"A Walk"
"Huff… Huff…"
The blue moon still hung in the pre-dawn sky.
Ian sat by the window, gazing outside. He hadn't slept well—too much on his mind—and now some commotion had roused him fully.
"Left, align!"
"Left, align!"
"Forward, march!"
It was the sound of the Bratz estate's soldiers heading out for their morning drills. Ian propped his chin on his hand and watched them carefully.
Quite a number of them for private soldiers.
A long line of men streamed out through the main gate—far more than an average border noble would need for house defense.
That's excessive for a count's troops.
Judging by the ratio between personal guards and regular soldiers typically stationed across a territory, Count Derga maintained an abnormally large standing force.
Not easy to cut them down either. It'd cause its own trouble.
Most border nobles reduced troop numbers after signing peace treaties. The discharged men would return to till the land, trade goods, and pay taxes again—peace brought not only safety but economic gain.
But Count Derga hadn't done that. Even though peace had been formally established since his predecessor's time, he'd never reduced his army. Probably because the truce itself was a fragile, mistrustful formality.
After all, Derga's older brother had been killed during a border crossing, and Ian himself was being offered up as a living sacrifice to secure that "peace."
At that rate, he'd be better off breaking the treaty outright.
Armies could only be maintained through the productivity of their people. Here, the ratio was lopsided—far too many soldiers for the land to support.
Which meant, paradoxically, that frequent battles might actually keep the balance. War would thin the ranks, and victory would bring new labor and capital through conquest.
Of course, defeat was another matter entirely… but when a man's pride swells beyond reason, the outcome tends to be predictable. The issue needed resolution before that happened.
War or peace—choose one.
This halfway point benefited no one. It only worsened everyone's suffering.
Haena was proof enough. A servant in a count's own household, yet she would starve without the payment from running Ian's errands.
Creak.
Ian adjusted his clothes and stepped into the hall. A servant was nodding off by the wall—likely the one assigned to watch him through the night.
"You there."
"Huh—Sir Ian?"
"The air is cold. Go inside."
The servant blinked, wiping his mouth. Ian had never come out at dawn before. Usually, the night watch confirmed all was well when they brought his breakfast tray.
"Uh… where are you going, sir?"
"For a walk."
At this hour? Suspicion flashed across the man's face. Ian caught it immediately and smiled faintly—his eyes, however, were glacial.
"What are you staring at?"
The servant understood: lower your eyes and move aside.
He bowed his head, though unease lingered. The mansion was too quiet; letting Ian wander might invite trouble, yet there was no proper excuse to stop him.
"Um, Sir Ian…"
"You may follow, if you wish."
With that calm permission, Ian took the lead down the corridor. Whether the man trailed him or not hardly mattered—better to keep him close and learn what he could about the mansion.
"That annex over there—is it locked?"
"It's a guesthouse, sir. Cleaned daily."
"So, open, then. And that side?"
"The armory, sir. Security's… rather strict."
Well-trained at keeping his mouth shut, aren't you.
Even while watching Ian's reactions, the servant answered cautiously—likely planning to report every detail the moment his shift ended. Ian could practically see it written on his face, but it didn't bother him. He wasn't doing anything that would cause real trouble.
The problems lay elsewhere.
"Haa…"
Ian straightened, breathing a little heavily. He'd been methodically inspecting the place for useful information, but the first issue was obvious—this body's lack of stamina.
Untrained, frail, and hopelessly weak. He'd suspected as much, but the reality was worse than expected. Simply walking around the mansion left him winded. If he ever tried to reach the border to meet the Charnel tribe, he'd likely collapse before getting there.
And the second problem—
No sign of Gula, either.
He'd checked every garden, every secluded corner of the estate—no trace of the plant anywhere. Hardy and invasive as it was, the locals must have considered it a weed and burned it out. It might still grow deep in the mountains, but he couldn't leave the mansion to find it. Another obstacle.
"Sir Ian, dawn's breaking. You should eat."
The servant yawned, stretching. His night watch was ending. A little rude, but Ian couldn't blame him given his current status. He nodded.
"Very well. Let's eat in the main hall."
"…The main hall, sir?"
The man's expression froze. He understood exactly what Ian meant.
He'd always taken his meals alone, delivered on a tray to his room. But today, Ian had no intention of hiding away. He was hungry—and it was time to face the people who held his leash.
"Oh, Sir Ian? Good morning!"
"What brings you here…?"
The servants bustling near the dining room stopped in confusion. Judging by the table settings, two people were already inside.
"I've come to eat."
"But the Countess and Young Master Chel are already there."
"And Count Derga?"
"He went out yesterday and hasn't returned yet."
Tch.
Annoying—but perhaps better this way. Without Derga, handling the other two would be easier.
"Open the door."
The servant hesitated, then obeyed. The grand dining hall came into view.
Inside, two pairs of eyes reacted very differently—Chel's wide with shock, Countess Mary's narrowing with displeasure.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Her tone was sharp enough to cut.
Ian replied with feigned innocence.
"Good morning, Mother. A fine day, isn't it?"
He greeted them lightly and took a seat across the table.
Chel fidgeted, glancing between his mother and Ian, but the boy seemed oblivious to the storm brewing in her eyes. Gone was the gentle woman Ian had seen in the garden; what stared back now was all venom.
