"I hope this doesn't sound out of line, my lord," Ophelia murmured, gliding silently behind Blake and leaning in to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. She'd made herself nearly invisible, careful not to draw the villagers' eyes.
"But you must understand—one's servants are a reflection of a noble's standing. It may seem trivial, but it's an unspoken rule of noble society. Imagine if another lord visited your castle and saw *these* people as your staff. He'd not only disdain your competence as a ruler, but he'd also treat you with nothing but cold civility. Especially that gardener—by the grace of the Holy Light, I swear I'd faint on the spot if I rounded a corner in the garden and saw his face suddenly loom out of nowhere."
A ghost who faints from fright?
A faint, amused smile tugged at the corner of Blake's lips. He knew exactly what Ophelia meant. Noble interactions were nothing more than elaborate displays of vanity—endless gossip about which lord had acquired a new, beautiful maid, or who'd spent a fortune on some useless trinket that served no purpose other than to flaunt wealth. To an outsider, it might seem meaningless, but to those involved, it was a matter of survival.
Humans were high-order creatures, but at their core, they were still animals. Lions fought to establish dominance, with the victor claiming the pride and its lionesses. Birds decorated their nests with shiny baubles to attract mates and ensure reproduction. It was instinct—the strong claimed more opportunities to mate and rule, while the weak were left with nothing. This primal competition had never disappeared from human society. Those with wealth, power, and strength could easily obtain what others could only dream of, using their advantages to secure their status and authority.
If your lands weren't vast enough, you earned no respect. If your power wasn't formidable enough, you inspired no fear. If the men or women in your company lacked beauty or status, you became the object of mockery rather than envy. Possessing what others could not was the key to safeguarding one's position and identity—a fundamental way for people of the same class to recognize each other. For nobles, no matter how impoverished or fallen, as long as they held a fief and a title, they were still considered part of the elite circle. Conversely, a parvenu who'd clawed his way up through cunning and luck would never be truly accepted until he'd secured a noble title.
Take the original owner of Blake's body, for example. He was the most downtrodden of noble descendants, his influence far less than that of some local merchants. Yet the powerful nobles who'd schemed against him had resorted to underhanded tricks and deception to lure him to this desolate place to die, rather than simply seizing his lands by force. If he'd been a commoner, they would've had no qualms about robbing him blind—after all, in their eyes, the possessions of their subjects belonged to them by right. Only those of noble birth were treated as "fellow humans," entitled to a modicum of fair play.
But this courtesy came with a price. Every circle had its own rules, and only those who met the requirements could reap the rewards. Without profound knowledge, you would never be accepted by scholars. Without exceptional magical talent, you would never gain entry into the mages' guild. Without courage and martial prowess, you would never be counted among warriors. Without shrewdness and a knack for making money, you would never earn the respect of merchants. The noble circle was no different. To maintain even the most basic level of respect, you had to prove you were worthy of your title.
There were only two types of people who could afford to ignore these rules: those strong enough to transcend them, and those too weak to even grasp them.
Blake had no intention of being the latter.
"I understand your concerns, Miss Ophelia," Blake replied, tilting his head slightly to the side. He could catch a whiff of the sweet, delicate fragrance wafting off her, like the scent of blooming flowers on a warm spring day, intoxicating and alluring.
"But right now, we have no other choices. Besides… I don't think they're as bad as you make them out to be."
With that, Blake lifted his head and fixed his gaze on the four villagers standing before him. He took two steps forward, his expression shifting from amused indulgence to cold, unyielding seriousness.
"First and foremost, as master of this castle, I welcome you all," he said, his voice clear and authoritative. "As you can see, I am in dire need of help, and your willingness to offer your services is greatly appreciated. Rest assured—I will not skimp on your wages."
Gone was the easy, teasing tone he'd used with Ophelia. Now his voice was flat and emotionless, sending a faint chill down the spine of everyone who heard it. Ophelia stared at him in surprise, watching as the perpetual, knowing smile faded from his face, replaced by an icy composure that exuded quiet dignity. It was a side of him she'd never seen before—and it suited him surprisingly well.
"But I'm sure you've all heard the rumors about this castle," Blake continued, paying no heed to the villagers' uneasy expressions. He spoke not as a man asking for their opinions, but as a lord delivering a decree.
