Why would the Duke sabotage the Princess’s business—one in which his own son, Eric, was involved?
If such a rumor were to spread, it would damage his reputation. But Margaret had already arrived at her own answer:
the marriage.
“When I found out the Duke had visited the Temple, I pressed them for the truth. They didn’t deny it—instead, they said they couldn’t recognize the marriage oath between Young Lord Eric and his wife due to ‘impurity.’ That the vow of premarital purity had been broken. Utterly absurd, of course, especially when the capital’s own district priest was exposed for hiding his illegitimate son… but what can you do? The Temple still has conservative nobles backing them.”
The "priest who hid his own son"—that was Andrea. After Eric exposed every one of Andrea’s sins, the man hadn’t even shown remorse. Instead, he’d tried to harm Imelin.
Furious, Eric had personally apprehended him and handed him over to the Holy Knights.
The Central Temple, backed into a corner, could no longer ignore Andrea’s corruption. He was excommunicated, stripped of every privilege, and his son was imprisoned.
That decisive action by the Central Temple gave them the moral high ground—they had purged one of their own. But Eric Orléans… he had shattered a
divinely sanctioned marriage
between Valdek and Helena, all with the help of a disgraced priest.
“Looks like even the strongest spiritual lifeline on the continent has its fraying point, doesn’t it?”
Margaret smiled bitterly.
Eric picked up his coffee cup. The taste was especially bitter today.
They had barely blocked the Duke’s attempt to remarry… and now this. The Temple was clearly displeased with him, and as a result, the many nobles who followed its teachings would soon turn their discontent toward Imelin.
What troubled Eric even more was how this controversy might taint the Princess’s reputation. Since she had authorized their union, the public had begun calling Eric and Imelin
Ella’s beloveds
—a liability.
“I hear Prince Robert has already set out for the Northern front?”
As Eric sat steeped in thought, Margaret launched another conversational volley.
So news of Prince Robert’s deployment had reached her already. It wasn’t surprising—he’d departed with a lavish, last-minute ceremony befitting a conquering general.
“Everyone knows that campaign is just a pretext to rack up military merit. And Her Highness wasn’t able to stop it. Once he returns in glory, who knows how the succession will shift? Likely before next year’s Assembly. And you know what happens during the Assembly—those damned voices again.
‘How can someone as emotionally immature as a woman be heir to the throne?’
That kind of nonsense.”
Eric found it laughable—how could they claim men and women were mentally different in a society where even commoners were receiving higher education? And yet, every Assembly, those same ridiculous proposals resurfaced. Some even dared suggest banning women from succession altogether.
So what? Pass the crown to someone like Robert just because he’s a man? A man who steals from the royal treasury without shame?
Is that all the ‘wise and noble’ heads of this empire can come up with?
Eric felt a headache coming on.
Margaret shifted the subject again. If the contract for the Eastern mana crystal mines wasn’t renewed, the launch of her new enterprise would be delayed.
But this wasn’t just a matter of timing or extra expenses. Margaret’s eyes shimmered with distrust—doubt toward the Princess herself. As if wondering if she’d tied her fortunes to a rotting vine.
And since she couldn’t say such things directly to the Princess, she summoned Eric instead.
“With the Temple standing in our way like this, signing any contract with the Eastern mana mines will be near impossible for the time being. I’m even planning to delay the publication of my memoir.”
“The damages will certainly be compensated. I believe Her Highness—”
Margaret waved him off before he could finish.
“I’m a businesswoman, Lord Eric. Just like most nobles of this age. And businesspeople don’t invest in ideals—they invest in gain. If backing the Princess risks falling out of favor with the Prince, then forgive me, but I must reconsider.”
“You don’t need to fear that. The situation with the mana mines has nothing to do with Her Highness—it’s my doing.”
Eric’s voice carried an honest weight.
Margaret’s sharp gaze softened slightly as she looked into his crimson eyes.
“I will resolve this. Please, give me a little time, madam.”
Margaret caught the flicker of desperation in Erik’s crimson eyes and, with a slow smile, retrieved a magnifying glass from within her robes.
She raised it to her face, inspecting him as though peering at a rare spiritual specimen.
“...?”
Erik furrowed his brows.
“Oh, my apologies,” she said sweetly. “But just now—you made the perfect expression. If I could immortalize that in a portrait, I’d frame it in my cultivation chamber. Truly.”
Her eyes sparkled with acquisitive greed. Erik noticed a staff member behind her quietly pulling out a spirit-powered image-capturing device. He cleared his throat in protest.
Margaret Beaufort was a curious sort of merchant.
At her sixtieth birthday banquet, she had insisted on receiving Erik’s used handkerchief as a contract memento…
Claiming it inspired her next business endeavor…
Now she was trading Erik’s time for photographs—as though it were some sacred barter of qi and favor.
With a resigned expression, Erik gestured the photographer closer. The staff member stepped toward him.
“Madam, then about the time…”
“Oh, certainly. I’ll grant you some time. Will a month suffice?”
“…A bit more…”
Pop!
