Shackles
"It was an honor to meet you today, Sir Ian."
At the main gate, the carriage that Molin had arrived in was waiting. When the old man removed his hat in greeting, a servant brought him his cane. Ian placed his hand over his chest and offered a respectful bow in return.
"Despite my rudeness, your kind words will surely bring great joy to my father."
His movements were elegant and refined—perfect posture, like a tutor in royal etiquette. Molin once again looked down at the boy and smiled. His dark green eyes were as clear as glass beads.
"You truly are devoted to the count, Sir Ian."
Was that sincere? No.
It was a question disguised as a compliment—a vague probe, half sneer, half test. Molin seemed to expect an answer, but Ian had no intention of satisfying the old man's curiosity.
"Please, travel safely."
He maintained only the bare minimum of courtesy with a faint, unreadable smile.
Not knowing the true intent of the words, he could only respond with something equally noncommittal. Molin, however, seemed even more intrigued by Ian's composure.
"Then, I shall see you next week."
The process of registration was not completed in a single day.
It would take four meetings, one per week—roughly a month spent with Molin like this. After that, a report would be sent to the capital, and it would take another fortnight for a messenger to return with approval.
All told, if nothing went wrong, Ian had at least two months of time. Confirming this gave him a quiet sense of relief. Quick adaptability was already a habit for him.
"Then, farewell."
Creak—
The coachman opened the door for Molin. Through the small window, the old man's gaze lingered on Ian until the carriage finally disappeared from sight.
Only then did Ian take in the full view of Count Bratz's mansion.
'For a border count's estate, it's surprisingly elegant.'
"Sir Ian, shall I escort you to your room?"
"No. I think I'll return to the drawing room."
When the servant standing behind him asked carefully, Ian shook his head. He needed to check how Chel's aftermath had been handled.
He didn't yet have a full grasp of the situation—he couldn't predict what consequences his own actions might bring.
So, he had to see it himself.
See with his own eyes. Hear with his own ears.
"You may go on ahead."
"Yes, understood. Ah, Sir Ian!"
He turned at the servant's call. The young man's hesitant face seemed familiar—it was the boy who had endured Chel's rampage in the drawing room.
"Is your hand alright?"
The servant bowed, holding up a slightly swollen hand. It hadn't been properly treated, but at least the heat had subsided.
"…Thank you."
"It's nothing."
It wasn't much of a kindness, really.
As soon as the servant turned the corner and disappeared, Ian looked down at his own hand. There was something he needed to confirm.
'I can feel magic power.'
They said mana resonated not with the flesh but with the soul. Even in a foreign body, he could still summon power. He didn't know much about cases like this, so it was unsettling—but…
'At least that's a relief.'
It couldn't compare to his true self, but with training, he would be able to wield mana with much greater ease. Even in the worst scenario, as long as he had magic power, he would survive.
Knock, knock.
He reached the drawing room and was just about to enter when he heard unfamiliar voices inside. No sign of the count's family—just servants gossiping as they cleaned the messy floor.
"Honestly… what on earth happened here?"
"Right? She's seventeen already…"
"Shh! Quiet. Madam told us not to breathe a word about it. Said we'd be flogged if it spread, so be careful."
"I'd believe it if you told me Sir Ian made the mistake. Last time, the young master tore out his hair till he fainted! When I heard it was about piss, I thought it was another accident like that one!"
Laughter burst out among them, bright and unrestrained. Ian concealed his presence and listened through the crack in the door. It seemed they ruled over the household with an iron grip. Tsk, tsk.
"But you know, when he left the garden earlier, he was so poised. Carried himself more gracefully than the madam herself."
"That's just because there was a guest. Otherwise, do you think the count would let him act like that? Look at that skin, so pale and shiny—must be whore's blood for sure."
"I thought his mother wasn't a courtesan. Why call her that?"
"Yeah, if you think about it, the count's the one to blame. Why go fooling around with another woman?"
"Fooling around? The woman was starving. Since when is that 'living well'?"
Creak—
Ian decided there was no further value in listening and opened the door. The servants who had been gossiping froze in place.
"…Ah, uh—Sir Ian?"
"Where are my parents and brother?"
Should they make an excuse—or not?
Though they addressed him politely, every servant here knew Ian's lowly origin and the fact that he was soon to be sold to the Cheonryeo tribe.
"Do I need to ask again?"
"Ah! My apologies! Madam and Young Master Chel returned to their rooms, and the count went with the butler toward the main gate."
If he went to the gate, it must have been to see Molin off belatedly. They'd been too flustered to do it properly—sending only Molin and Ian after the eldest son's mistake.
The count was surely worried about what leverage that sly old man might gain.
'So we missed each other.'
"Understood."
Ian quietly closed the door and left. As soon as he did, the servants exhaled in relief and turned on one woman.
"Bella! Your damn mouth is going to get us all killed."
"Tch, what does it matter? He's going to be sold off in a couple of months anyway."
"Keep talking like that and you'll get whipped. Watch it."
It was something the count had been especially sensitive about. To secure peace, they were thoroughly cleaning up Ian's identity.
The imperial palace might overlook it since it was a domestic affair, but if the Cheonryeo tribe found out, it could cause serious trouble. That was why every servant in the mansion treated Ian with forced respect.
