Episode 7

“Ian, you need to focus.”

Ian turned his head at the tutor’s words.

They were in the guest room of the west annex. Unlike before, the windows were wide open on all sides, letting in a fresh breeze. Seeing his indifferent pupil, the tutor sighed and absentmindedly scribbled with his pen.

“Alright, let’s try again. Suppose 100 tenants each pay five bundles of wheat as tax. Half of that is sent to the capital, and then half of the remainder is distributed to the household servants. How many bundles are left in the end?”

Ian yawned lightly and looked away. Spending a couple of hours every afternoon on these lessons was unbearably dull.

“I don’t know.”

At first, he pretended to count on his fingers, just to avoid looking like he was giving up too quickly.

But that only lasted a time or two. Continuing was just too much trouble. So Ian gave up entirely and feigned ignorance.

“Try calculating it at least.”

“Um… maybe 100 bundles?”

Taking advantage of the tutor’s dullness had its perks. The tutor and the steward often exchanged notes about Ian’s progress.

Most of it was trivial, but occasionally, information about the lord’s affairs slipped through.

“…That’s enough math for today. Next is literature. Last time, we read ‘The Fate of Destiny,’ right?”

The tutor was a man without passion. Whether Ian understood or not, he dutifully covered the assigned material and collected his pay.

Ian was grateful for that. When he said he didn’t understand, the tutor gave up cleanly, so Ian didn’t have to pretend to study hard.

Knock knock.

“Come in.”

“Excuse me.”

The steward entered carrying snacks. It was likely he brought them himself to observe Ian’s attitude during study.

“How far have you gotten?”

“We’re finishing up literature.”

“I see. Looks like today’s session is shorter than usual.”

“That’s because Ian keeps up so well.”

What a joke.

Ian munched on the snacks while glancing down at a book that was half pictures. The steward showed his palm to the tutor and quickly scribbled something. Ian couldn’t see what it was from where he sat.

“Well then, take care.”

“Yes, steward.”

Thud.

The tutor read aloud a few words, wrote them on parchment, and had Ian copy them.

Thus ended the tedious afternoon study session. When the clock on the wall chimed, the tutor gathered his books and stood.

“I’ll see you out, teacher.”

“No, that’s fine. I’m busy today. Ian, continue practicing your handwriting.”

Ian was used to walking the tutor out, learning proper manners and greetings.

But when the tutor declined, it meant he was meeting someone in the household.

“Very well. See you next time.”

Ian nodded without a word.

The tutor donned his coat, smiled, and left the room.

‘Is he going to meet the steward?’

Sometimes the count or countess came by, but since the annex was full of servants wandering nearby, Ian couldn’t follow.

Giving up, Ian roughly tidied the parchment and stretched his limbs. The room was bigger now, which was a relief—he could train his body even without going outside.

‘Stamina is magic.’

He built stamina with magic, then used that stamina to channel more magic. That was why the great wizards, called archmages, remained vigorous even as white-haired elders.

“Ian.”

Knock knock.

That night.

After dinner, the steward summoned Ian.

“The count requests your presence in his study.”

The time had finally come.

---

Count Derga’s study was on the top floor of the mansion. Since it occupied the entire floor, Ian had never walked down that corridor before. Curious but composed, he followed the steward.

“Count, young master Ian is here.”

After knocking several times on the heavy door handle, permission was granted.

“Enter.”

Creak.

Unlike Ian’s old room, which had only one glowstone, the study was brightly lit as if it were daytime. Magic lanterns filled every corner.

Still, the atmosphere was gloomy—no doubt because of Count Derga’s presence.

“Did you call for me?”

Ian asked politely, but Derga didn’t respond. Compared to the peasants who worked the fields day and night, the count’s workload seemed leisurely, but he was probably busy in his own way.

“…You know there’s a luncheon in two days.”

“Yes, of course.”

Derga muttered without looking up from his documents.

“This time, other advisors from the capital will be attending.”

Apparently, the first meal had left an impression. A bastard child from the countryside discussing the philosophy of Fyoern was intriguing.

“You’ll need to be more alert than last time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Was that all he was summoned for?

Derga hadn’t said much when Ian’s room was changed. Patiently, Ian waited for more.

The scratching of the pen on parchment continued, then the count finally spoke again.

“The Cheonryeo tribe has requested your handwritten letter.”

Ian knew that as a condition for peace, Derga had offered to send his second son.

They had also enclosed a potion that only reacted to blood relatives, so there was no question about lineage.

Of course, they didn’t know Ian was a bastard born of a commoner. But still.

“My own handwriting?”

They seemed to want a security measure.

What if Derga, out of pity, swapped the letter at the last minute? The Cheonryeo tribe valued family bonds highly, so it was a real possibility.

“Those barbarians sure like to make things difficult. Tsk tsk. They’ll use the blood potion again at the treaty ceremony.”

Unlike the Bariel Empire, the Cheonryeo tribe had no wizards. They were like beasts, their bloodline defying nature.

