day arrived.

The day of the duel between Allenvert—who had completed the Special Operations Division's training—and Harold, the 2nd Battalion's deputy commander who had overseen that training.

Naturally, the match drew the attention of everyone in Grunewald Castle.

"Well, this should be interesting."

"Commander, good to see you."

"Hmph. Go handle your duties."

"Yes!"

Even the Special Operations Division Grand Commander himself had cleared his schedule to attend, underscoring the event's significance.

"Hey, Harold. You planning to fight for real?"

The Grand Commander asked.

"If I don't, I'll be humiliated."

"Hah, well now."

The Special Operations Division Grand Commander stroked his chin, lost in thought.

"Harold here is someone I personally recruited and mentored. To see him this tense—even I'm surprised."

"I'm ashamed. But given his extraordinary talent, I don't feel embarrassed."

"If you say so, there must be a reason."

Despite the Grand Commander's relaxed and informal demeanor, Harold maintained proper respect through his gaze and posture. Grand Commander Heinrix had more than earned such reverence.

Heinrix was far from an undefeated martial artist in his lifetime, but he had survived and grown strong enough to reach his current position.

A veteran who had fought endlessly against monsters, beasts, pirates, knights, underworld assassins, and martial artists from noble clans—one of the strongest among Grunewald's retainers.

That was Heinrix.

"Well, you already know this."

Heinrix's scarred hand patted his subordinate's shoulder.

"No need to be intimidated just because your opponent is talented. I was never called a genius in my life, but now I've reached a level where I can't even remember my last defeat."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Maintain the right amount of tension. Moderation is key in all things."

Heinrix gave Harold a light push.

"Ah, here comes Allenvert."

Heinrix quietly observed Allenvert's approach, flanked by Royal Guard squad leader Jeffrey and Olivier, the butler of Clan Borgart, and his attendant boy.

"My, my..."

He exhaled a soft sigh of admiration.

"To think such a vessel of martial prowess exists."

Heinrix was, at his core, a soldier and martial artist. Political schemes and factions were secondary to him. He was accustomed to evaluating people purely through the lens of martial skill.

'Truly remarkable.'

Eyes that shone with madness yet purity. A gaze that naturally conveyed vast perception and endless observation.

A frame as solid as a lion's yet agile as a leopard's. The confidence and ease in his posture, the way he carried himself—

'And...'

His manipulation of aura was masterful, woven like thread.

'He’s wary too.'

Allenvert's aura briefly probed Heinrix's own domain before cleanly withdrawing. A sign this warrior was far from arrogance.

'He learned well from the 2nd Commander.'

Only then did Allenvert meet Heinrix's gaze, as if noticing him for the first time.

"A pleasure to meet the famed Special Operations Division Grand Commander."

"The honor is mine, Your Highness."

Heinrix gave a slight bow.

"Today, I’ll simply be a spectator to your match."

"I’d welcome any candid advice on my shortcomings."

Heinrix silently watched Allenvert walk past him.

'They say he's reached the 5th tier.'

And yet, he perfectly restrained even the natural pressure one would expect.

'Likely the Whispering Snow in the Night.'

Even now, he was effortlessly maintaining his martial arts.

And yet, how did he appear so at ease?

'His instincts are exceptional.'

Heinrix chuckled.

Moreover—

'Good grief, this lineage is unfairly handsome.'

If Verdzig was sculpted perfection, Allenvert had a more delicate yet sharp-jawed handsomeness, with piercing, mischievous eyes that created a peculiar aura.

'In some ways, he feels less like a noble heir and more like... an underworld powerhouse.'

That unique air clung to him.

'Now I see why people made such a fuss.'

Meeting him in person explained it.

'Verdzig. Ulbhild.'

Grunewald’s pride—martial vessels that appeared perhaps once in a generation.

Allenvert was clearly cut from the same cloth.

"This is trouble."

Heinrix muttered as he glanced at Harold.

'One wrong move, and he might suffer a crushing humiliation.'

***

Meanwhile