1 A Rose Dedicated to Dio (1)

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East End London, nineteenth century.
Mist drifted through the air, and narrow streets were crowded with dense shanties and wooden huts, dilapidated and filthy. The muddied ground, strewn with sewage and rubbish, was nearly impossible to walk upon.
Self-important gentlemen and ladies would never set foot here.
A shrill exchange of curses burst from the mouths of two women, hands on hips, sharply accusing each other of spilling dirty water onto their own doorsteps.
Children dashed wildly down the street, their faces mingling with those of adults clad in coarse cotton, worn with worry. Drunkards and vagrants sprawled haphazardly by the roadside—a common sight in the East End.
“Open up, hurry up! You little brat, did you sleep yourself into a dead pig?” The crude insults came with a violent pounding at the door.
The already battered wooden door shuddered under the savage blows, barely holding together.
Dio opened the door, expressionless.
“Damn it, who are you making that dead-man’s face at?” The man’s grumbling voice sounded from overhead.
He was as irritable as ever, though, for once, he carried no scent of alcohol. His temper was slightly softened, at least not erupting into immediate violence as usual.
His attire was more respectable than before, showing no torn patches—something unheard of in the past.
Dio kept his eyes lowered, lest the man see the venomous hatred simmering within them.
It was because of this that he noticed, by chance, the little girl standing before him—a girl entirely at odds with the slum’s surroundings—
Her features were those of an Eastern doll: jet-black short hair, a pale, delicate face, with a pair of dark, round eyes and lips red as spilled blood. Docile and obedient, she stood beside the man, her strangely vivid eyes made gentle by their roundness.
As Dio observed her, she looked back at him, curiosity flickering in her gaze.
The drunken father—the man who had just battered the door—spoke with pride, “This little one is yours, bought for three shillings. She will be your future wife!”
His tone and his lofty manner seemed to flaunt a rare, nonexistent fatherly affection.
Dio found it incomprehensible and, uncharacteristically blunt, asked, “Three shillings can buy such a pretty girl? Even God would not bestow such kindness so freely. Perhaps she’s ill, and her seller was desperate to be rid of her, so she ended up in your hands.”
He wanted to ask whether the man’s brain had been marinated beyond repair in drink.
If he had brought home a sick child or someone who might harm them, it would be troublesome.
Dario Brando loathed having his dignity challenged. Without waiting for Dio to finish, he slapped him.
Dio, as if accustomed to it, dodged promptly, though not entirely.
Experience told him that dodging too far only made the beating worse.
Mumino watched the one-sided violence unfold.
He froze, appearing utterly terrified to onlookers.
“Ignorant brat, I’ve eaten more bread than you’ve tasted salt. Think I don’t know these things? Do you know how hard it is to find a wife in the slums? All my effort is for you!” Dario cursed, his eyes full of contempt.
He didn’t hit Dio particularly hard, perhaps out of laziness, and after the beating, tossed the little girl he’d bought to Dio and swaggered off.
He left a final command: “She’s property I paid for. You must take care of her!”
Mumino listened to the man’s threats and caught Dio’s venomous glare out of the corner of his eye. That statement deserved a huge question mark.
He complained to the system: [The villain’s drunken, abusive father—this guy’s got death flags all over him.]
The system replied cheerfully: [You guessed it. He really will be poisoned to death by Dio.]
Mumino couldn’t help glancing at Dio.
The boy had already risen from the floor; evidently used to beatings, he had protected his head and now looked as though nothing had happened.
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His golden curls fell back, revealing a face not yet fully grown but already strikingly beautiful, with crimson eyes fixed intently ahead.
Even lacking proper nutrition, he was still taller than the young Mumino.
Dio walked over slowly, brushing the shoe prints from his clothes—he could ignore such superficial wounds by now.
Mumino assumed Dio would ignore him, that the villain’s cold and ruthless nature would lead him to dismiss him entirely.
But if the mountain will not come to me, I must go to the mountain; with enough shamelessness, even villains can be won over!
Yet this time, he was mistaken. Dio came straight to him.
At a distance of three paces, Dio interrogated him as if he were a criminal: “Tell me your name. Who are you, really? How did that man bring you here? What’s your purpose?”
Dario Brando, that decrepit, foolish, and brutish old drunkard—a typical scum of the slums—seemed to offer nothing worth scheming for.
The frail Eastern girl, perhaps never questioned so roughly before, stood bewildered. Dio thought, street cats threatened with fear would have eyes as round as hers.
After a long moment, the girl spoke, her voice soft and tender: “My name is Mumino.”
So she was indeed an Eastern girl.
As she spoke, she revealed a neat row of white teeth, not the mouth of someone long ill.
Dio had visited docks and churches, seeing people from the East: mostly yellow-skinned, their faces lacked the sharp, cold contours of Westerners.
But Mumino was different. Her skin was like a handful of snow, her eyes like misty ink. Her nose was high, her lips like rose petals. Yet she also bore the gentle features of her people. In short, she was healthy.
