Episode 3

“Was the meal to your liking?”

Count Derga set his utensils down to the side and asked. The luncheon, which had been going on for hours, was finally coming to an end. The sun, once high overhead, had long since dipped toward the mountains.

“Absolutely splendid. It rivals even the fare served at the imperial palace.”

Ian, who had been quietly folding his napkin, paused at that. Comparing the meal to that of the imperial palace—the very heart and highest authority of the world—was a bold statement. In Ian’s time, such words would have been shocking. Yet, judging by the lack of reaction from Count Derga’s people, it seemed to be a common sentiment here.

‘Is this normal?’

If so, it suggested that the imperial palace’s power wasn’t as overwhelming as one might expect. This was over a hundred years ago. Even setting aside the short reigns of some emperors, one would have to go back seven rulers to reach this point.

“We shall prepare dessert now.”

“Thank you, Countess.”

While Ian was deep in thought, the gathering began to disperse. Lady Mary smiled gracefully and kindly as she looked over her two sons.

“Chel, Ian. The adults have some matters to discuss, so you two should take some refreshments in the next room.”

No doubt they’d be gossiping about Ian’s impending departure—without including him, of course.

In truth, Ian’s departure was almost a foregone conclusion, but since this was a border region untouched by the palace’s influence, they would likely scrutinize and challenge the process with suspicion.

“Yes, Mother.”

Ian’s crisp reply caused a slight tremor at the corner of Lady Mary’s mouth. It must have been a struggle to show affection to someone of such low birth. She merely tapped his cheek lightly, a token gesture of warmth. The more she did so, the narrower Chel’s eyes became.

“This way, Lord Molin.”

“Oh, how splendid.”

They left the backyard behind and entered the main house.

The spacious parlor at the heart of the mansion was so lavish it almost overwhelmed the senses. Gold decorations glittered from every corner, reflecting the sunlight and illuminating the room.

Creak.

As the adults moved into the inner parlor, only Chel and Ian remained. They sat facing each other, locked in a silent stare. To be precise, Chel was glaring, while Ian was observing.

‘He really is the spitting image of Count Derga. Even a passing dog could tell they’re father and son.’

His red, curly hair and freckled nose were unmistakable. Despite his youthful vigor, his protruding belly was a clear sign of his lineage.

Ian, seen in the mirror, had blonde hair and absinthe-colored eyes—traits likely inherited from a mother unknown to Chel. He was quite pretty, with no resemblance to Chel whatsoever.

“Chel, Ian. I’ll bring you some refreshments.”

A servant approached politely, setting down tea and cookies. Chel’s eyes narrowed, and without hesitation, he struck the servant’s head with his hand.

Smack!

“Ah!”

Hot tea spilled onto the servant’s hand. Ian reflexively reached for a handkerchief, but of course, a lowly servant wouldn’t have one.

“Say that again.”

“Huh?”

The servant rubbed the back of his hand on his apron, clearly flustered. Fortunately, the burn was only slight.

“How dare you call me by my name so insolently?”

“Ah, I-I’m sorry, Your Lordship.”

The title was a declaration of Chel’s status as the sole heir of Count Derga.

Ian, well-versed in etiquette, understood the significance, but Chel’s sharp reaction was puzzling.

“You spilled the tea, so you’re responsible.”

“…I’ll bring you another.”

“Bring another? Do you think tea grows on trees? I’ll deduct it from your wages. You spilled it, so you deal with it. You’ll never taste tea like this again in your life, so you might as well lick it up.”

“I made a mistake. Please forgive me just this once.”

“Pathetic.”

Such cruelty was rare to witness. How could someone be so heartless? Surely, it was the fault of poor parenting.

“Enough tea for now. Go cool your hand.”

At Ian’s quiet command, Chel’s face twisted in displeasure. The servant, caught between two quarrelsome masters, quickly picked up the tray and stepped back.

Ian’s judgment was sound. Chel was sharpening his claws, ready to grab Ian by the hair at any moment.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your brother was speaking. How dare you butt in and tell him what to do?”

Ian replied with a calm, almost indifferent expression, as if the question were obvious.

“If you keep treating the servants like this, your brother might have to manage the household himself soon. It’d be wise not to cause trouble with your temper and just stick to your duties.”

Ian’s composed and logical response made Chel’s eyes bulge.

“You’re just a lowborn brat, and you dare talk about duties? Did Lord Molin’s praise go to your head? Do you think you’re a real noble now?”

His voice was low and hushed, no doubt because guests were just beyond the door. At least he had some sense.

Ian sipped his tea and smiled.

“What if I’m not a noble?”

“…What?”

“Then your brother would be sold off as a commoner.”

Even as he spoke, Ian found himself amused.

Though his reign lasted only three years, he had been the pinnacle of Bariel. Chel needed to understand that this was an honor.

