Chapter: 3
Chapter Title: Count's Mansion
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"Was the meal to your liking?"
Count Derga set his utensils aside and asked. The luncheon, which had dragged on for a couple of hours, was finally drawing to a close. The sun, once high in the midday sky, had long since dipped toward the mountains.
"It was splendid. It could stand toe-to-toe with anything served in the imperial palace."
Ian paused mid-motion as he straightened his napkin.
It was bold talk, comparing this to the imperial palace—the center of the world and seat of the utmost authority. In Ian's era, it would have been shocking, but judging by the count's retainers, no one batted an eye.
'Is this normal?'
If so, it suggested the palace's influence wasn't all that strong. This was over a hundred years ago. Setting aside the short-reigning emperors, he'd have to go back seven generations.
"We'll prepare dessert."
"Thank you, Countess."
While Ian pondered deeply, the gathering fully dispersed. Mary Madam turned to her two sons with an elegant, gentle smile.
"Chel. Ian. The adults have business to discuss, so you two wait in the side room and have some tea."
They'd surely chatter about registering Ian into the family registry. Excluding the very person in question, of course.
The registration was all but a done deal, but since this was a frontier far from the palace's reach, they'd nitpick it like hawks to keep things in check.
"Yes, Mother."
Ian's crisp reply made Mary Madam's lips twitch faintly. It must have been a trial to stroke the shoulder of lowly bastard-born scum.
Instead, she gave his cheek a perfunctory pat to show some token affection. Chel's eyes narrowed all the more for it.
"This way, Lord Molin."
"Oh ho. Quite impressive."
They left the rear garden behind and entered the main building.
The grand reception room at the heart of the mansion was luxurious to the point of gaudiness. Gilded ornaments everywhere caught the sunlight, flooding the space with brilliance.
Creak.
As the adults filed into the inner reception room, only Chel and Ian remained. They sat facing each other, staring. To be precise, Chel glared while Ian observed.
'This guy's the spitting image of Count Derga. Even a passerby dog would know they're blood.'
Red, curly hair and a freckle-dusted nose. Despite his youthful vigor, the protruding belly screamed Derga lineage.
Ian, glimpsed in the mirror, had blond hair and absinthe-green eyes—likely heavy influence from his unknown mother. Pretty enough, and not a trace of resemblance to Chel.
"Master Chel. Master Ian. I'll serve tea and cookies."
A servant approached politely and set down the tray. Chel's eyes soured instantly, and he smacked the servant's head with his hand.
Thwack!
"Ah!"
Hot tea splashed onto the servant's hand. Ian reflexively reached for a handkerchief, but of course a lowly bastard wouldn't carry one.
"Say it again."
"Pardon?"
The servant rubbed his hand on his apron in confusion. It was slightly swollen but not seriously burned, thankfully.
"Who gave you leave to call me by name, you impudent cur?"
"Ah. S-sorry. Little Count."
It proclaimed Chel as Derga's sole heir.
Ian, well-versed in etiquette, knew the term, but Chel's sharp reaction struck him as odd.
"You spilled the tea, so take responsibility."
"…I'll bring fresh tea."
"Fresh tea? Do you not know how precious this is? It'll come out of your pay, so take what you spilled. You'll never taste its like again, so go ahead and lick it up."
"I made a mistake. Please forgive me just once."
"Pathetic."
It was blatant bullying, hard to witness. How could his temperament be so cruel? Clearly, poor parenting.
"The tea's ready, so go cool your hand."
At Ian's low command, Chel's face crumpled. The servant, caught between whales in their fray, snatched the tray and scurried back.
Wise choice. Chel looked ready to grab Ian by the hair any second.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your better was speaking. How dare you butt in with your orders?"
Ian replied with calm nonchalance, as if the question was obvious.
"If you keep bullying servants like this, you might have to handle the household chores yourself soon. Better to mind your place than stir up trouble."
Chel's eyes bulged at the cool, logical retort.
"You, a child of lowly blood, daring to lecture me on my place…? Lord Molin praised you a bit, and now you're full of yourself? Think you're a real noble?"
His voice was a hushed whisper—guests were just one door away, after all. At least he had that much sense.
Ian sipped his tea and smiled.
"What if I'm not a noble?"
"…What?"
"Then you'll be sold off to the Cheonryeo Tribe."
