I Plotted The World Destruction With The Male Lead - Chapter 43

‘The secretary was the one who remembered all that.’

Carlyle had far too many responsibilities on his plate. He acknowledged that Eleanor was a reasonably capable guide—but not someone who had warranted deep personal attention at the time.

Still, he believed he knew her to some extent. Her clothing preferences, the kind of accessories she liked, her favorite colors.

‘But this is the kind of surface-level knowledge even Van could figure out. It’s not enough.’

If Van were to die, Eleanor would simply seek shelter elsewhere—most likely in the arms of another member of the imperial family. Once she’d considered Carlyle as someone she had to leave behind, she would never come back to him.

That meant he needed to act before that happened. He had to capture one of her siblings—preferably the youngest, the one she cared for most.

Even if it meant killing the rest.

A subordinate came forward, requesting permission to report—he had contacted one of the remaining spies in the Granmire duchy via communication orb. Carlyle gave a curt nod, his face dark with displeasure.

“Lady Emperton’s biological father has been repeatedly writing letters to her, expressing dissatisfaction with how the Grand Duke is treating him.”

Eleanor’s father, Gus, was an easy man to manipulate. All it took was a slight push for him to spill everything he knew, and his fragile pride made it easy to provoke him into reckless decisions.

With his inflated ego and the smug belief that everyone around him was inferior, he was perfect prey for swindlers.

But he was also too spineless to take action himself. Instead, he kept writing letters, begging Eleanor to return to the duchy, clearly thinking it would be easier for her to come to him than the other way around.

However, something had changed in his most recent letter.

“…He threatened that if she didn’t respond soon, he would come to the capital himself.”

The implication was clear—just a little more prodding and Gus could be lured out. Forging a letter in Eleanor’s handwriting wouldn’t be difficult.

“He’ll be of no use,” Carlyle muttered.

A memory flashed in his mind—Eleanor holding one of her sisters, the youngest, close in a protective embrace.

“…Tempt him into bringing the youngest daughter. Once it’s done, kill the other two. We can’t risk them becoming hostages to another royal faction.”

“What about the mother?”

Carlyle didn’t pause long to answer. He recalled something about four letters being sent into the duchy.

“Take care of her too.”

*

A roar of rage shook Charlotte’s bedroom. Nancy wept—not for herself, but for Charlotte, who must still be suffering somewhere even now.

Annie, one of the maids, recalled something from months ago. Someone had asked if the young lady had any scars or easily recognizable marks on her body.

At the time, Annie assumed they were simply trying to find fault with Charlotte and had lied.

She’d proudly declared that their young lady had no such blemishes—she’d been raised with the utmost care, shielded from harm, never even tanned under the sun, her skin pure and pristine.

But in truth, Charlotte did have a scar. A burn on her thigh, from when she was about nine. She had dropped hot food on herself while sitting near the fireplace in nothing but her underclothes. The burn hadn’t been treated by a cleric—perhaps due to the location—and left a faint scar.

Nancy, who had been tending to her at the time, remembered it well. It had always pained her to see it.

Now, that scar was gone. The body before them had no such mark.

Worse yet, there were moles on the corpse that Charlotte never had—and ones she did have were missing.

They had examined the body thoroughly. There was no doubt.

“My lord, the young lady has been kidnapped! I swear it! Th-this body… this isn’t our lady!”

Nancy’s desperate declaration made the world spin for Marquess Enrick. But then, a new emotion surged up—fury.

The same fury he had buried deep after Charlotte’s sudden death, accepting it as an unavoidable tragedy.

Now, it erupted.

He roared like a beast, and the two maids shrank back in terror. But Nancy’s eyes only filled with tearful rage. Even now, she had no idea what might be happening to their precious young lady.

The lieutenant, his own rage simmering just beneath the surface, spoke calmly.

“We’ll need a mage or a cleric to be sure.”

Rumors had been circulating among noble ladies in the capital—magical cosmetic procedures that could alter one’s appearance. Only a skilled mage or cleric could detect them.

Charlotte had never undergone such procedures. The Marquess had never allowed it—and even if she had, her maids and nanny would have known.

“My lord… this wasn’t planned overnight.”

The body had died on the same day the maid found it. The physician hadn’t even noticed anything strange—suggesting it had been made to look like a natural death. But the truth was likely murder.

Someone had created a woman with Charlotte’s face and killed her, staging it perfectly. And somehow, they had kidnapped the real Charlotte without anyone noticing.

These were no ordinary enemies.

The lieutenant turned to the visibly trembling Marquess.

“If the enemy finds out we know the young lady is alive, her life may be in danger. We need to proceed with the funeral as planned—but secretly search for the one behind her abduction.”

The funeral would require a cleric, which gave them a legitimate reason to examine the body more closely.

Marquess Enrick nodded slowly. Shame and fury churned in his gut. He wanted to gouge out his eyes—how could he have failed to recognize a fake?

“Do everything necessary. We will find Charlotte—my daughter will be brought back!”

He turned, his shoulders squared with purpose. This wasn’t like facing an enemy he couldn’t beat. No—he would gather strength. Enough to bring her back. Enough to crush the one who dared take her.

The Marquess left Charlotte’s bedroom and marched straight into the dining hall. He sat and devoured the food like a man possessed, forcing each bite down.

‘Charlotte… I will bring you home!’

Tears welled in the corners of his dry, furious eyes as he trembled with rage.

*

The sky was growing dark. Eleanor looked up at the evening sky, clouds beginning to gather, thinking that even the stars wouldn’t be visible tonight.

They were far from the capital now.

Even the smoke rising from the chimneys of the capital’s homes was no longer visible from their current position. Sitting in the steady, smoothly moving carriage, Eleanor gazed out the window.

Of the capital’s eighteen knight orders, Van had mobilized six. Though he was well-versed in the affairs of the Eastern Duchy, he wasn’t as familiar with the capital’s military forces. He personally selected one order, and for the other five, he relied on the counsel of someone he trusted deeply.

That man was Marquess Baird—Dael’s right-hand man and long-time confidant. For the thirty years since Dael had taken the throne, Baird had remained at his side, working quietly behind the scenes, never seeking attention or recognition.

Van trusted him as well, and so it had made perfect sense to rely on his advice when selecting the knight orders.

At least, it had made sense until a few days ago.

Eleanor glanced sideways at Van, watching his tightly set expression, then looked down at her left hand—still held in his. His grip was firm, almost rigid.

‘By tomorrow, he’ll show his true colors.’

Eleanor gently rubbed her fingers against Van’s, thinking to herself. She intended to make full use of the advantage she had—knowledge of the original storyline.

Carlyle, too, would know he had to act quickly now.

Either he would kill them before she and Van could destroy his plans entirely—or he would be the one to fall. It was time to choose.

Van glanced at her, sensing her touch. Even though everything he was doing was out of necessity, the thought that he had dragged Eleanor into something dangerous unsettled him deeply.

“You’ll be safe, my lady.”

“And so will you, Your Grace.”

When Eleanor gently corrected him, a trace of tension left Van’s hardened mouth. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers, and whispered,

“Yes. I’ll make sure of that.”

As she listened to Van’s soft, steady voice, Eleanor resumed guiding him.

Outside, the clouds thickened, lowering in the sky. They moved as if chasing the procession, and the knights riding ahead glanced upward with unease.

Above the crimson-tinted horizon, gray darkness was beginning to descend.