The Fat Aristocrat Waltz in the Labyrinth

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He spread out his money on the bed and calculated the remaining amount.

He nodded in agreement, took out his meal from his bag.

It was something he bought from a street vendor on the way to his lodging.

A large round bread, grilled chicken with sauce, an assortment of fruits.
In addition, wine in a thin pottery vessel.

He broke the bread with his knife and put the chicken inside.
When he bit into it, the meat was tough and had a strong, unpleasant taste.
The sauce was spicy to mask the unpleasant taste, but it had a stimulating effect that stung his nose.

“It’s not very good.”

He nodded in agreement.
He had expected as much.
He needs to get used to this taste.

But this strong spice and excessive stench is not good.

He opened the bread, scraped off the dark red sauce with his knife, and picked out a fragrant citrus fruit from the cut fruits.
He squeezed the juice and sprinkled it on top.

He took another bite.
The refreshing acidity improved the taste somewhat.
He couldn’t complain anymore.

With no table to eat from, Mitrof sat on a shoddy bed, grabbing food with both hands.
He wiped a sauce, which was smeared on his mouth, with his thumb.
Unable to find anything to clean it off, he hesitated for a moment before licking it off with his tongue.
The voice of a woman in the next room continued, and the walls rumbled with “gon, gon” sounds.

While nibbling on fruit that had no sweetness, only sourness, Mitrof thought about what to do starting from tomorrow.

Labyrinth.
Death.
Yes, he might die.

The moment he thought that, the sour taste in his mouth changed into a sharp reality.

His life of idleness as a nobleman was over.
Placed as his older brother’s replacement, Mitrof was finally abandoned just like an apple core.
Nothing more than that.

While chewing on the fruit, Mitrof cried at its overwhelming sourness.

Ugu, ugu, buhi, fugo.

Tears were flowing endlessly, but he continued to eat the fruit.

As long as his older brother existed, he knew that his life had no future.
As the third son of the poor Count family, he had no purpose.
Some went out on journeys or became peasants somewhere.
He knew this day would come eventually.

All he could do was eat.
Only while eating did he feel satisfied.

Now, the taste of reality is sour.

Dirty room.
No one to rely on.
No money.
He was alone, and he might die tomorrow.

Sobs leaked through gritted teeth.

The wall was hit with a thud.

“Hey, shut up! Are you a pig or something?!”

Despite the muffled angry voice, Mitrof cried.
He had decided to cry just for today.