Chapter 18: Viscount Andrew

If there was any place in Tansan Town that could spare Gawain from complete disappointment and offer even a faint taste of the otherworldly charm blending classical grace with elegance, it was the wealthy district in the northern-central part of town. A few roads and a sturdy wall separated this area from the squalor of the slums outside. The respectable and well-to-do all lived here, in a relatively clean and orderly environment.

Here stood charming two-story houses, each built from pale gray stone and cedar wood. Balconies on the second floors jutted out, where fish and cured meats hung drying in the sun—clear symbols of wealth and status.

Though Tansan was still just a town, far from the scale of a city, those who lived in the wealthy district proudly called themselves honorable citizens. They were free men who paid their taxes, held respectable positions—farm owners or mine overseers—and wielded influence in the community.

Today, as usual, these dignified folk stood on their balconies, surrounded by drying fish and salted meats, chatting with neighbors about recent events. Anything remotely interesting was worthy of lengthy discussion, and the hottest topic by far was the catastrophe that had struck the neighboring domain of Cecil.

Tansan Town and its surrounding lands belonged to Viscount Andrew, while the Cecil domain was its neighbor. Though a vast wasteland separated the prosperous centers of the two territories, a main road connected them. So even in this era of poor communication, news of the disaster in Cecil’s lands spread quickly through Tansan.

First came a group of refugees, led by a knight and a dozen soldiers, seeking shelter here. Then word spread that Cecil’s lands had been utterly devastated—swallowed by hordes of monsters and elemental surges.

At first, the townsfolk, long accustomed to peace, dismissed these rumors as nothing more than bard’s tales. But the ragged refugees and battered soldiers arrived in person, and soon after, Viscount Andrew imposed stricter curfews and increased patrols around the town. The once-absurd horror stories became grim reality.

The citizens elevated the tragedy in Cecil from idle gossip to serious conversation. What began as occasional whispers in taverns now required earnest discussion on balconies, with fish and cured meats as a backdrop.

And while these respectable people debated the final downfall of the once-great Cecil family, the head of that very family was making his way through the wealthy district and the church quarter, entering Viscount Andrew’s castle.

No matter how harsh life was for the poor in Tansan, the viscount’s home was magnificent. Thanks to the wealth of his lands and the family’s shrewdness, his castle far outshone the dilapidated fortress where Rebecca had grown up.

After announcing their arrival, Andrew’s steward ushered Gawain and his companions inside. They were led to a spacious, well-lit reception room and seated at a long redwood table, awaiting the viscount’s audience.

Sitting in a plush velvet chair, gazing at the delicate silver tea set before him, Gawain couldn’t help but think of the ragged poor outside—their threadbare clothes and shanty homes. He had to admit, his illusions about this sword-and-sorcery world were starting to fade.

“Ancestor,” Rebecca whispered, nudging Gawain’s elbow, “how should we introduce you later?”

“Just as we agreed,” Gawain replied calmly. “Here, we can be upfront.”

“Ancestor,” Hetty chimed in, glancing toward Amber, “do you really think she’s suitable to be here?”

Amber, the half-elf lady sitting opposite Gawain, was intently examining the silver tea set—mostly by pouring out the tea and stuffing cups into her lap. Before Gawain could react, she’d already tucked in a soup spoon.

Gawain shot her a sharp look. “Amber!”

“Wow!” The rogue lady feigned surprise, then sheepishly pulled out from her lap two teacups, three spoons, a silver tray, a pocket watch, a handful of nuts, two wine glasses, and even the steward’s monocle.

Gawain: “?!”

How on earth did you manage that, Miss Doraemon Amber?!

At that moment, Gawain instinctively touched the sword at his side, silently grateful that this “thief saint” had refrained from looting his grave during resurrection…

“She’s an important witness to my revival,” Gawain said, trying to keep a straight face. “Besides, don’t you think it’s safer to keep this one where we can watch her, rather than risk her causing trouble elsewhere?”

Hetty nodded in agreement.

Just then, Viscount Andrew finally entered the reception room.

