A late mist scattered the sunset in the evening sky. Inside a carriage speeding toward the approaching night, Roir leaned back, eyes closed, his expression tightly furrowed.

They were close to their destination, yet he was still debating whether to order the carriage to turn around and return to the estate.

Clatter!

The carriage jolted sharply, and the coachman’s apologetic voice rang out.

“My apologies! It seems the ground is uneven!”

“It’s fine. Take it slow. There’s no rush.”

“Yes, sir!”

Roir nearly bit his tongue but, instead of snapping at the coachman, he simply conveyed his concern. His expression grew even more severe as he shook his head.

“I don’t like this feeling.”

The moment he spoke the words aloud, the heavy weight pressing on his chest became more pronounced, and the prickling sensation at the back of his neck intensified.

He often had this kind of premonition before something went terribly wrong. It wasn’t always accurate, but at least eight times out of ten, his ominous instincts proved correct.

“…Hah.”

Roir let out a long sigh, rubbing his temples as if nursing a headache. Yet he didn’t order the carriage to turn back.

Instead, he carefully reconsidered their destination.

A viscount’s estate, located within the capital but far from the imperial palace.

The Viscount Piastre family had built stable wealth over generations. However, it was also quietly known that in the process of accumulating that wealth, considerable discord had arisen.

Yet those disturbances were always swiftly handled. And since both Piastre and its rivaling families were relatively small in size and influence, no significant attention had ever been drawn to them.

A few years ago, there was a major incident where people were dying one after another due to conflicts with another family. However, it seemed to have been handled well, as it passed without much trouble. In short, it was a moderately sized, unremarkable noble family.

It was only three days ago that a letter arrived from such a family, expressing a sudden desire to invest in a trade ship. Of course, as the heir of Greuga, he received hundreds of letters daily from people pleading to have a stake in his ventures. The letter from Piastre was also a request laced with flattery. Yet, Roir read the letter carefully and decided to accept their invitation.

[…Thus, a medicinal ingredient that may be beneficial to the young lady of Greuga…]

Piastre had mentioned Raylin. His younger sister, who had been born frail and had to forgo many things she rightfully deserved.

As a direct descendant of Greuga, who had always valued its bloodline, Raylin’s birth had been met with cheers from both the main and branch families. But the child had been exceedingly weak, fragile as if she would shatter upon the slightest touch.

As a child, she endured treatments that even adults found unbearable and drank bitter medicine without ever allowing herself to complain. If there was even the slightest chance of improving Raylin’s condition, anyone—not just her—would have jumped at it.

Rationally speaking, the medicinal ingredient that Piastre claimed to have acquired was unlikely to be extraordinary.

If Greuga could not obtain it, then it was improbable that Piastre, of all places, would have it. Yet Roir had to go. If there was even a 0% chance, he had to see it with his own eyes.

With that mindset, the Duke of Greuga, Raylin’s father, had left under the pretext of handling the turbulent situation in the frontier.

Not a single member of the family opposed the head’s decision to leave the capital for an extended period. Rather, they urged him forward.

“What? A new barbarian mage has emerged? And the Empire has banned it? Then the head must go!” 

“Of course, the head should go. If something goes wrong, he’s the only one who can fix it!” 

“Then what about the capital?” 

“What do you think the smart ones are for? There’s Roir. We all know the head has been secretly shifting his duties onto him anyway. Why ask?”

The only person who opposed the head’s absence was his daughter, Raylin.

“Father, all of that is fake. I’m much healthier now than when I was younger. Please, don’t go.”

Just as she said, she had gradually grown stronger with age. The doctors, who once shook their heads saying she would not live past twenty, now said that with proper care, she might live as long as anyone else.

Yet, a father’s heart was not so easily reassured. He wished for his daughter to experience not just what was natural, but even the things she had only dreamed of.

And so, he had laughed heartily and left for the frontier, where marauding barbarians and foreign political schemes were entangled in a complex web.

“The Emperor has been annoying me anyway. Now I have a perfect excuse to escape!”

He had thrown out those playful words, as if to ease his daughter’s guilt for sending him on a difficult journey.

Roir, too, had exaggeratedly made a dying face and willingly shouldered all of the head’s responsibilities.

It was not difficult. Like the rest of the family, he simply hoped, that this time, Raylin would not suffer a mere cold as if it were a severe illness and would be able to live like an ordinary person.

“We have arrived.”

Lost in thought, Roir had not noticed how quickly time had passed. The carriage had already reached its destination. Since it bore the emblem of Greuga, the Piastre family would have surely sent someone to receive her. Now that there was no longer a choice of whether to return or not, he actually felt more at ease than before.

Roir opened the carriage door and was met with a man standing before him with arms wide open in welcome.

“Welcome! It is an honor to receive you, Lord Roir Greuga! I am the heir of Viscount Piastre…”

To summarize his lengthy introduction, the man greeting him was not the viscount himself but his son and heir.

Roir was the next Duke of Greuga, with a corresponding county and title. It was, therefore, a breach of etiquette for a mere viscount’s heir to be greeting him instead of the viscount himself—something that could easily be taken as an insult.

Moreover, while Roir often carried himself with an affable smile, he was far from a fool. He exuded an effortless authority befitting the heir to the Greuga Duchy.

Perhaps aware of this, the heir of Viscount Piastre hastily added an explanation.

“My father will be here shortly. Due to a slight scheduling issue, I had no choice but to receive you first…”

Roir had no intention of nitpicking Piastre’s breach of etiquette and merely nodded dismissively. His reception was not bad. Even the smallest details, down to the cups, had been meticulously arranged, allowing him to gauge the family’s modest capabilities. However, the effort they put into entertaining him was apparent, so he let it slide.

A brief exchange of pleasantries was followed by dinner.

“How is the food? I heard that you prefer mild flavors, so I instructed the kitchen to prepare white fish as the main dish.”

“Yes. Your chef is quite skilled.”

“Indeed. The seasoning is particularly special, using spices imported from overseas… If trade were to flourish a bit more…”

“Yes. I agree.”

Their conversation, a mixture of small talk and business, was slightly awkward but passable.

“How do you find the wine? My father personally selected it in your honor.”

“What a shame. I don’t have the luxury to drink today.”

“Ah! Then let’s save this for next time. What do you think?”

Since it implied that he should accept the next invitation as well, Roir merely offered a faint smile. The viscount’s heir, smacking his lips, seemed unwilling to pressure him further, so he set down the bottle of wine that his father had specifically ordered to be served to Roir.

Perhaps feeling regretful, he continued to gulp down whiskey in front of Roir. As the strong liquor hit him, the viscount’s heir gradually grew intoxicated. Though he was not particularly assertive, Roir neither seemed irritated nor dismissive, responding appropriately to his words. This put the viscount’s heir at ease, and he became more animated.

With a smile, he addressed the young man who had so far remained silent and merely filled a seat at the table.

“What do you think? Don’t you agree? This was originally your family’s responsibility. It should have been handled by you, a baron. Ah, but now that it belongs to our family, I suppose it’s a bit awkward to bring that up? Hahaha!”

He must have thought of it as a joke, but the very person meant to laugh it off clenched his teeth instead. Even Roir, who had only met him for the first time today, could see his tension, yet the viscount’s heir remained oblivious and continued to spew such nonsense a few more times.

“Ah, now that I think about it, your family couldn’t handle it properly, so there wouldn’t be much to gain from you anyway.”

“…”

“Your predecessor was far too greedy.”