And clearly delicate, incapable of hard work.
Dio suspected the man had snatched her from somewhere, and if her family came searching, both he and the fool would be in trouble.
Mumino clutched her clothes tightly.
Dio looked down. The girl wore a boy’s brown tunic, topped with a vest. Her legs were clad in khaki trousers, boots of cowhide on her feet.
Not the attire of someone wealthy.
The contradictory impressions only made Dio more curious about the Eastern girl’s identity.
Mumino pursed her lips, glanced at him, and spoke timidly: “I come from an island nation in the East. Because I brought shame to my family, I was exiled. My mother took me alone across the sea, all the way to London. But she couldn’t adapt to life here and died of illness. I sold myself for three shillings to bury her.”
Despite her young age, the girl spoke clearly and logically, explaining her origins in a few words.
Dio’s expression softened; he doubted such a frail child would lie to him.
“Dario… the man who brought you here—would he be so kind?” An orphaned girl was an easy target; why would the old fool give her a choice?
Dio was exceedingly vigilant, nothing like a boy of eleven or twelve.
Mumino hesitated, then answered honestly: “Because the place we rented was near the magistrate’s residence, and I knew people there, so he wouldn’t dare take me easily. A few days ago, I met your father—he was buying alcohol nearby? He lingered there for some time, and everyone there recognized him. Afterwards, he persuaded me to leave, promised to bury my mother, said he would care for me, and finally took me away for three shillings…”
Dio was stunned after hearing this, his gaze a mixture of pity and mockery as he looked at Mumino, disbelief in his voice: “You’re too naive. You don’t even realize you’ve been tricked by that cunning, greedy old man. With your looks, even serving a respectable family as a servant would be better than coming to my house.”
“At least you’d have enough to eat.”
The girl was speechless, her face pale as she responded anxiously: “But I don’t know how to do anything yet. Who would pay me? Unless they’re a philanthropist. At least your father signed a certificate at the notary’s office, promising to shelter me until I grow up.”
So innocent it was almost laughable.
Dio did not argue further with the pitiful girl. He had stood arms crossed, cold and distant a few steps away, but now he suddenly approached her and reached out.
Perhaps after witnessing the earlier violence, the weak and pitiable girl shrank back.
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Her attempt to avoid him only prompted Dio to grasp her wrist tightly.
In Dio’s worldview, there was no rule that gentlemen should treat ladies gently. He said impatiently, “Why are you dodging?”
The Eastern doll was terrified, her large black eyes full of accusation, yet she dared not move further.
She understood the situation well.
Her wrist was slender—whether naturally or from malnutrition, he couldn’t tell—but the skin was startlingly soft, so delicate that Dio was surprised. It reminded him of the cakes his mother once brought home when she was still alive.
Dio examined her eyes, carefully scrutinizing each one. Black and white were clear, with not a trace of bloodshot.
His fingers brushed her straight nose, then her rosy lips. Without any gentleness, he pried open Mumino’s mouth, pressing her gleaming white teeth.
He even inspected her soft fingers one by one.
Mumino stared at him in confusion, feeling that his series of actions were oddly familiar yet peculiar.
“What a waste.”
Dio rinsed his fingers in clean water, his gaze cold and mocking as he glanced at her.
His beautiful face was twisted, showing signs of villainy despite his youth.
Mumino was at a loss.
“Soon you won’t look so pretty anymore. You’ll struggle even to fill your stomach.”
“Now is the time you pay for your foolishness.” Dio had no spare sympathy for her, pulling his lips into a sneer as he ordered, “The room needs cleaning. Go on. You’ll cook tonight. I’ll check your work later.”
Mumino: “……”
Dio, seeing her hesitate, spoke coldly: “You don’t actually believe that old fool’s nonsense, thinking you’re some sort of wife, do you? You’re just a little maid he bought for three shillings. From now on, all the chores in this house are yours. Good luck in advance.”
He brought out the broom and tossed it at Mumino’s feet, then sat in the chair like a lord, arms folded, watching her.
The pretty girl’s face was paper-white, as if facing such malicious hostility for the first time, her world turned upside down.
Dio didn’t hurry her; he had plenty of time to watch the girl work.
Children from the slums like Dio, unable to pay school fees, had no chance to attend school. Lacking strength, they were unwanted in factories.
There were child-labor factories, but greedy capitalists would squeeze every drop of blood and marrow from them.
Most children his age who entered factories would walk in upright and be carried out as skeletons.
If unlucky enough to be mangled by machinery, the stingy factory owners wouldn’t call a doctor. Many would simply die in agony.
Dio would never let himself end up like that; he had already closed that door.
Though he often went hungry, at least he wouldn’t starve to death, and the old fool still brought home scraps.
He sat, arms folded, watching Mumino coldly.
The system advised Mumino: [Endure humiliation! Endure! Take a step back and the sea broadens! Don’t act impulsively.]
But it overestimated the little weakling—
Mumino gripped the broom, vented her anger for a moment, then resigned herself to sweeping the floor.
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