Judging by his reddening face, Chel seemed to think Ian was mocking him.

“Y-You’re insane!”

Chel raised his hand to slap Ian’s cheek, but his arm was caught mid-air. Ian’s grip was firm.

“You’re Chel, right?”

Ian was smaller and thinner than most his age, so if Chel tried to overpower him, he’d lose.

But Chel couldn’t break free. Hearing Ian call his name so quietly sent a shiver down his spine.

“What if you get a mark on your face here? What would Lord Molin think? The Count and Countess? They’re out there trying hard to sell me out, and here you are, the son, trying to sabotage it.”

The emperor tapped Chel’s cheek lightly, a silent warning to get his act together.

“What if I disappear?”

At those words, the fear in Chel’s eyes slowly shifted to a cunning gleam.

“Hmph, you?”

That slick smile wasn’t a child’s. It was the grin of a street thug who’d spent his life in back alleys—no wonder the nobles whispered about his family’s vulgarity.

“Try it. Then your mother’s head will be cut off and kicked around the market like a ball. Ha ha!”

Ian let out a quiet sigh inside.

As an emperor, he had never heard such crude, raw threats before. More often, the barbs were delivered with a certain dignity.

Still, Ian gleaned another piece of information from Chel’s words.

‘His mother is a shackle.’

There was a reason Ian had to cross the border without question. A child from the slums had almost no chance of escaping Count Derga’s grasp.

‘Right. Among all the choices, there must be a reason I came into this child’s body.’

Ian pondered briefly. Chel, mistaking Ian’s silence for submission, pressed on.

“Better bow down. That way, you and your mother might live another day. Even if you roll around the market, your filthy body won’t even be noticed.”

At that moment, Ian grabbed Chel by the hair and locked eyes with him. His absinthe-colored eyes flashed gold as magic surged through him—a reaction rising involuntarily, like blood rushing backward.

“You foolish boy.”

Ian felt the magic coursing through his body and spoke with authority.

Though weaker than when he was emperor, it was still beyond what Chel could handle. Besides, Ian was the brightest star in magical history.

“No matter how young you are, words carry weight. A sharp tongue isn’t too short to change a life. Be careful, or you’ll lose it.”

A century ago, the Bariel Empire had almost no awareness of magic. Even the capital’s nobles only had rare contact with it; the borderlands had none at all.

“Ah…”

Confronted with this phenomenon, Chel had no idea what it meant. His mind went blank, and he nearly fainted.

Thud.

He collapsed onto the sofa, wetting himself. Ian clicked his tongue and stepped back. Standing with the sunlight behind him, Ian looked almost like an angel incarnate. Chel kept making mistakes without pause.

‘…This is maddening.’

Just as Ian thought to call a servant, the parlor door suddenly opened.

“Young masters, please enjoy the refreshments—”

Lord Molin appeared with a gentle smile but froze. He was face-to-face with Ian, bathed in sunlight. For a brief moment, his golden eyes flickered to absinthe.

‘Just now?’

Was it a trick of the light?

Something felt off.

Molin replayed the moment in his mind, staring into Ian’s eyes—until the Countess’s fuss broke his concentration.

“Chel! What is this!”

Lady Mary found Chel standing dazed. The boy stammered, looking at Ian, whose expression remained calm.

‘Better not say anything foolish.’

The silent warning seemed to reach Chel. He almost whimpered as he tried to explain.

“…I, I spilled the tea.”

“Oh my, oh my! Goodness gracious!”

Only then did Molin notice Chel and clear his throat awkwardly, turning away. Derga closed his eyes tightly.

A disgrace beyond disgrace—a complete humiliation! For a grown seventeen-year-old son to have an accident in the parlor! If word got out, there’d be no way to show his face in public.

“Is there anyone outside? Anyone at all, quickly!”

“What’s the matter? Oh my goodness!”

“Bring some clothes, towels, and something to clean with.”

While the countess was fussing and calling for the servants, Molin quietly asked Count Derga for permission. Though a central office official visiting the border wouldn’t have much pressing business, standing around like this was torture.

“Count? I have an urgent matter to attend to. I’ll have to—”

“Ah, of course. It’s been a true honor today.”

“The feeling’s mutual. If it’s alright, may I ask Ian to see me out?”

Derga nodded before he could think, flustered by the sound of Chel’s soft sobbing.

“Thank you for your permission, Count. Ian, the mansion is so vast—please assist this old man.”

“Of course, Lord Molin. I’ll be happy to guide you.”

Though he had no idea how the mansion was laid out, it was far better to leave with Molin than to stay here any longer. Guiding him was simple enough—just flag down a passing servant to carry his coat.

“Shall we go?”

Ian smiled warmly and led the way.

Once again, Molin met those absinthe-colored eyes. With a gaze seasoned by time, he studied the boy carefully, taking in every detail.