The steward no longer even pretended to believe a single word I said. He simply proceeded with his own agenda.
“First, let us begin with practicing the cursive alphabets. I believe we still have the basic calligraphy manual our young master used when he was five…”
Five?
I narrowed my eyes at the steward, silently cursing him for thinking my abilities were on par with a toddler’s. I dared not glare openly.
The steward’s been oddly intimidating ever since we got here…
But the moment I laid eyes on the manual he brought, I clamped my mouth shut.
It was filled with complicated symbols and obscure dialects—some even in an ancient script I didn’t recognize—along with the coded language of the noble cultivation circles. And all of it, written neatly in Eric’s handwriting.
Curse these damned nobles. Why not just invent a whole secret language only they understand?!
“Now, try to copy this,” the steward instructed smoothly.
“Uh… I think I’m at a level more like, say, a three-year-old…”
“Just write.”
“Yes, sir…”
✵
✵
✵
Eric rode in the carriage beside the Duke.
The Duke said nothing. He merely watched Eric with wordless scrutiny, and Eric couldn’t bring himself to meet his father’s gaze.
Not out of fear or anger—but out of caution.
Never let the enemy know what you know—or what you don’t.
It was a tactical choice.
Then, the Duke gently took Eric’s hand.
“...!”
Eric’s head snapped up.
He met a pair of crimson eyes, identical to his own, gazing at him with a calm, calculating stillness.
A predator delights in the slow unraveling of its prey.
Eric recalled the words written in his mother’s journal. His fists clenched.
The beast delights in watching the wounded crawl, bleeding and broken.
The Duke examined the injury on the back of Eric’s hand and spoke softly.
“Are you still wounded in spirit over what happened at the Temple?”
He stroked the bandaged skin with quiet familiarity.
Especially the kind of beast that smiles as it watches the boar limp away, gasping its final breath.
A wave of revulsion surged up Eric’s spine.
How… How did it come to this?
He forced himself to speak.
“No, Father. I… I should’ve informed you earlier.”
Eric averted his gaze as the Duke’s piercing aura pressed in.
The Duke shook his head.
“No need to apologize. Your resentment is understandable. But, you see, what happened at the Temple… My interference wasn’t solely about preserving my own marriage.”
Eric remained silent, waiting for the Duke to get to his real point.
The Duke’s voice lowered.
“It’s because I heard something terrible about Imelin. A rumor… that she murdered her own father.”
His crimson eyes glinted sharply.
“Have you ever heard of the merchant lord Violod of the Bluebeard Trading Sect?”
Eric faltered, unsure how to respond. Sensing the hesitation, the Duke reached forward and lifted his chin.
Their eyes locked.
The Duke smiled thinly.
“So you
have
heard of him. If you've dug that deep into the past… then surely…”
He leaned in, his voice dripping with persuasion.
“You must be doubting whether Imelin is truly trustworthy. Am I wrong?”
✵
✵
✵
“Then I’ll leave that part to you, Mr. Holland. I trust you’ll follow through.”
Eric offered a polite nod as he stepped out of the Holland estate in the Fairette district.
Waiting outside was the coachman of the carriage Eric had arranged in advance. As the door was opened for him, Eric gave a quiet order:
“To Margaret Emporium.”
As soon as he climbed back into the carriage, a dull throb echoed in Erik's head.
The Duke of Valdek had left Erik at Holland’s residence before heading west under the pretense of business. Before departing, he left Erik with a final remark about Violrod.
“So, you doubt whether Emelline is trustworthy too.”
Those were the words of a man attempting to sow discord between Erik and Emelline—or perhaps to plant seeds of suspicion within Erik's mind.
“I’ve heard that Violrod had kept Emelline confined and raised her in secret for many years. Like a pig raised in a pen. When I first heard it, I just pitied the girl.”
The Duke had put on genuinely sorrowful eyes—eyes not unlike those he had shown when Emilie Orléans was found lifeless in the forest.
“But then I heard there were screams from Violrod’s study before the fire. That there was a prison-like chamber within the study where the girl had been kept…”
Just as he had once said with that same tragic gaze,
“Your mother lost her mind. Madness took her away,”
when speaking of Emilie.
“That’s when I realized… Perhaps there was a reason Violrod kept his daughter imprisoned.”
A flicker of undisguised contempt crossed the Duke’s gaze.
A reason? What kind of justification could there possibly be in this world to confine a child?
“Hold me…”
Erik recalled Emelline trembling in his arms. She hated cramped, suffocating spaces. He clenched his jaw.
He wanted nothing more than to spit in the Duke’s face.
“Damn it…”
Erik cursed, something he rarely did. His clenched fist slammed against the carriage wall with a loud thud.
He remembered the triumphant look on his father’s face when he said,
“Think this through carefully.”
A sickening expression.
But more importantly, Erik now realized that his father might try to tie Emelline to Violrod’s death. That thought made bile rise in his throat.
Just then, the carriage pulled to a halt in front of Margaret’s Grand Pavilion.
The door opened.
Erik quickly smoothed his disheveled garments, imagining how ragged his appearance must have become. He’d let his fury get the better of him.
With a calm expression, he stepped out of the carriage.
The lavish entrance to the department store welcomed him. A clerk waiting by the doors bowed deeply.
“Young Master, welcome.”
The greeting drew attention from nearby patrons. Erik noticed the glances but answered perfunctorily before entering the building.
Yet once inside, the stares only intensified. On the first floor, a group of noble ladies and young heiresses emerging from the gemstone workshop began whispering—loudly enough for Erik to hear.
“That’s Erik Orléans.”
“Did you see the article? I thought he wasn’t interested in women at all!”
“Some say the marriage is a façade to hide his fondness for men!”
