Episode 8

“Ian. My little one. Ahem.”

The tutor cleared his throat once and glanced at Ian. Since the servant who received this letter was illiterate, he must have asked someone else to read it aloud.

The most natural choice was the tutor.

Ian’s clear eyes sparkled as he rested his chin on his hand.

“Please continue reading, Teacher.”

“Are you doing well there? Your mother is at ease thanks to Count Derga. She doesn’t have to work and is happy every day. You should also be grateful to the Count and devote yourself to your studies. Remember, even though Lord Chel is your half-brother, you must serve him. Consider it an honor to be a symbol of peace. Above all, build a strong relationship with the Cheonryeo tribe. You and Lord Chel are the hope for future generations.”

The tutor glanced at Ian again, gauging his reaction.

“And I have one favor to ask.”

Ah, here it comes—the real point.

“They say the Cheonryeo tribe smokes a leaf called ‘Guruth’ instead of tobacco. Your mother wants to try it once. Could you secretly bring some seeds when you come home for your birthday next year?”

Guruth leaves were a kind of stimulant used by the Cheonryeo tribe.

Sometimes chewed finely, sometimes rolled and smoked. Exactly what plant it was or how it was made remained a secret of the Cheonryeo.

One thing was certain: they always carried a leaf when going into battle.

“And a flower has bloomed from the pot you carefully tended. Once you cross the border, you won’t be able to see it anymore.”

“…Hmm.”

“The last line says: If this letter reaches you, please write down a line from the song your mother often sang. Always love you, my son.”

Judging by the dried petals in the pocket, that was likely the real gift from his mother. And the last paragraph was probably the only genuine part of the letter. She had cleverly demanded a code, forcing the Count to deliver the letter and receive a reply.

‘It seems she sent the letter as an excuse to smuggle in the Guruth seeds…’

What puzzled Ian was Derga’s approach. Why lure Ian with such a roundabout method?

If he simply threatened Ian by holding his mother’s life hostage, Ian would comply. There was no reason to go through all this trouble.

“Ian?”

“Yes, Teacher. Thank you. Please keep today’s letter a secret.”

“Of course.”

Derga must have had some hidden agenda. Ian vowed to uncover it.

The tutor pulled out a clean sheet of parchment and asked,

“Will you write a reply today?”

“No. There’s too much to say. I need time to organize my thoughts. I’ll ask next time.”

“I see. Your mother must be waiting.”

He was pressing him.

But Ian couldn’t write without knowing the song’s lyrics.

‘If I write the wrong words, Mother will be furious. She’ll know something’s wrong.’

The shackles bound Ian but also protected him. What if his mother misunderstood and took her own life? Ian couldn’t predict how Derga might tighten the noose.

‘At worst, I might be confined until the peace ceremony.’

Meeting her in person seemed best.

Fortunately, tomorrow was the luncheon with Lord Mollin.

If he played it right, he could get a chance to leave the mansion and learn Derga’s true intentions—two birds with one stone.

---

“Oh, Lord Mollin.”

“It’s been a week, Count Derga.”

As arranged, Mollin arrived at the mansion with his attendants. Two young, spirited men accompanied him—clearly juniors he mentored in the central administration.

“Nice to meet you, Count.”

“Thank you sincerely for the luncheon.”

The men, introduced as Mac and Degorra, kissed the back of the Countess Mary’s hand. She smiled gracefully and led her son Chel forward.

“I hope you enjoy your time here.”

“Oh, is this Lord Chel? Then this must be—”

No confusion really.

Ian’s radiant golden hair was like sunlight, just as they’d heard. It was just polite formality.

“I’m Ian.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard much about you and wanted to see you.”

“Call me Mac, my lord.”

Chel looked displeased at being addressed the same way as Ian. But what could he do? He couldn’t complain in front of the adults and Ian. So he stuck close to his mother and walked into the garden.

“As expected, the Bratz estate’s garden is splendid.”

“To hear such praise from someone from the capital, I must be lucky today.”

They exchanged small talk, subtly measuring each other’s status. No ill intent—just the habitual manners of nobles.

“Master, shall I bring the appetizers?”

“Yes.”

At the butler’s signal, servants wheeled in trolleys.

“What would you like for the aperitif?”

“Since the weather’s clear, I’ll have sherry.”

“And Lord Ian?”

Ian almost asked for the same without thinking.

Sherry was a white wine, a bit awkward for someone his age. He smiled and requested fruit juice instead.

“You look much better than last week.”

Mollin smiled kindly, wiping his hands. Though Ian was bound as a peace offering, to the old man he seemed fresh and vibrant.

“Perhaps it’s because you’re looking forward to today.”

“Ha ha, is that so?”

“I had many questions about the capital. Last time, I only talked about myself, which was a shame. Right, Father?”

Ian’s cheeky remark made Derga clear his throat and stroke his beard. Meanwhile, the servants set out drinks and simple salads.

“Go ahead. What are you curious about? Life in the capital is much the same as anywhere else. I’m glad I brought Mac and Degorra. As an old man, I don’t know much about young people’s affairs.”

Ian started with trivial things.

What students studied, how they spent their leisure time, whether they’d ever seen a wizard. When magic came up, Mollin, Mac, and Degorra’s eyes gleamed.

