Karl was his original name. Before coming to the Baron's Manor, he had lived in the Black Street district of Gonna Town—what people commonly called the slums, a chaotic place filled with abandoned children and idle ruffians.
Most residents of the Arnold Territory avoided that area like the plague.
From Karl, Ron learned much about Gonna Town. Just as light casts shadows, Gonna Town was the festering tumor of the territory. And so, another task quietly joined Ron's ever-growing list of plans.
Children in the slums always grouped together for survival, but even among the weak, the law of the jungle reigned. Older children bullied younger ones; food was snatched without hesitation. At only five years old, Karl naturally belonged to the trampled.
He had hated it—resented it—until, little by little, his heart went cold.
Heaven, or something else, had shown him a crack in fate—a tiny chance. He had seized it. The result was different from what he imagined, but it was indeed a change.
"Captain… is this really okay? He was previously…"
Thomas hesitated. He had taken part in the interrogation; he knew the boy wasn't as harmless as he appeared.
Abel frowned. Karl joining the Knight Squad was also unexpected to him, but he still answered firmly, "It's fine. Our duty is to uphold the Lord's orders. Do your job. Don't overthink."
"…You're right." Thomas looked at Abel with admiration. This was what a knight should be.
After settling Karl's matters, Ron returned to his room. Originally, he had only planned to lock him up for a few days before throwing him out.
Karl's refusal to poison Mellitoria despite Benden's threats proved his heart wasn't wholly corrupted. Even after being treated with malice, he preserved a sliver of kindness.
That alone wasn't enough for Ron to keep him…
But last night, he checked Karl's character card.
A trait. And a green one, at that.
[Silver One-Star]
[Karl]
[Favorability: 51 (Wary)]
[Trait 1: Stealth (Green)]
[Stealth (Green): Greatly reduces one's presence when unobserved]
A green-quality trait was rare in the Baron's Manor.
Master Hadley possessed blue, but he was an invited artisan, not a household member. Among internal personnel, only Egbert and Abel carried green traits. The rest were white—or talentless.
Once Karl grew, he would be a valuable asset.
Karl also had Battle Qi aptitude. His cultivation talent was unknown, but potential existed.
These reasons led Ron to choose cultivation over exile.
When Ron walked with him to the training ground earlier, Karl's favorability had already risen to 58 (Grateful). A few more appearances and it would continue climbing.
—
After Ron sat down, Mellitoria knocked and entered.
"Good day, Older Brother."
After a perfect curtsy, she sat beside him. Her posture was increasingly noble.
"You don't have classes today?" Ron asked knowingly.
"Replying to Older Brother… Teacher allowed a day off." Mellitoria pursed her lips, trying to phrase her request so Ron wouldn't be displeased.
Ron leisurely sipped tea, watching her struggle. She tried several times but retreated each time.
Her timid nature was not easy to correct. But she was his sister—he could only indulge her.
He spoke gently, "He's training with the knights right now. No need to worry."
Mellitoria blinked, then her face bloomed with joy.
"Older Brother, you're so kind!"
"Why are you so concerned about him?" Ron asked.
"I—I just thought he was a bit pitiful…" she murmured.
Pitiful?
Karl's experiences weren't known to her. His personality wasn't particularly pitiable either. Perhaps… a child's intuition?
Ron dismissed the thought and handed her a small gift box.
"Older Brother… what is this?"
"Open it."
Inside was a red butterfly hairpin. Mellitoria's face brightened instantly.
"When we first met, I didn't prepare a gift for you. Consider this my compensation."
"I love it! Thank you, Older Brother!"
Ron nodded. "Wear it. Keep it on even when you go out."
Earlier, he had brushed a green trait onto the hairpin—limited by time, only one, but a powerful one.
[Butterfly Hairpin]
[Trait 1: Gambler Who Doesn't Throw Scissors (Green)]
[Effect: Automatically senses hostility and plays rock-paper-scissors.
—Paper activates defense; Rock activates attack]
A bit strange, but very practical.
"Older Brother's gift—I'll wear it every day!" Mellitoria tried to put it on, fumbled, and failed.
