He clenched his jaw.
“I’ll just write the replies myself.”
“But…!”
The steward's expression seemed to say,
Surely, young master, you must at least consult the young madam…
Clearly, he still didn’t grasp what sort of person Emelline truly was.
“Besides, there are established protocols—!”
Erik replied calmly, like a sect elder instructing a disciple.
“Rules only exist to be broken by someone strong enough to shatter them. And I’d wager most of the noble cultivators would prefer to receive a reply from
me
, anyway.”
The steward fell silent, lips pressed tight.
It wasn’t wrong—Erik Orléans breaking protocol only enhanced the prestige of those receiving his letters.
After all, it was nearly impossible to find a noble household without women, and most of the capital’s female cultivators adored Erik’s features like he was a celestial idol.
Whenever he graced a social gathering, these ladies presented him with bouquets as if paying tribute to a sect master. Some had even kept the letters he sent back when he led the Knight Order, treating them as precious heirlooms.
Even now, after his scandalous and sudden marriage, they likely
hungered
more than ever to receive a letter bearing his spiritual mark. Perhaps even
because
of that marriage.
Erik was generally indifferent to public attention, but even he was aware of this much. In fact, that was exactly why he said it—to weaponize it.
And so, the steward could only sigh with a sour look on his face.
“Then… the young madam is currently…?”
“In the study. I assigned her to copy your cultivation manuals as punishment…”
Erik involuntarily shot the steward a glare, like a sword cultivator catching a disciple beating the sect’s sacred beast.
“Did you… just glare at me, young master…?”
“…? Impossible. You must be mistaken.”
Even Erik didn’t believe he could’ve glared at the steward like that. Not when he’d just returned from hearing the blasphemous phrase
‘a man in love.’
His spiritual equilibrium was in chaos.
Still, the steward wasn’t the sort to mistreat Emelline just because she was a lesser noble. He wasn't like some of the more archaic household servants.
One need only look at the dark circles beneath his eyes to understand—
He was
genuinely
distressed by the young madam’s unpredictable behavior… terrified that her wild nature might bring shame to the Duke’s estate…
And above all, spiritually wounded at the very notion that
bribery
and
forgery
might have occurred under his watch.
He’s going to have many more surprises coming his way,
Erik thought.
He figured the steward’s spiritual condition—and those under-eye shadows—wouldn’t be recovering anytime soon.
Clicking his tongue, Erik turned to walk away, only to be stopped by the steward’s voice once more.
“Please… don’t answer
too
many letters yourself, young master…”
With that, the steward turned away with the air of a disappointed elder, looking almost heartbroken.
For a brief moment, Erik considered comforting him—then shook his head.
He opened the door to the study.
Almost instinctively, his gaze sought out a certain red-haired figure—but instead of Emelline’s flowing crimson curls, he spotted a small bundle slumped over the central desk.
It was Emelline, head carelessly twisted into a loose knot, collapsed atop the desk.
If the steward saw this, he’d faint right there on the floor.
The matron of the ducal estate, napping on a desk like a lazy disciple after skipping sword training? Utterly unacceptable.
And after being punished, no less. One would think she was suffering… yet she looked as carefree as a wandering rogue cultivator after drinking five jars of spiritual wine.
Erik sighed and walked closer.
He reached out to gently rouse her—but stopped as he caught sight of her face, pressed slightly into the wooden desk.
Under her nose… what’s that…?
Unbidden, a soft chuckle escaped him.
Her nose was smudged thickly with black ink, as were her hands and even the sleeves of her robe. She looked less like a noble lady and more like a failed talisman maker who’d exploded her ink well mid-formation.
Moreover, the parchment she’d been writing on was now covered edge to edge in wild, chaotic cursive.
Damn steward… Fool… Idiot… Sea slug…
…was what it said.
Eric let out a dry chuckle as he picked up the paper.
“Ah… Imelin…”
He murmured softly.
“You really are endlessly amusing.”
Letting out a low grunt, Eric sat beside her.
“If only others knew how entertaining you truly are…”
He muttered.
Though he'd never been one to care about who received the most invitations during the social season or what kinds of rumors were floating about whom, that would soon have to change.
To secure the spirit stone contract—and to maintain this farcical cultivation marriage—he’d need to solidify his reputation in the noble society.
Eric glanced at the towering stack of congratulatory letters celebrating their union and rolled up his sleeves. His arms, more accustomed to wielding a sword than a brush, reached toward one of the letters when something caught his eye.
Just beneath the scrawled
“Damn steward…”
were more scribbles.
Eric gently lifted the notebook that had been half-covered by Imelin’s hand.
Damn noble bastards…
It was filled with free-flowing ramblings that seemed like the unfiltered stream of her consciousness.
Imelin Orléans.
The Duke’s Manor.
Eric.
Eric.
Eric Orléans.
Eric stared intently at the name written in crooked, uncertain script—his name.
Eric Orléans.
He ran his finger gently across the inked letters.
“You doubt whether Imelin is a woman worth trusting, don’t you?”
The Duke’s words echoed in his mind. And he wasn’t wrong.
Imelin is not someone you should place your trust in.
His instincts, his refined spiritual senses, whispered this truth to him constantly.
And yet—
A good person.
This woman was… a good person.
And if there had been just one person—only one—who had believed that about him in his own life…
Couldn’t everything have turned out differently?
She must have known, too, in her heart—
That she was, despite it all… a good person.
“Did you really come to lend me the money?”
Eric recalled visiting Helena’s manor earlier that day.
Helena’s expression had been filled with shock. Though truthfully, Eric’s expression had been even more shaken after hearing the actual amount of her debt.
