Richard carefully scraped a small portion of the crimson oil from the pot, igniting it once again for further experimentation.
At first, a brilliant blue flame erupted, scorching hot and almost blinding in its intensity. But it lasted only briefly, then collapsed into a dull red, low-temperature fire. Simultaneously, the previously unscathed oil began to char rapidly, emitting a sharp, acrid smell, reminiscent of burnt feathers.
Richard frowned, instantly recognizing the odor. "This is the smell of protein burning," he muttered to himself. "The impurities in the oil are responsible. So the red oil isn't pure magical substance. The true magical essence is hidden within it. To extract it for practical use, I'll need to refine it further." His eyes narrowed to slits, the familiar gleam of curiosity and calculation reflecting in them.
Just as he was preparing the next step, a rhythmic knocking echoed through the sealed laboratory door:
"Knock… knock-knock-knock… knock-knock!"
"Come in," Richard called, already knowing who it would be.
The door creaked open, and Lucy, the young maid, timidly poked her head inside. "Master…" she began hesitantly.
"Something wrong?" Richard glanced at her briefly, hands still busy manipulating the delicate vials and utensils.
"Yes, Master," Lucy replied, swallowing nervously. "Baron Leo has returned from his tour of the territories."
Richard's hands did not pause. A slight shrug accompanied his dry voice: "And?"
Richard knew his so-called father—the Baron—had departed for this inspection several days ago. By the schedule, he should have returned now. There was nothing surprising in that.
Lucy hesitated, her voice dropping to a whisper: "But… the Baron asked me to tell you he wishes to have dinner with you."
"Hm?" Richard's hands faltered for the briefest instant, then resumed their precise movements, fingers arranging bottles and instruments without distraction. His voice, calm and detached, carried a hint of sardonic amusement. "Tell Baron Leo that I'm busy with urgent work and cannot join him. Let him dine alone."
Lucy's eyes widened, disbelief etched across her small face. "B… but Master, Baron Leo is waiting in the main hall. He's ordered the meal to be served only when you arrive."
Richard paused, meeting her gaze. Four eyes locked in a silent exchange. Lucy's timid question came softly: "Master… will you… go?"
Richard exhaled, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Go? Of course I shall! Such a heartfelt invitation from the illustrious Baron cannot be ignored. Declining would be… most impolite, wouldn't it?"
Lucy blinked, speechless.
"All right, let's move," Richard commanded, pushing open the laboratory door. He descended from the side keep with long, confident strides.
The castle's layout was clear: the central main keep housed the Baron, rising over twenty meters in pale blue stone. Flanking it were the lower side keeps—Richard occupied the right, while the left accommodated the Baron's knights, attendants, and high-ranking servants. Remaining personnel resided in modest, damp cottages behind the main keep, next to the stables, with odors that were far from pleasant.
Richard cast a glance toward the cottages, then turned toward the imposing main keep. He pushed open the heavy double doors of the hall, stepping into a grand chamber lined with smooth stone tiles, worn by centuries of footsteps. Some were chipped and repaired, yet the floor gleamed under the flickering candlelight.
In the center of the hall stood a single black walnut table, over four meters long and a meter wide. Baron Leo Angré sat at the head, his back straight, posture impeccable.
Upon seeing Richard, he began: "You've come, my son—"
Richard did not respond. Instead, he took a seat at the far end of the table, facing the Baron, eyes cold and calculating. He understood all too well: the dinner was never about sharing a meal. It was a guise, a prelude to something hidden, something unknown.
Baron Leo's forced smile twitched nervously; the atmosphere thickened with tension. To break it, the Baron clapped his hands and commanded, "Begin the dinner! Bring the food!"
"Yes, sir," came the hushed response. One by one, servants carried platters of food to the table, placing them meticulously in front of the Baron and Richard.
Richard's gaze swept across the spread. Appetite was nonexistent. Even after fifteen years in this medieval world, he had never grown accustomed to its crude fare.
The cuisine was flavorless, poorly cooked. Soups were sour, steaks overcooked and charred, cabbage yellowed and bitter.
Bread, the staple, was worse. Unlike modern Earth, these loaves were unleavened—dense, dry, and hard, closer to compressed biscuits than edible bread. Even well-sifted flour could not save the texture. Some unscrupulous bakers, Richard knew from grim historical records, added sand or pebbles, turning bread into lethal instruments in domestic disputes.
Naturally, the bread at the Baron's table wasn't that extreme. It was white, lightly fragrant, and carefully baked—but still, to Richard, it was unpleasant. He tore chunks of bread, soaking them in the meat broth until softened, then forced them down his throat, followed by the tough, charred steak and the bitter cabbage, barely satisfying his hunger.
Across the table, Baron Leo polished off his meal, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and sipped from the remaining wine. His expression shifted, a subtle invitation to conversation—or perhaps something more. Richard's eyes flicked toward him, understanding immediately: the true engagement had just begun.
Outside, the hall's massive windows captured the last streaks of sunset, casting long shadows across the polished stone floor. Flickering candlelight danced across the Baron's stern features, highlighting the faint lines of age and authority. The servants moved with quiet efficiency, though even they seemed aware of the silent tension between father and son.
Richard, however, remained impassive. Beneath the seemingly casual posture, his mind calculated, observed, and anticipated every potential action the Baron might take. Every flicker of movement, every change in tone, could signify hidden intentions.
He allowed the Baron a moment, then finally spoke, voice calm and deliberate. "Father, you have summoned me for dinner. Do you wish to discuss the affairs of the Barony… or something else?"
Baron Leo's smile did not reach his eyes. "Ah… Richard, always so sharp. Let's say… it's a matter of… family concern. Though naturally, the boy at the table must learn manners before understanding the full context."
Richard inclined his head slightly, concealing the faint smile creeping to his own lips. He already knew, even before the first words were exchanged, that the evening would not be a mere meal—but a carefully constructed test, a dance of power and subtle threats.
The servants continued their tasks, filling goblets, placing small dishes, and refilling the coarse white bread, all under the watchful gaze of the Baron and his heir. Richard's mind, however, was elsewhere—partially on the ongoing magical experiments with the Firebear's oil, partially on the subtle psychological game unfolding across the table.
Even as Baron Leo sipped wine and regarded him, Richard's inner focus remained sharp, calculating potential outcomes. He analyzed every movement, every expression, considering diplomacy, potential deception, and the strength of character necessary to navigate the evening.
What seemed to outsiders a simple medieval banquet was, in Richard's eyes, a complex game of strategy—a blend of human psychology, subtle authority, and the hidden power dynamics of a noble household. Even the smallest detail—a flicker of candlelight, a servant's hesitation, the color of wine in the glass—could provide insight into the Baron's intentions.
Dinner progressed, each course consumed with silent observation. Richard's appetite may have been modest, but his mind feasted on the nuances of human behavior, absorbing lessons that would serve far beyond the castle walls.
By the time the final course was cleared, Richard had already anticipated the next moves, planned contingencies, and evaluated the true nature of his father's strategies. The meal was merely the prelude—the real test of will, cunning, and subtle power had only just begun.
And Richard, ever composed, was ready.