"Personally, I find such foolish tales beneath contempt. But I know they've cast a long shadow over this place, and I want to hear what *you* think about them."
Blake's words were short and to the point. Having finished speaking, he fell silent, as if uttering another word would be a waste of his breath.
How could he change so drastically in an instant?
Ophelia stared at him in awe, as if seeing a completely different person.
The four villagers exchanged nervous glances, shifting uncomfortably on their feet. Then, Maffa stepped forward, bowing deeply to Blake with perfect, unwavering deference.
"Honorable lord, my family has served the masters of Duskwood Castle for generations," she said, her voice steady and resolute. "I have no right to break that tradition in my lifetime. I wish to work here, just as my mother did before me."
Blake said nothing, but Ophelia's eyes widened in shock. She could see it clearly—though the woman was burly and dressed in rags, her bow was executed with a precision and grace that many servants of highborn nobles could not match. In that single, elegant gesture, the image of a rough country woman vanished, replaced by that of a loyal, disciplined retainer.
Blake nodded, his gaze moving on to the second applicant.
Noticing the lord's attention, the middle-aged carpenter broke into a hearty grin, raising a calloused hand in a wave.
"I reckon you know as well as I do, my lord—this castle's the only place for miles around where a man can make a living chopping wood and mending roofs," he said, his voice booming with confidence. "I've known these woods and this castle since I was a boy. There's nothing here that can scare me."
The same information could lead people to vastly different conclusions, Blake mused. Some would hear the rumors and flee, convinced that the castle was cursed. Others, having grown up with those tales and knowing the land like the back of their hand, would dismiss the dangers as nothing more than old wives' tales. This carpenter was clearly the latter.
Blake paused for a moment, then turned his gaze to the third applicant—the hunchbacked gardener. Unlike the others, the old man did not speak. He simply offered Blake a toothless smile and waved the pair of long pruning shears he held in his gnarled hand.
"My deepest apologies, my lord," Maffa spoke up again, stepping forward to explain when she saw the confusion flicker across Blake's face. "Old Benba cannot speak. But I swear to you—his skill with plants is unmatched in the entire Duskwood Ridge."
Blake nodded, saying nothing more. He shifted his gaze to the last applicant—the tiny, trembling girl.
Feeling the weight of the lord's cold, serious stare, the girl flinched, shrinking back as if she were about to disappear into thin air. She clutched the tattered hem of her dress tightly in her small hands, her slender body shaking like a leaf in the wind. Her freckled face, normally a healthy pink, had turned pale as a sheet, and her messy brown curls trembled along with her.
"I-I can make tea, my lord!" she stammered, her voice so soft and wobbly it was almost a whisper, as if she were on the verge of tears. "I can bake little cakes too! And I'm very good at cleaning rooms—I scrub every corner until it shines!"
The girl's vulnerability was so palpable that even Ophelia felt a twinge of sympathy. But Blake's expression remained unchanged, his icy gaze fixed steadily on her. Under his unwavering stare, the girl's voice grew fainter and fainter until it faded into silence. She dropped her head, her chin touching her chest, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground as if an invisible weight were pressing down on her shoulders, making it impossible to lift her head.
"Very well," Blake said suddenly.
The flat, cold tone vanished in an instant, replaced by his usual warm, amiable voice.
"I understand your reasons for coming, and I believe you are all capable of fulfilling your duties. Now, regarding your wages… I will pay each of you three gold coins a month. Do any of you have objections to this?"
A flicker of pure, unadulterated surprise flashed across the villagers' faces. Three gold coins a month was pocket change to a noble—barely enough to buy a decent bottle of wine. But to these common folk, it was a fortune, more than enough to ensure they never went hungry again. They'd known the new lord was short-handed and expected to be paid well, but none of them had dared to hope for *this* much. The previous lords of the castle had never paid more than one gold coin a month—*if* they paid their servants on time at all.
Naturally, the villagers shook their heads vigorously, their faces lighting up with gratitude. They might not know much about this new lord, but his generosity had already won their hearts and loyalty.
With the addition of these four new servants, Duskwood Castle finally began to stir to life again—slowly, but surely.