“Five hundred thousand gold.”
“…How in the world does someone rack up that much…?”
It wasn’t a sum Eric couldn’t cover—but five hundred thousand gold?
That was enough for a commoner to live several lifetimes in comfort.
“You ever heard of loan sharks? If they get their hooks in you, there won’t even be bones left to bury.”
Helena shook her head violently, as if even speaking of it was cursed. She eyed Eric suspiciously.
“What I fear most now are interest rates. Interest. And you’re telling me you’ll lend me money…?”
She showed not a trace of gratitude for the offer—only disbelief.
“It’s not even a gift… it’s a loan? Seriously? You’re that stingy?”
“I can hear everything you’re saying.”
‘Just talking to myself—just talking to myself.’
The moment he heard those words, Erik couldn’t help but picture
that
woman’s face overlaying Helena’s.
It was impossible to believe the two weren’t connected by even a single drop of blood.
“So this is what it means to be bound by soul rather than blood.”
‘Looks like you’ve just kept borrowing to pay off previous debts… and now it’s spiraled into a mountain.’
‘Which is
exactly
why you should give these poor three a helping hand, isn’t it? Or should I take the contents of your mother’s diary straight to the press?’
‘Try that, and my father will have all three of you vanish without a trace.’
Now that he thought about it, maybe Helena had deliberately handed the diary to Emelline for that exact reason. Erik was beginning to form a very rational suspicion.
Helena clicked her tongue.
‘Even if you lend it, what good will it do? Where are we ever going to find that kind of money to repay it?’
‘The repayment period will be generous. And I’ll allow unlimited extensions. No interest, either. In exchange…’
‘There’s always a catch behind these too-good-to-be-true conditions. What’s the price?’
Erik Orléans.
He folded the note bearing his own name and tucked it inside his robe.
He reached out as if to touch Emelline’s shoulder—but stopped.
Instead of waking her, he chose another route.
He picked her up. Like a small bundle.
Emelline was light. Delicate. Almost like a junior disciple too thin for her outer robes.
“In exchange… tell me the truth behind the death of the Violet Lotus Trading Lord. Including whether you really set that fire.”
Erik glanced down at the red-haired woman in his arms, wondering what she might have looked like at age twelve.
She probably wasn’t as devious back then. Just… adorable. As most small ones are.
‘Are you going to tell Emelline?’
‘…No. I won’t tell her.’
Helena hadn’t believed him.
“I stabbed the Trading Lord… and set the fire…”
“A lie.”
“…Excuse me?”
“You always reveal when you’re telling the truth. Right now? You’re not.”
“Hey—!”
“The offer is two hundred and fifty thousand gold. If you ever gather the courage to tell the truth, come find me. I’ll be waiting.”
Erik recalled the look on Helena’s face when he’d said that.
“They really are alike…”
That face—cornered, desperate.
Those eyes—terrified of losing something precious.
Yet also carrying that infuriating stubbornness… the inability to ask for help no matter what.
He looked down at Emelline in his arms.
✵
✵
✵
It doesn’t even feel like I slept.
That was the first thought that struck me the moment I woke up.
And I
could’ve sworn
I fell asleep in the study…
I sat up, grabbing at my sore shoulders and aching wrists, and looked around the cold, empty bed.
Still wearing my day clothes—not even having changed into sleepwear.
“…Erik?”
I glanced at the space beside me.
We hadn’t even properly settled the whole bedroom arrangement, so I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“He must’ve just slept outside somewhere.”
Too tired to think deeper, I flopped back down again.
Even though I’d only been writing for, what, two and a half hours?
Just looking at paper and ink again after so long had left me spiritually drained.
Damn steward… damn Nina…
I’d tried to bribe Nina, only for her to snitch directly to the steward—who then tore into me like I was a rogue cultivator caught stealing from the sect treasury.
“Always calling me ‘young madam’ like he respects me, and then…”
I had lost all trust in both the steward and Nina.
Even in that state, when thirst struck and I pulled the summoning cord, Nina rushed in almost immediately.
She came in with a jug of water and a sweet smile.
“...Is something the matter, Young Mistress?”
“No, not really… not exactly.”
Lily, Nina, and now even the steward—they all seemed like the kind who’d be easy to bribe. And yet, they were proving far more resilient than expected.
I need to figure out their weaknesses…
I downed the water in silence, deep in thought.
Lily had rushed off to the training grounds before I could even ask for help, claiming she was "too busy." With a sigh, I handed the empty cup back to Nina and asked,
“Where’s my darling?”
The word
darling
made Nina look like she was about to gag, though she somehow managed to keep her expression composed as she turned away.
What? Aren’t we supposed to be a newly bonded couple?
“Ah… after finishing all the response letters to the noble households, he went to join the training session with the knights.”
“The replies?!”
I sprang up from my seat in a flurry.
No need to go far—right there in the corner of the chamber, a stack of sealed letters sat neatly.
Atop the pile was a single note from Eric:
Don’t be too harsh on the steward. Deliver Lady Margaret’s letter personally.
I set the note down and turned to the wax-sealed letters, each one adorned beautifully as if it were a chest of treasure. Grinning, I stretched out my arms and cried,
“You see! I
knew
he’d write them in the end!”
Nina glanced at me, then quickly turned away, stifling a laugh.
Why are you laughing?
I pouted, doing my best to regain composure. Nina straightened her face and added solemnly,
“He barely slept a wink last night writing all those replies.”
“Huh?”
My eyes widened.
There were a lot of letters, sure—but enough to keep someone up all night?
I tilted my head slightly.
So even the heir of a mighty cultivation clan can be worn down by simple paperwork...
Chapter 54