“If it’s a fake marriage anyway, he should’ve chosen me! He’s so beautiful I’d hang him on the wall like a painting.”
“I’d put him on my bathroom wall!”
“No, my dressing room wall!”
‘Why… do they all want to hang me on a wall?’
Erik pondered grimly, catching snippets of conversation he’d rather not hear.
A few acquaintances rushed toward him with congratulations.
“Congratulations on the marriage…!”
Most greetings began like that—
“I cried my eyes out when I heard the news.”
—And ended with something utterly bizarre.
Erik, growing weary of exchanging pleasantries with noblewomen whose faces he could barely remember, finally quickened his pace just to escape.
Because Eric was moving faster than the usual pace expected by nobility, the daughters of noble houses and titled madams only caught a fleeting glimpse of his silhouette vanishing like the wind toward the top floor of Margaret Emporium, unable to even greet him properly.
Eric, relieved by this unintended evasion, paused momentarily on the stairs leading to the fourth floor. That was when he noticed a noble lady seated outside the coffee house on that level, observing him through a pair of opera glasses.
She had clearly been watching him from the first floor, following his every movement like a hunter stalking their prey—or a fervent fan admiring their favorite actor from the shadows of the audience.
When she realized Eric had noticed her gaze, she slowly lowered her opera glasses and waved with a gloved hand.
Margaret Beaufort.
Owner of the Emporium.
Only then did Eric Orléans recall—Lady Margaret Beaufort had always been unusually fond of his appearance.
With a slow, curling smile, Margaret spoke.
“Eric. Your face is flawless again today. It’s as though a delicate spirit deer wandered into my humble café for a cup of tea.”
Spirit deer?
Eric flinched slightly at the term.
Not just because she’d likened him to such a fragile creature—but because she smiled like a predator who had just cornered its prey.
‘Wasn’t it you who said your type was the delicate, soft-hearted kind of young master?’
He recalled Helena's teasing remark to Imelin.
Maybe it was a good idea after all… hiding the fact I’m a sword cultivator from Imelin.
Eric caught himself.
Wait—why am I even thinking about this?
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“It’s a shame you’re a married man now. Though honestly, I became far more… vigorous after marriage myself.”
Vigorous in what way…?
Eric suppressed the urge to question her and instead bowed politely.
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Thank you, madam.”
He glanced around. A moment later, a staff member approached.
“What would you like to drink, my lord?”
Margaret handed over an ashtray full of cigar ash.
“A black brew. No sugar, no milk.”
“And your usual cigar…?”
“Not necessary.”
The café was completely empty. Two staff members stood at the entrance, clearly instructed to turn away all other patrons.
This coffee house occupied nearly half of the fourth floor—yet Margaret had cleared it out entirely.
Why…?
Eric had already been puzzled when she first contacted him for a meeting. It was true he’d served as a bridge between the princess and Margaret’s new business venture, but he wasn’t known for sharp commercial instincts.
The truth was that Margaret had used Eric as a neutral figure—someone who wouldn’t make her look like she had taken the princess’s side politically. The real negotiations were surely happening directly between Margaret and Princess Ella.
So why summon Eric now?
Whatever the reason, it didn’t feel like a good omen.
Margaret’s voice dropped low.
“Things between you and your father… are they strained? Because of your recent marriage?”
“…Pardon?”
Why is she bringing up my father all of a sudden…?
“As far as I know, your father gave his approval for your union.”
“He did, Madam.”
“And yet I hear the Duke recently pressured the East to prevent a contract between the Eastern mana crystal mines and my automotive factory.”
Eric’s face hardened.
Automobile factory.
Margaret’s new venture—soon to be unveiled through her memoir—was none other than a cultivation-powered carriage industry.
There had once been a fleeting trend in foreign lands for horseless carriages, but it had fizzled out quickly. Those early vehicles ran on steam, and their efficiency was abysmal. They had to halt frequently to be fed coal, roared like beasts in battle, and rattled so violently that most nobles who had bought them for prestige simply tucked them away in their garages, never to be seen again.
But Margaret’s vision was different. What she sought was an automobile fueled by
magic cores
—vehicles imbued with spiritual energy, refined for smooth rides and supreme efficiency. To bring this vision to life, she was grinding through elite magi-engineers and spellcrafters day and night.
Through this project, Margaret hoped not only to expand her business empire—once limited to the realm of fashion—but to breathe new life into her trade routes and distribution channels as well.
Yet when Ella first heard about the idea of magic-tech carriages, she couldn’t help but scoff inwardly.
“She made her fortune selling off-the-rack robes for the common cultivator, and now she wants to court the refined tastes of nobles with luxury vehicles? Foolish.”
But despite her doubts, Ella had stepped into the project for one simple reason:
“The success or failure of this venture isn’t what matters. What matters is maintaining a strong alliance with Margaret. If she turns to Robert instead of me, things could become troublesome. Surely she’s heard the whispers—Robert’s been siphoning funds from the imperial treasury.”
At the time, the Princess was already on the trail of that missing spiritual treasury. It was around then that Erik relinquished his post as commander of the knight order and took up a covert mission to uncover which nobles stood with Robert.
In any case...
The real issue with the magic-carriage industry was
resources
.
Most notably, the
spirit stones
—those rare, crystalline nuclei pulsing with refined qi.
To build a horseless carriage that glided on the power of cultivation, a substantial amount of spirit stones was required. Margaret had even attempted to secure exclusive rights to one of the mines in the eastern provinces and all of its output.
But the mining rights to that spirit vein were held by the
Central Temple
.
Negotiations had progressed almost to completion...
Until, without warning, Margaret received a formal rejection just yesterday.
“They say Duke Valdek Orléans visited the Central Temple late last night. Did you know that?”
Erik’s face hardened.
Chapter 52