The oak doors swung open, revealing a tall, slender man dressed in a fitted black tailcoat. His dark brown hair, slicked back with pomade, clung to his scalp. A meticulously groomed mustache extended from beneath his nose, and his pale face bore a faint, unnatural flush—a somewhat sickly look common among nobles lacking magical or martial talent.

To experience supernatural powers beyond their natural gifts and indulge in excess, such nobles often overused expensive potions to “enhance perception.” The side effects showed in their complexion. They even took pride in this pallor, considering it a mark of nobility.

In this regard, the Cecil heirs—who still followed ancestral teachings, honing their skills through hard work rather than shortcuts—were something of an oddity in noble circles. But that was inevitable; the Cecil family had fallen on hard times. Magic potions were often scarce or worthless, and Rebecca couldn’t even afford to repair the hole in the family castle—though now, that was no longer necessary.

“Ah, the lovely Lady Hetty, and the equally lovely Miss Rebecca,” the viscount said loudly upon entering, his tone rising and falling with practiced eloquence, his face showing genuine apology. “I must apologize for my tardiness. The disaster in the Cecil domain has spread throughout my lands. The people are anxious, and I have had to devote most of my time to organizing defenses and hearing patrol reports.”

Gawain shivered and muttered under his breath, “Do you have to speak to nobles in this operatic style these days?”

Rebecca lowered her voice. “Wasn’t that how nobles spoke back in your day, ancestor?”

“We usually hid in taverns, downing strong spirits and flattering each other, and talked business on the side.”

“…Well, customs have changed since then. Of course, Viscount Andrew’s manner is a bit… unique.”

“We understand you must be busy now,” Hetty said, noticing Rebecca—heir to the Cecil line—chatting casually with her ancestor instead of standing to respond. She shot Rebecca a sharp, exasperated look, then rose. “But I must remind you, you should address Rebecca as ‘Viscountess,’ not ‘Miss.’ She inherited the family title last year. In formal settings, you should call her Viscountess Rebecca or Viscountess Cecil.”

In this world, noble titles were somewhat flexible in casual use, allowing either first names or surnames before the title.

Rebecca, caught off guard by Hetty’s glare, finally stood and gave a proper bow befitting a noble of equal rank. “Viscount Andrew, thank you for your hospitality.”

“Of course, Viscountess Cecil,” Andrew said, adjusting his tone after Hetty’s firm reminder. He recalled her standing in noble society and chose the more formal style of placing the surname before the title. “I deeply regret the disaster in the Cecil domain. It was truly a calamity. But I am glad you are safe. It seems the Cecil lineage will not be extinguished.”

What followed was a string of polite but empty pleasantries—one side expressing formal concern, the other trying to show gratitude. Clearly, Rebecca was not skilled in such social niceties, so she bluntly steered the conversation back on track.

“Before the castle fell, Sir Philip led a group to cover the civilians’ escape. They should have retreated here. According to the laws established by our founding ancestor, they are entitled to your protection. How are they faring?”

“Of course, the laws of the founding ancestor are sacred,” Andrew nodded. “Though my domain is small, I have more than enough resources to aid our distressed neighbors. That brave knight is badly wounded and not yet recovered. I have arranged for him to rest in the Holy Light Church, where he can receive the best care. The loyal soldiers and unfortunate civilians have been settled in the East and South districts. So far, none have died from cold or hunger.”

None of the refugees who fled here had perished from exposure or starvation—a sign of Andrew’s decent care. Of course, his willingness to shelter them was not without reason. Every refugee taken in became a debt pressing on Rebecca. If she hoped to restore her family, she would have to pay the viscount “compensation” per head.

Just as the law of Ansu clearly stated: “A noble should aid distressed neighbors within their means,” and “Those aided must repay their benefactors accordingly.” Gawain knew this well—after all, these laws had been drafted by Gawain Cecil and King Charles I themselves.

Though still inexperienced as a noble, Rebecca understood this rule. Hearing Andrew’s words, her expression darkened. She doubted whether she could ever repay this sudden debt.

She glanced at Gawain, her mind racing with bold and somewhat cheeky ideas.

Ancestor… you’re a walking antique… maybe we should persuade you to sell those clothes?

(End of chapter)