Even saying it made Ian chuckle inwardly.
A mere three years as emperor or not, he'd been the pinnacle of the Variel Empire. Chel needed to grasp what an honor this was.
Chel's face flushed red and purple—he seemed to think Ian was mocking him.
"Th-this lunatic!"
Chel raised his hand to slap Ian, but it stopped in midair, gripped tight in Ian's fist.
"Chel, was it?"
Ian was slimmer and smaller than his peer. Chel should overpower him easily.
But he couldn't. When Ian called his name softly, a chill crawled up his nape.
"If a blemish mars your face here, what will Lord Molin think? Hm? Your father the count and his wife? They're in there slaving to sell me off, and you can't even play along like a good son—instead you cause a scene."
The emperor patted Chel's cheek.
A warning to get his act together.
"What if I disappear?"
At those words, fear flickered in Chel's eyes, soon turning sly.
"Hmph, you?"
His oily smirk wasn't a child's—it mirrored a street rat who'd rolled in alleys his whole life. No wonder nobles called the family vulgar.
"Go on, try it. Then your mother's head gets kicked around the market like a ball. Ahahaha!"
Ah. Ian let out a low sigh inside.
As emperor, he'd never heard such crude, raw threats. More like dignified barbs.
Still, Ian gleaned new info from Chel's words.
'So his mother's the chain.'
That explained why Ian had crossed the border without protest. A slum kid had slim odds escaping Derga's clutches.
'Right. Among countless options, there must be a reason I entered this boy.'
As Ian mulled briefly, Chel mistook it for his strike landing.
"Grovel flat. That way you and your mother might scrape by another day. Even rolling in the market, your filthy hide won't show it."
That instant.
Ian seized Chel's hair, locking eyes. His absinthe-green irises flashed golden as mana surged. An instinctive rise, like blood rushing reverse.
"Foolish child."
Ian bellowed, mana coursing through him.
Pitiful compared to his emperor days, but far beyond Chel's tolerance. And Ian had been the brightest star in magic history.
"A child's words carry weight all the same. The tongue isn't too short to change lives. Heed it, lest it's severed."
A century prior, the Variel Empire knew even less of mages than now. Capital nobles were lucky to brush shoulders; frontiers had no trace.
"Ah...."
Thus, they couldn't grasp miracles. Chel's mind blanked, on the verge of fainting.
Drip.
He collapsed onto the sofa, wetting himself. Ian clicked his tongue inwardly and stepped back. Backlit by direct sun, Ian looked angelic. Chel kept soiling nonstop.
'…Insane.'
As Ian thought to call a servant, the reception room door burst open.
"Young masters. Enjoying the tea...."
Molin emerged with a kindly smile, then froze. He faced Ian squarely in the sunlight. Flash—a brief golden gleam shifted to absinthe.
'Just now?'
A trick of the light?
No, something off.
Molin replayed the instant, peering into Ian's eyes—until Mary Madam's fuss broke his focus.
"Chel! What is this!"
She spotted Chel standing dazed. The boy glanced stammeringly at Ian, whose face remained impassive.
'Don't spout nonsense.'
The silent warning seemed to land. Chel whined near tears.
"…I-I spilled tea."
"Oh my. Oh my. Heavens!"
Molin, now noticing Chel, coughed awkwardly and turned away. Derga squeezed his eyes shut.
Utter humiliation! His seventeen-year-old son soiling himself in the reception room! If word spread, he couldn't show his face.
"Someone outside? Anyone, hurry!"
"What is it, ma'am?!"
"Bring clothes, towels, and cleaning rags."
As Mary Madam summoned servants amid chaos, Molin quietly sought Derga's leave. What urgent business for a central inspector in the sticks? But standing around was torture.
"Count? I have pressing matters. For now...."
"Ah, yes! An honor today."
"Likewise. If it's no trouble, might I ask Master Ian to see me out?"
Too flustered, Derga nodded before thinking. Chel began sobbing.
"Thank you, Count. Master Ian, the mansion's vast—aid this old man."
"Of course, Lord Molin. Happy to guide you."
Ian knew zilch of the layout, but leaving with Molin beat staying. For guidance, grab a passing servant to hold his coat.
"Shall we?"
Ian smiled brightly and led the way.
Absinthe eyes met again. Molin studied the boy intently with seasoned eyes.