“I’m especially curious about what people usually eat in the capital.”

“The capital isn’t special or abundant. All local specialties go straight to the palace. Besides, there’s almost no farmland in the center.”

“So merchants are the only source of food?”

“Exactly. The capital’s famine isn’t due to lack of land but lack of money. Managing supply and demand is one of the palace’s roles.”

Unlike Chel, who just rolled his eyes and pretended to know, Ian led the conversation with ease. Mac and Degorra exchanged meaningful glances.

‘They say he’s clever for a lowborn servant.’

His sharp insight and unusual focus for a child were impressive. Ian leisurely cut his steak and added,

“Food is the most basic necessity, so supply must always be plentiful. It would be wonderful to discover new ingredients.”

He spoke lightly, like chatting about the weather. Yet all the adults focused on him. Derga and the Countess wondered why he was so talkative today, while the guests seemed intrigued.

Especially Lord Mollin.

“New ingredients, you say? I’m curious about your perspective, Ian.”

“It’s nothing special. Sometimes what you think is inedible turns out to be a precious ingredient.”

“Ha ha ha. Could such a dream come true?”

“Who knows? The hungry eat whatever they can. If you look closely, you might find something valuable.”

Ian had no intention of revealing anything about Gula just yet. He planned to keep quiet until the right moment but figured a little bait wouldn’t hurt. Mac suddenly added,

“Speaking of which, I heard the slums make stew from seafood shells. Surprisingly tasty. Have you ever tried it, Ian?”

That was the first sharp question amid the friendly talk. Ian had lived in poverty and the red-light district—he was the poorest of the poor.

‘Quite a pointed question.’

He swallowed a laugh inwardly.

The capital and borderlands were rivals. The palace tacitly accepted sending Ian instead of Chel.

But if Ian defected to the Cheonryeo tribe and his background was questioned? If that caused harm to Bariel? It would give the capital a reason to pressure the borderlands.

So the question was clear:

‘Ian, are you from the slums?’

They wanted him to admit his lowly origins with his own mouth. Three central officials heard it simultaneously—no better proof than that.

“Ian? Mac is asking you.”

The Countess smiled and urged him on. She seemed unaware of the political undercurrents. Chel, of course, was the same.

“I don’t think that’s—”

“Chel!”

As Chel stammered to speak, Derga sharply interrupted. Clink. Startled, Chel dropped his fork. But Derga’s expression was cold as he scolded his son.

“Mac asked Ian a question. It’s rude to interrupt. Be careful.”

A clear warning to shut up.

Chel sulked and clamped his mouth shut. Countess Mary grasped her son’s hand under the tablecloth, shooting her husband a sharp look. It wasn’t a big mistake—why shout like that? Chel was already down after last week’s blunder.

“I’ve never tried it.”

Ian put down his knife and answered firmly.

For now, it was best for Der to maintain a submissive demeanor beside the count.

“I may have grown up outside the estate, but my father always cared for me warmly. No matter what anyone says, I’m proud to be of the Bratz family lineage.”

“Oh? That’s certainly true.”

Everyone knew it was a lie, but they all pretended not to notice—a rather amusing situation.

Molin smiled with great satisfaction, impressed that Ian had seen through the unexpected attack so well.

“For that reason, I’ve never actually tried it, but if given the chance, I’d like to experience it.”

Der frowned but didn’t say much. Ian’s response was clear and flowed naturally.

“Is that so?”

“Honestly, there’s no such thing as high or low when it comes to what nature provides. If it can stave off hunger, isn’t that reason enough to be grateful? Besides, they say it’s a delicacy.”

For a moment, Molin felt a strange sense of déjà vu at Ian’s words.

He was sure he’d heard that argument somewhere before…

“You’re saying the same thing as His Highness the Crown Prince.”

D’Gor scratched where it itched.

‘Crown Prince? Who’s that?’

By Ian’s era, the current emperor had ascended after several generations. And there were quite a few crown princes—usually more than ten children per emperor.

In other words, even Ian, who had been emperor, didn’t know who the crown prince from a hundred years ago was.

“I’m talking about Crown Prince Gale II. When discussing street food with the nobles, he made that very calm statement. Ha ha.”

Though no one said anything at the time, behind the scenes, they probably mocked him. How could the crown prince of a nation say something so uncultured?

Still, Crown Prince Gale II… the name sounded oddly familiar.

“You two would get along well.”

“How could Ian possibly say such a thing?”

“No, I think it’s a brilliant opinion.”

To save face, Der smiled and waved his hand dismissively.

He was sincere. In an era when tens of thousands starved each year, what did it matter if it was just street food? Survival came first.

“Face is a strange thing. Even if it’s street food, it has value, so people consume it.”

“That’s true. But the reality is even harsher. Even commoners won’t touch food that peasants eat.”

At Mac and D’Gor’s lament, the countess interjected.

“Even if a new crop is discovered, it’ll take ages before it’s widely distributed, won’t it?”

It was a fair point, but the context was off. Ian shook his head without realizing it.

“No, Mother. Actually, distribution isn’t the problem.”

“Is that so? Ian, you have an opinion, then?”

Molin’s tone was testing. Ian smiled as if to say, “Why do you ask when you already know?”