Ron sighed, stood behind her, and fixed the hairpin himself.
She giggled foolishly. Irene was right—Older Brother truly was kind.
"Older Brother… I have a request."
Ron sat down. "Tell me."
"When no one is around… can I call you Older Brother?"
Ron paused, then nodded casually. "As you wish."
Instantly, Mellitoria beamed like the sun.
"Older Brother! Older Brother!"
She said it again and again, happier than when she received the hairpin.
She moved closer and began chatting excitedly.
"Older Brother, the animals in the book—some I don't understand even after asking Sister Eileen, so I thought…"
Ron cut her off before she dragged him into trouble again.
"Mellitoria, you must be hungry. Eileen probably made snacks. Hurry before she eats everything."
"Eh?"
She was pushed out of the room, utterly confused.
—
A few days later, Ron called Joyce to discuss teaching materials.
"Drawing pictures next to the words?"
Ron nodded. Mellitoria's clinginess had exposed flaws in the current curriculum—children lacked real-world references.
Joyce considered carefully, then shook her head.
"Lord, the idea is excellent… but full implementation may be impossible."
She explained:
First, cost. Illustrations required more paper. Damaged books meant replacement. The number of children was large.
Second, mindset.
"Many commoners cannot afford to buy books. To them, one book is tomorrow's meal. They would rather work than let their children read."
Ron smiled. "Good. You've considered much. But you focus too much on losses."
She frowned. "…Lord?"
Ron tapped the table lightly.
"What if studying earned money? The better a child learns, the more they earn. What then?"
Joyce froze.
That… would cause an avalanche.
Ron continued, "It's not time yet. But always remember: before calculating losses, understand the scale of potential profit."
Joyce bowed deeply.
"I will remember your guidance."
She hesitated. "Lord, Veronica—the maid—is skilled at drawing. Should I ask her for help?"
Good at drawing?
Ron recalled the only painting-related trait among the maids. At the time he hadn't cared… but now it seemed valuable.
He nodded. Joyce bowed and left.
—
Joyce found Veronica in the dormitory, painting quietly. A girl in her early twenties, orange hair falling over her face. The painting before her depicted a pot-bellied man preparing to butcher a chicken.
Oddly enough, the sorrow in the chicken's expression overshadowed everything else.
"If the Head Chef saw this, he'd scold you," Joyce said helplessly.
Without looking up, Veronica answered softly, "It's you, Joyce."
Joyce stated her purpose. "Sister Veronica, I'd like your help. Your talent is needed."
"…Okay."
Joyce blinked. That was too easy.
Veronica added, "You must be wondering why I agreed?"
"Um… yes."
"Hehe~ The Lord sent you, right?"
"No, that's not—"
But Veronica continued, as if hearing nothing:
"Some people are born noble, and some lowly. If the Lord commands, I cannot refuse…"
"You misunderstand—" Joyce tried to explain, but—
Suddenly Veronica clutched her head, leaned back, and roared softly,
"Ahhh! Inspiration! Inspiration is invading my mind!"
"S-Sister Veronica?! Are you alright?"
"No! I must carve it out! I must paint it!"
Her brush flew wildly. A new picture emerged.
Joyce fled, gasping outside the door.
"So… so scary…"
That afternoon had shattered all scholarly logic she possessed.
Having to face her again made her shiver.
—
But in the evening, Veronica calmly knocked on her door, smiling serenely.
"Joyce, what did you want to discuss earlier?"
Joyce wondered whether she had hallucinated the earlier madness.
She presented the request. Veronica listened and nodded confidently.
"No problem. Leave it to me."
—
The next day, Joyce brought Veronica's illustrations to Ron.
"Hm. Not bad." Ron complimented.
"The lines are clean. With a few strokes, the shapes are vivid."
Before Joyce could exhale, he continued:
"But… there's an odd melancholic feel. Look at this chicken—does it not look resigned to its fate?"
"…I—I'll have her redraw them!" Joyce gathered the drawings and fled.
When Veronica heard Ron's critique, her eyes sparkled.
For the first time in her life—
someone understood her art.
And she was deeply moved.