"Ah—Father."
At the far end of the corridor, Ian saw Count Derga returning. The man approached with a deep scowl etched on his face.
"Has Lord Molin departed?"
"Yes. I saw his carriage off myself."
"What did you talk about?"
"Nothing of importance—just small talk. He mentioned Brother Chel's mistake, but only as a passing concern."
At Chel's name, Derga's expression twisted further, his brow tightening in frustration. Ian noted every detail. Judging by his reaction, Chel had kept silent about the golden eyes.
"…Prepare the carriage," the count ordered, feeling his temper rise, and gestured to the butler. He then took a jade pipe and clamped it between his lips. Whether his son stood before him or not, he exhaled thick smoke from the strong cigar.
Then, abruptly—
"How did you know of a viscount named Fülrn?"
It was a question that had struck him while recalling the luncheon. After all, how could a bastard child of such low birth know of a scholar from the capital that even he didn't? Ian didn't hesitate before answering casually.
"I overheard someone in the house mention him."
"Whose words?"
"I don't recall the name."
A child who had only recently entered the house—there was no way he would know every servant. Derga seemed to find that plausible enough and filled in the blanks on his own.
"Chel's tutor, was it? I recall hearing he graduated from Bariel University."
Well. It wasn't an important matter.
Derga deliberately lowered his voice, making it stern.
"Next week, do not make any mistakes. If you drink from the finger bowl again, I'll dunk your head in the mop bucket."
So, that had been one of the boy's blunders before Emperor Ian possessed him. Ian merely nodded without comment. Derga held the smoke in his mouth and stared at him in silence.
Hmm.
Indeed, he resembled his mother—his face was quite striking. When the child had first been brought in, he'd been filthy, reeking, and crying all day long, leaving no chance to properly look at him. Not that Derga had cared to anyway.
"Is something wrong?"
If his records were properly arranged, the Cheonryeo tribe would surely be pleased with his appearance. And he was only sixteen. Perhaps he could even be wed into the chieftain's family. What would happen to him after crossing the border—well, that was another matter.
In any case, if all went well, it would serve as a fine gesture of peace.
"Erase what your brother did today from your mind."
"Yes, Father."
It was shameful enough before the household servants; if the Cheonryeo tribe found out, the dignity of the next border count would be in tatters.
By the time the count's cigarette was nearly finished, the butler appeared, holding his coat.
"My lord, the carriage is ready."
"Let's go."
And with that curt word, the count turned and left.
Ian watched through the window as his father climbed into the carriage. The servants didn't even come out to see him off—clearly, this was a secret outing.
"Tsk."
A worthless man. Ian brushed away all thoughts of him and turned on his heel. He should first commit the entire layout of the mansion to memory—or perhaps meet Chel directly and make sure the fool didn't cause more trouble.
Wandering through the large estate, he eventually found himself at the central kitchen. There, servants and kitchen staff were huddled together, eating leftovers from the backyard feast.
"Sir Ian?"
"Is something the matter?"
"It's nothing. I was just taking a walk."
How strange. Wasn't he usually the sort to stay indoors even if the house were on fire? As the servants chewed on scraps, Ian's brow faintly creased.
They're not livestock. How could they eat what's been half-eaten…?
In Bariel, such a thing was unthinkable. Outside of the most destitute slums, no one would eat discarded food.
Even aside from the empire's overall prosperity, after the outbreak of saliva-borne diseases, such habits had become taboo—absolutely forbidden, even among beggars.
But here, in Count Bratz's manor, everyone acted as if it were normal.
"Are you hungry, sir? Would you like some?"
"Hey! How dare you speak like that to the young master!"
"A-Apologies!"
"No, it's fine."
The lands of the Cheonryeo tribe lay deep within the seething Great Desert. The Bratz territory, lying closest to it, was likewise arid compared to the heartlands. Farmland was scarce.
And being on the border, the number of stationed soldiers was enormous. The balance between supply and demand had long since broken down—meaning the servants were constantly half-starved.
"Then go on, eat."
"Yes, sir. Please excuse us."
Ian stepped aside to let them dine in peace. Yet the longer he thought, the more something gnawed at him—a sense of dissonance. A gap. It was natural, given the temporal distance from Emperor Ian's era, but even so, something about this world felt lacking.
What is it? What's missing…?
"Um, Sir Ian."
A voice called from behind. A girl his age, with braided black hair—the same one who'd been eating a moment ago.
"What is it?"
"Well, I'm heading to the market in an hour."
…Why tell him that? Beneath his gentle smile, Ian's mind raced.
What could she mean? Did Ian usually oversee market errands? Even for adults, restocking the mansion's supplies was no small task.
"U-um, is there anything you'd like me to tell your mother…?"
"Ah."
As the girl fidgeted with her fingers, he understood. She must've always passed messages to Ian's mother whenever she went out. Since the woman couldn't read or write, she relied on spoken words.
Which means… I'm not allowed to leave the manor.
He was a precious offering for peace. Until the Cheonryeo tribe arrived, he wouldn't be permitted to step outside Count Bratz's estate.
With that single, innocent question, the girl had reminded him of the shackles fastened around his feet.