Trash of the Count's Family Chapter 2: When I Opened My Eyes (1)
Previously on Trash of the Count's Family...
Translator: miraclerifle
Editor: Borderline Masochist
A gentle pat stirred the man awake. The calloused fingers reminded him of a fatigued parent's grasp. Such warmth emanated from it.
“Young master, it is morning.”
Yet the tone was deeply resonant. Shivers ran through the man's frame, forcing his eyes to snap open instinctively. Instead of the sun's rays filtering through the curtains to greet him warmly, an elderly figure stood nearby, wearing a pleased smile.
“It is surprising to see you wake up after a single attempt.”
“Huh?”
“The master wishes to dine with the young master since it has been a while. It looks like it will be possible today.”
Beyond the old man's shoulder, the man spotted a mirror. Reflected there was a red-haired figure staring back in bewilderment.
‘I guess that guy is me.’
“Young master Cale?”
Turning to the anxious voice, the man saw the servant-like elder gazing at him. However, that worried gaze wasn't the issue at hand.
The man had distinctly heard it.
Young Master Cale. The name rang a bell. He uttered it slowly.
“Cale Henituse?”
The aged servant regarded him with affection, as if he were his own kin.
“Yes. That is your name, young master. I’m guessing you are still a bit drunk.”
Hearing the elder's caring reply, the man pondered a name far more crucial than Cale Henituse's.
“...Beacrox.”
“Are you talking about my son?”
“...Chef.”
“Yes. My son is the chef. Do you need him to make something for your hangover?”
Darkness seemed to close in around the man, dizziness overtaking him. He dropped his head into his palm.
“Young master, are you still drunk? Should I call the doctor? Or will you wash right now?”
Glancing at the crimson locks draping over his features, the man noted their vivid hue, so unlike his former dark mane.
Cale Henituse. Beacrox. Beacrox’s dad, Ron.
These were figures from the opening scenes of [The Birth of a Hero], the book he'd been immersed in before dozing off the previous night.
He snapped his head up, surveying the room. The sleeping chamber differed vastly from standard Korean styles, evoking European elegance. Every item within exuded opulence and grandeur.
“Young master?”
The man addressed Ron, the elder feigning worry.
“Cold water.”
“Excuse me?”
Something to sharpen his thoughts was essential. In the mirror behind Ron, he glimpsed Cale Henituse's face.
‘Still looks normal.’
‘I guess Cale hasn’t been beaten to a pulp by the main character just yet. ‘
His striking features drew his eye.
Upon awakening, the man had transformed into Cale Henituse.
Cale Henituse. The wastrel pummeled by the protagonist early in [The Birth of a Hero]. That identity was now his.
“Young master, I presume you will not be bathing in cold water. Are you asking for drinking water?”
Cale shifted his attention to Ron. Though Ron masqueraded as a kindly senior, his real nature was that of a ruthless killer.
He directed his request at Ron.
“Please get me some drinking water.”
First, some icy water to steady his nerves.
“I will prepare it right away.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Ron hesitated briefly, his face showing a peculiar look, though Cale remained oblivious.
***
Ron departed the chamber since only heated water was available there. Alone now, Cale rose from the bed and moved to the lavatory. If this was truly the novel's world, a grand mirror ought to await inside.
Sure enough, the spacious looking glass occupied the bathroom. Cale Henituse, ever vain about his looks and build, had installed this unique fixture. No other in the manor possessed one.
The reflection showed fiery red hair atop a well-toned physique. It was a form that suited any outfit flawlessly.
“I really am Cale.”
The image matched Cale Henituse from the tale precisely. [The Birth of a Hero] detailed each character's visage vividly, leaving no doubt that he had become Cale.
Did shock typically bring clarity? Cale—or rather, Kim Rok Soo—composedly recalled the prior evening.
It had been an ordinary rest day. Long absent from physical books, he'd visited the library to borrow volumes for a full day's reading. The complete set was his, including [The Birth of a Hero]. He'd reached the fifth book's end before sleep claimed him. Yet upon rising, he inhabited Cale Henituse, the fool thrashed in volume one's opening.