A burst of spiritual light exploded before his eyes. Erik blinked against the afterimage seared across his vision.
Margaret observed the unfolding spectacle with amusement, her gaze as sharp as a sword cultivator eyeing a rare herb.
Pop!
Another flash flared. Erik scowled. He felt like a beast in a cultivation fair—on display.
“Mmm. That face just now—like you’re utterly humiliated? Exquisite. I’ll give you six weeks.”
Why humiliation was “exquisite” was beyond him.
He glanced at her as if trying to decipher some demonic sect scripture. The lingering light had left his vision shimmering uncomfortably.
“By the way,” Margaret added casually, “did you truly have reason to force a marriage like that? Though… I must admit, the red-haired girl was rather bold and charming. I saw her speaking with Lady Vivian at the last gathering.”
Speaking
?
Erik remembered the scene well—Emelline practically threatening Vivian. He quietly admired the Grand Matron’s diplomatic choice of words.
“Well, that’s…”
He hesitated.
He was supposed to say,
because I love her
…
But that phrase clung to his throat, unmoving.
“Don’t you remember the marriage vow?” Emelline’s voice echoed in his mind. “It says we must be faithful to each other.”
“It also says we must love each other. Do you love me?”
He remembered her asking him that, clear-eyed and gentle.
Love?
Such a word… it was impossible.
So instead, he scaled down the intensity of his answer, falling back like a cultivator adjusting his stance before an unstable technique.
“Because… I like her.”
Like.
The moment he said it, a chill ran down his spine.
Had he weakened the truth too much?
I like her.
It didn’t even feel like a lie.
Why doesn’t it feel like a lie? Of course it’s a lie. I don’t like that strange woman.
He tried to steady himself with that thought—but part of him whispered otherwise.
Liking someone… it’s not so rare.
You could feel fondness even for a stray cat in the street. One that steals fish from the market stalls… or ruins laundry in the courtyard and almost gets beaten with a broom…
A troublesome little alley cat. Others might call her a troublemaker, but when one truly observed her, she was like a cat—quietly endearing in unexpected ways.
Eric couldn’t help but smile faintly at the comparison. It was, in fact, quite fitting.
And if she were that sort of stray cat, then liking her wasn’t so strange after all.
Flash!
A sudden flare of light burst forth.
This time, it was Margaret herself holding the shutter switch.
Eric, thinking the portrait session was already over, frowned and glanced toward her. Margaret merely shrugged.
“That smile just now—I liked it. The look of a man in love. I think it’ll give me tremendous inspiration.”
Inspiration again?
And why did the topic always circle back to love?
Eric's expression twisted with quiet irritation.
✵
✵
✵
When Eric returned to the estate, the steward greeted him with a worn, haggard expression.
The steward, who had entered the household when Eric was but three years old, had loyally tended the mansion for twenty-one years. And in all that time, believing himself to be the
“face of the house,”
he had
never once
met Eric with anything less than perfect composure.
Until now.
Eric blinked, slightly startled, noticing dark shadows beneath the steward’s eyes that hadn’t been there earlier that day.
“...?”
“Welcome home, young master…”
“Did something happen…?”
When Eric asked, the steward gave a strained smile.
“Well… about the young madam…”
He looked like he might burst into tears at any moment.
Eric, not wanting to prod that expression further, chose not to ask any more questions. But just as he handed off his outer coat and casually asked about Imelin’s well-being—
“Has the young madam been well?”
—it was as if a dam broke.
“...I could’ve forgiven it if she were simply shirking! Honestly, I even considered secretly helping her, if only she’d put on a show of trying for a few hours! But instead—!”
Eric massaged his temples. He could already guess what came next.
At a time when his reputation in the cultivation world was hanging by a thread, now even his standing inside his own estate was crumbling.
As it turned out, Imelin had given up halfway through practicing her cursive and, deciding it was too time-consuming, bribed one of the maids to write her replies for her. And after that? She was found gorging herself in the dining hall.
“I… I told her clearly! That by the rules of noble households, only the mistress may reply to formal letters…!”
As if she’d care about
rules.
If Eric had to name someone who lived farthest from words like “honor,” “honesty,” or “discipline,” he wouldn’t hesitate for even a breath—
Imelin
.
Meanwhile, the steward in front of him—righteous fury burning in his eyes—was the embodiment of such virtues.
“A rule is a rule, young master.”
Eric suddenly recalled those words. The steward had uttered them often while raising him—teaching him what was and wasn’t permitted.
More than his always-busy and authoritative father, more than his sickly mother who had spent her final years bedridden, it was the steward who had truly shaped Eric’s character.
Eric lowered his voice and whispered:
“Couldn’t you have just… helped her from the start…?”
“...Excuse me?”
The steward looked at him with disbelief—as if his young master had spoken heresy. Not just disbelief, but a deep,
betrayed
look that said:
I didn’t raise you like this!
Unable to bear the sadness that surged in the steward’s eyes, Eric looked away.
“Y-Young master…”
What in the heavens did I just say…?
Chapter 53