"If you mean to eat, do it in your room."
Even her voice was like a blade. But Ian simply leaned forward with easy confidence.
"I did, last night. But while chewing on that little scrap of bread, I thought about it—and realized, that wasn't right at all."
"What did you say?"
"Well, yesterday, when I drank from the finger bowl, poor Sir Molin nearly fainted, didn't he? Imagine—a household of nobles, and both sons making blunders on the same day."
At his words, Chel's face flushed red.
Mary slammed her knife down and pressed her lips together tightly — the look in her eyes said plainly: another word, and you'll regret it.
"My father also told me to devote myself to my studies," Ian continued smoothly. "But one cannot learn proper manners eating alone off a tray. I thought sharing a meal like this would be more appropriate."
He lied cleverly — it wasn't anything the Count had actually said, but he made it sound as though it were the man's own intent.
"Mother?"
"…Sit."
Her expression looked as though her stomach were boiling already, even at this early hour.
Mary, clearly irritated, gripped her fork and knife with force and began slicing at her frittata. Chel, having lost his appetite entirely, only glanced nervously at Ian from time to time. Ian, on the other hand, smiled brightly and met his gaze.
"It's much better to eat at the table than from a tray, isn't it, Brother?"
"Huh? Oh… yes…"
The portions were much larger here. Ian filled his hunger with graceful, steady hands — but all the while, he carefully observed the Countess. Every piece of jewelry, every layer of her gown, every trinket she wore… each one was exquisite enough to be praised even in the era of Emperor Ian himself.
The servants had so little to eat that they were eyeing the bastard son's leftovers — and yet the lady of the house flaunted her wealth without restraint.
A truly disgraceful family.
"Mother, there's something I'd like to discuss."
"Can't you just eat quietly for once?"
"I'd like to change rooms. And if possible, I'd like a candle."
"Ha!"
At that, the Countess finally looked up at him, letting out a hollow, incredulous laugh.
"You don't even know your place. A new room? And what would you need a candle for? You're too dull to read a single letter, and now you want to waste good wax? You really do take after that vain, lowborn mother of yours!"
It wasn't just an insult — it was pure spite.
Chel stiffened noticeably. He was clearly terrified that Ian might grow angry, that those golden eyes might flash again, and that something terrible would be unleashed.
"My mother is the Countess," Ian said with a serene smile. "So of course I take after her. You are, as always, absolutely right."
He said it politely — too politely — and it took her a moment to realize the barb beneath the words: the lowborn, vain woman you're talking about is yourself.
"…You little—!"
"Lord Molin said he would be visiting next week and asked to see my room."
Just as Mary drew in a sharp breath, about to explode, Ian cut in neatly. A lie, of course — but a useful, manageable one.
"We can't very well show a guest of his stature that room, can we? Even if I switched for just a day, he's far too observant not to notice something's off. There are empty rooms anyway, aren't there? Wouldn't it be more proper to move me now?"
"How dare you look me in the eye—!"
"If I appear ignorant or unpolished, it will only bring shame upon Brother Chel. And you wouldn't want that, would you, Mother?"
Formally speaking, Lord Molin was an envoy sent from the imperial palace — a central bureaucrat overseeing provincial nobles. If things went poorly, the Countess might very well be forced to send Chel to the capital instead.
"I'll do my best, Mother," Ian said, smiling as he calmly chewed his meat — his eyes saying, so just shut up and help me.
The Countess was beyond angry now — she was bewildered. In just one day, how had that lifeless corpse of a boy become so brazen, so sharp?
Bang!
With a loud crash, she shot up from her seat and stormed out. Chel lingered awkwardly, glancing between his mother's retreating back and his younger brother.
"Brother?"
"Ah? Oh… uh…"
As he turned toward the door, Ian spoke softly.
"Don't trouble yourself over yesterday. Everyone makes mistakes."
"Well, that's true, but…"
"Only petty people dwell on the past."
Outwardly, it sounded like comfort — but the meaning beneath was clear: Forget what you saw yesterday.
Chel nodded mutely and hurried out.
'Seems there'll be plenty of food left,' Ian mused, raising an eyebrow as he looked over the feast before him. He took only as much as he could finish and pushed the rest aside — for the servants.
"Mm."
Leisurely, Ian savored his meal and gazed out the window. Alone in the spacious dining hall, he felt a peace he had never known before. In his previous life, even as emperor, such tranquility had been rare.
Then, in the glass, he caught his reflection — small, frail, unfamiliar.
Ian.
If Emperor Ian was here, then where had the bastard Ian gone?
Resting his chin on his hand, he stared at that delicate face. Outside, the grand tree in the garden swayed gently in the wind.
Later that afternoon, Countess Mary, though seething with anger, had no choice but to grant Ian's request and move him to the annex.
As servants packed his meager belongings, they stumbled upon a damp piece of parchment.
"What's this?"
It was the paper on which Ian had written a record of Bariel's history the night before. But the pages had been completely soaked — the ink had bled, and the paper had softened to the point of tearing. There was no telling what had been written on it.
"Did young master Ian… try to study?"
"Then why'd he dunk it in water?"
"Why else? He must've been embarrassed."
Not knowing what they held, the servants tossed the ruined paper straight into the bin — laughing as they went. After all, everyone in the estate believed the bastard Ian couldn't read a single word.