‘Will things go the way they did in the novel?’
An eerie tranquility settled over him. Past the initial jolt, his thoughts steadied. Details from volume 1 resurfaced.
[The Birth of a Hero.]
The story chronicled heroes' emergence across Western and Eastern continents, their ordeals and ascendance. The protagonist, a Korean youth hurled into this realm as a high school freshman, boasted a lifespan rivaling dragons', rendering him eternally youthful.
“... This is bad?”
Such a figure would soon thrash him. Crucially, though, the beating hadn't occurred yet.
Cale averted his gaze from the mirror, stepping into the steaming tub. Reclining against its edge, he stared upward. The ornate marble ceiling matched the novel's depiction. Marble adorned much of Cale's residence.
Murmuring skyward, Cale continued.
“It’s not like there’s much I’ll miss.”
Life as Kim Rok Soo held little appeal. Orphaned, penniless, without deep bonds or cherished allies, he merely endured existence.
Indeed, death was intolerable.
He abhorred suffering and mortality utterly. Orphanhood came early via his parents' fatal crash.
Pain and demise repulsed him. No matter the hardship—even wallowing in filth—life trumped oblivion.
‘For that reason, I need to first make sure I don’t get beaten up.’
Unsure of the exact timeline, Cale knew he hadn't encountered the protagonist. The clue was evident.
‘I don’t have the scar on my side.’
Cale Henituse, the family's disgrace. Days prior to the protagonist's arrival, in a drunken binge, he'd hurled objects, impaling his flank on a splintered table leg, leaving a mark.
A peculiar sort of rogue. No foe inflicted the wound; rage over poor liquor sparked the outburst. Scarred, he then crossed the protagonist, sparking a brief clash and his downfall.
“Mm.”
Arms folded, Cale pondered deeply.
Volume 1's aftermath for Cale remained vague. He knew only that Choi Han forged epic bonds and triumphed over challenges, evolving into a legend with companions.
Thus dawned the age of heroic deeds. The Roan Kingdom, Cale's home, alongside swathes of both continents, would erupt in conflict. It would herald the era where champions unleashed their might.
Cale's brow furrowed. Kim Rok Soo, now Cale, embraced a straightforward creed.
Endure long free of agony. Savor life's minor delights.
Attain tranquil existence.
“... As long as I make the story proceed like normal while taking out the fact that I get beaten up, the main character will take care of the rest.”
Oddly, every passage from the tome etched clearly in memory. Soaking in the soothing bath, Cale reached a resolute decision amid his sharpened wits.
“It’s worth trying.”
Sidestepping continental strife for serenity seemed feasible. This scoundrel's plight outshone Kim Rok Soo's. Nestled at the Western Continent's fringe, the estate offered prime seclusion from battles. The narrative featured nobles evading war's grasp. Even partial evasion would curb harm substantially.
“Young master, are you inside the bathroom?”
Ron's call echoed from beyond. Cale recalled the elder's secret: an assassin seafaring from the Eastern Continent, cloaked in grandfatherly charm yet brutally indifferent.
“Yes. I’ll be right out.”
His casual reply slipped out naturally. Noting it, Cale vowed a course ahead.
He must steer that elder toward the protagonist and exile him.
Ron could dispatch Cale effortlessly yet regarded him with pitying tolerance, like an abandoned stray. His benign grin masked utter disinterest. In the tale, post-beating, Ron and kin joined Choi Han's exodus.
Donning the robe hastily, Cale emerged. Ron awaited, beaming warmly, tray and goblet in hand.
“Young master, here you go.”
Snatching the vessel, Cale brushed by the elder. He shunned gazing into those perilous eyes.
“Great, thanks.”
Ron's visage twisted strangely anew, but Cale pressed onward. Sipping the chill liquid, thoughts churned.
‘There are too many strong people here.’
Indeed, powerhouses abounded. Wherever the protagonist ventured, mighty beings or secretive souls lurked—humans and beyond.
‘I at least need the strength to protect myself.’