“Well, I have no reason to refuse.”

Derga wanted the letter to compare handwriting later, to confirm Ian was indeed his chosen son.

“Write and send letters regularly. I’ll tell your tutor, so you just need to copy them. You’re not so dense as to fail at that, are you?”

“I won’t make any mistakes.”

Creak.

At that moment, a small door attached to the study opened. The clerk entered, bowing deeply.

“Count, no matter how I calculate, the numbers don’t add up.”

He was carrying a precariously tall stack of documents. Seeing him about to topple, Derga waved him off.

“I’ll handle it. You wait here.”

His eyes told Ian to be patient.

The papers were spread out on the desk, but Derga didn’t seem worried. Ian was nearly illiterate, and even if he read, it was just syllable by syllable.

“Wait here.”

Derga entered the clerk’s office, ordering him. Ian’s polite smile instantly faded.

‘Let’s see what’s so urgent.’

It was early spring. Diligent lords tended their lands even when the ground was frozen, but Derga was clearly not that type. He had been out in the back alleys the day he met Mollin.

Clack.

Ian quickly skimmed the documents, carefully keeping the papers in order.

‘Hmm?’

He frowned as if he had expected this.

As suspected, Derga had far more mercenaries than he could manage.

Given the size of the Bratz territory, 300 soldiers would be plenty. But judging by the grain expenditures, the number could be between 2,000 and 3,000.

‘It’s a miracle this place hasn’t collapsed.’

Moreover, the taxes levied on the tenants were more than double the recommended rate for the capital. Historically, the Cheonryeo tribe’s destruction of Bratz might have been inevitable.

The situation was so precarious it could collapse on its own. Ian glared at the cramped study in disbelief.

What on earth was the lord thinking, running his estate like this? This was a noble family with generations behind it, not some random upstarts.

‘Is there another source of income?’

No matter how long this mismanagement had gone on, relying on taxes alone seemed tight.

‘There’s nothing in Bratz.’

As expected, Bratz bordered the Cheonryeo lands outside the territory. The soil wasn’t fertile, nor was there access to the sea. No notable resources.

‘If there were, the previous lord wouldn’t have divided the estate among other nobles.’

The former emperor had granted lands to nobles who helped defeat the Cheonryeo tribe. If there were valuable resources, the palace wouldn’t have done that.

Click.

Suddenly, the door opened without warning.

Ian, leaning on the count’s desk, instinctively held his breath and poured out magic.

Zzzing. Zzing.

“Hmm?”

At the same time, all the magic lanterns in the room went out.

The clerk’s office was the same.

With the moon hidden behind clouds, darkness swallowed the room instantly.

“Count? Are you alright?”

“The magic lanterns were replaced not long ago, right?”

“Just a moment, I’ll light a candle—ah!”

Thud!

The clerk crashed into something.

Before the moon reappeared, Ian quietly concealed his presence and moved to the center of the room. Derga groped around, searching for his desk.

“Ian, answer me.”

“Yes, Father.”

Ian’s clear voice echoed in the darkness. Judging by the sound, he was standing near the sofa.

“Is there anyone outside?!”

The clerk who was supposed to find the candle had stumbled again, and the darkness showed no sign of lifting. Derga snapped irritably, raising his voice.

“Zzzing. Zziiing.”

At that, the lantern flickered back to life. Ian, having caught his breath, withdrew his magic.

Derga met Ian’s calm gaze. His absinthe-colored eyes burned brightly.

“Are you all right?”

“…”

The count looked down at the hand resting on the desk. The papers were slightly disheveled, but in the darkness, it was easy to blame that on himself. Without hesitation, he opened the drawer.

“Here. Come and take it.”

“What is it?”

A small pouch, hand-embroidered. Derga tossed it lightly, as if it were nothing, and it landed neatly at Ian’s feet.

“This is from your mother.”

The little pouch lay scattered on the floor.

Ian slowly picked it up.

“Always look at this and remember your place. Keep it in mind in all you do.”

When news from Ian, usually delivered through Haena, suddenly stopped, his mother had attempted suicide. If she couldn’t meet him alive, she vowed to meet him in death.

Faced with this desperate act, the count had no choice but to compromise, promising to deliver letters and gifts. After all, if she died, Ian’s shackles would effectively be gone.

“…”

Haena had relayed every detail through the coachman. Since she was usually generous with his errands, there was little reason to doubt her.

“That’s enough. Leave now.”

Derga waved his hand dismissively.

Ian took the worn pouch and quietly left the study. Leaning against the dark corridor, he untied the string, and a handful of items spilled out.

Clink!

Five gold coins. Dried flowers. A tiny note.

One gold coin was equivalent to what a commoner could earn in a month. Ian examined the letter with a neutral expression. The handwriting was neat, clearly penned by someone else on his mother’s behalf.

But was it truly her heartfelt words from beginning to end?

“No. There’s a chance Derga’s intentions are hidden here. Maybe the letter was swapped…”

Ian toyed with the gold coins, then began to read the letter carefully.