To thrive painlessly amid impending wars, modest power was vital. Excess strength invited entanglements.
Cale mulled the novel's early boons. Forces bolstering the protagonist's allies. He sought those aiding untroubled longevity. Several surfaced; one would suffice.
“Young master, we will start to dress you now.”
“Oh, right. Thanks.”
The entrance swung wide, admitting aides to assist Ron in attiring Cale. Unseen was Ron's uncharacteristic sternness as he eyed the incoming garb.
“Ah, something simple today.”
Elaborate outfits irked him. Comfortable, understated wear suited best.
“Yes, young master.”
The wardrobe attendant swiftly fetched modest attire, and Cale donned the plainest. A faint scowl creased his face upon completion. Even this 'simple' ensemble oozed excess, clashing with his tastes.
Still, the mirror's image was captivating.
‘He really is handsome and makes any clothes look good.’
Countenance completed the ensemble. Adjusting cuffs in the glass, Cale pivoted to Ron.
Ron resumed his kindly elder's smile.
“Ron, let’s go.”
“Yes, young master.”
Trailing Ron, Cale appreciated not memorizing the manor's paths. Following sufficed. Servants he passed recoiled, bowing hastily before fleeing.
‘Why are they so scared? Cale never hit people.’
He favored revelry and spirits. Drunken rampages shattered items occasionally. Hence his notoriety as kin's disgrace. He scorned most, save favored few, as equals.
‘Well, it’s better if nobody talks to me.’
Cale viewed it serenely. A paragon's form would complicate matters. A rogue acted freely. Absent heroic aspirations, it eased burdens.
“I will now open the door.”
“Sure.”
Nodding to Ron, Cale recalled the text's note: Cale esteemed Ron, his surrogate grandsire from youth, akin to his sire. Ron always received responses, human treatment. Naturally, Ron perceived otherwise. Thus, engaging Ron proved simple—reply and respect sufficed.
“I hope you enjoy your breakfast.”
“Thanks. Ron, make sure you eat a good meal too.”
Passing Ron, Cale entered the hall. His kin sat assembled. Father and Count Deruth Henituse presided, flanked by stepmother the Countess and her offspring. All four eyes turned to him.
“You are late again, today.”
Cale met his father's words with a glance. [The Birth of a Hero] portrayed Cale's paternal regard thus.
‘His father was the one person that Cale listened to. The reason the trash did not leave the area and got everything he wanted inside the Count’s territory was because of his father, Count Deruth Henituse.’
Regrettably, Deruth lacked the novel's typical potent sires—no arcane prowess or sway. Merely vast wealth. Cale relished this. Ideal for modest living.
The trio remained.
Stepmother, aware of his aversion, kept distance.
Her astute heir, burdened by elder sibling Cale.
The family's endearing youngest, shunning brother Cale.
No harassments flowed either way. Mere strangers they were.
Cale deemed it perfect for solitary peace.
“Take a seat.”
“Yes, father.”
Eyeing the lavish spread unfit for his breakfast ideals, Cale claimed his chair. A oddness prickled; he raised his gaze.
“Is there something you need to say, father?”
“... No, I do not.”
Deruth fixed on Cale. Kin mirrored him. Cale locked eyes sequentially; each averted swiftly, resuming meals.
‘I guess they find me really difficult to handle.’
Facing the board, Cale grinned at the opulent fare, alien to his sustenance-only repasts. He sliced the sausage midway.
‘It is so juicy.’
Whether artisanal craft or masterful cooking yielded the burst, its hue whetted appetite. An unwitting smile graced Cale.
Clang.
A clatter drew his sight to brother Basen, whose utensil had tumbled.
“My apologies.”
Basen offered composed regret, true to his depiction. The dining aide hastened with a fresh fork, retrieving the fallen one. Observing, Cale mused nobility's perks before refocusing on his plate.
Cale discovered the novel's inaugural boon. This sumptuous, delectable morning repast delighted his gut fully.
His grin lingered.
“...Ho?”
Thus, Basen's astonished utterance escaped his notice.