Give Me Your Son 010
Parne Mansion, first-floor lobby. The place had grown a bit more harmonious since the youngest young master arrived, but right now, it was shrouded in a silence as heavy as a funeral parlor.
The dull thud echoing from the patriarch's office on the second floor. Thwack! The aftershock of that sound still lingered.
Click.
The door to the patriarch's office shut, and old butler Alfred descended the stairs. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the cold sweat beading on his forehead.
Marie, the head maid who'd been peeking from the kitchen, hurried over with quick steps.
"How's the mood? Has the patriarch calmed down a bit?"
"What, he's got his poker face on like always. Only our youngest young master has the talent to shatter that composure."
Marie covered her mouth with her apron and stomped her feet anxiously.
"Did you hear that sound? It hit solid. Our young master's forehead won't survive intact."
"Seemed pretty intact to me. He asked for food the moment he got back to his room."
"Hmm. True enough."
The two nodded in familiar unison.
Pat pat pat! A maid rushed in from the entrance, pale as a ghost. Her white apron was crooked from how frantically she'd run.
"B-Butler! Big trouble!"
"Shh! Keep your voice down. What if the patriarch hears?"
"That's not the issue! There's a guest at the front gate right now…!"
"A guest? At this hour?"
Alfred checked his pocket watch. It was evening, past sunset. Any normal noble wouldn't dream of visiting—or even sending a letter—without it being a breach of etiquette.
"It's… a professor from the academy!"
"……What?"
Marie clutched her neck and staggered.
"Oh no, our young master is done for. Not only is his forehead busted, now the other side's getting smashed too."
A professor coming to the house? Parent-teacher conference? That could only mean one thing.
Expulsion notice. Or some equally grave incident.
Alfred's face turned ashen.
"…Understood. I'll go see."
Alfred straightened his clothes and headed to the entrance.
Creeeak—
The heavy mansion door swung open, letting in a rush of cold night air and an eerie chill. And there, in the darkness, stood a woman.
Her jet-black hair fluttered in the night breeze, and her blood-red eyes gleamed sharply through her glasses. Too young and beautiful to pass for a professor. She looked no more than a few years older than young master Kasian.
Paradoxically, that was exactly why Alfred instinctively knew this young, stunning woman was indeed a professor. The rumors had mentioned that the professor Kasian had committed insubordination against was the academy's greatest prodigy and youngest professor ever.
He steadied his trembling voice and bowed politely.
"If I may ask, your name and purpose?"
The woman pushed up her glasses and spoke.
"Imperial Academy Department of Magical Studies, Iris von Evergarden." Her voice was as dry and cold as her demeanor. "I'm here to discuss the issue with Parne family second son, student Kasian, directly with the patriarch."
Alfred's heart plummeted.
Discuss? Not a consultation or meeting, but a confrontation?
Alfred sank deep into the swamp of misunderstanding.
'Young master, what on earth did you do at school….'
"…Please wait a moment. I'll consult with the master."
* * *
On my desk. A freshly fetched raw egg was rolling around on my forehead.
"Ow, fuck. That really hurts."
Looking in the mirror, a dark blue lump protruded from the center of my forehead like a horn. A glorious scar from grazing the ashtray's edge.
If it'd hit dead-on, I'd be high-fiving my ancestors across the River Jordan by now.
I rubbed the egg with one hand while scribbling furiously with a quill in the other. Black ink dripped onto the parchment.
[Title: A Heartfelt Letter of Profound Remorse to My Respected Professor]
"Respected my ass."
I'd felt this since elementary school, but demanding sincerity in a forced apology letter? What bullshit is that?
I pouted and filled in the content.
[I have committed a grave sin worthy of death. I failed to recognize your vast mercy and Pacific Ocean-like knowledge… I shall never act out again…]
No, fuck this. Even in elementary school I didn't write shit like this, and now at my age?
Is this noble life? Is this the privilege of a possessor?
That's when it happened.
Knock knock.
The door opened with the knock. It was old man Alfred.
His expression was something else. Like a guard giving a last meal to a condemned prisoner whose execution was set for day after tomorrow—solemn and mournful.
"Young master."
"What? Why scare me like that again? Staring at me all pitiful."
"You must go to the drawing room immediately."
Drawing room? Not the study?
I stopped rolling the egg.
"A guest? Who?"
"……."
Alfred said nothing. Instead, his eyes asked:
'Young master, did you enjoy this life?'
A chill ran down my spine.
"……What? Are you signaling me to run? Jump out the window?"
"Then it won't end with the hunting dogs."
"……."
"Just go. Better to take the beating first."
I cursed under my breath and stood up. No point asking what it was. I'd probably foam at the mouth and pass out first.
Feels like death if I don't bolt, but if I do, Alfred gets sacrificed in my place. Caught between a rock and a hard place.
I set the half-cold egg on the desk and marched out with grim resolve.
* * *
First-floor drawing room door. I straightened my tie and took a deep breath. Hoo, hoo.
Strategy: one. Play as pitiful as possible, grovel flat. A survival instinct honed to suck honey in this brutal Parne family until twenty.
Father's patience is the goose that lays golden eggs. Don't cut it open.
Flatter him somehow and coast through life slacking off till death.
"Young master, please apologize sincerely. Admit fault unconditionally."
I ignored Alfred's earnest plea and opened the door.
Creeeak—
"Pardon the intrusion, patri…."
I froze mid-sentence. The scene in the drawing room was downright bizarre.
Father sat in the high seat of the premium leather sofa. And opposite him.
Jet-black hair, blood-red eyes. A menacing aura, with idol-level visuals.
Professor Iris.
…Why the hell is this woman here? Is this 1980s Korea? House visit? Here for bribes? …Or to get my seal for actual expulsion?
Fuck. Now I get why the old man pitied me so.
As I hesitated at the threshold, Corinth spoke in a voice much softer than usual.
"Come, sit if you're here."
"Y-Yes…."
Even scarier now. Why no anger? This was prime rage timing, but nada. He even looked oddly pleased. Like chronic constipation finally relieved after ten years.
That scared me more.
I slunk to the farthest edge of the sofa opposite Iris, eyes darting nervously. Steam rose from hot tea and pastries on the table.
Usually I'd chow down whenever possible, but today? Doubtful.
Corinth lifted his teacup and gestured to Iris.
"Now that the person in question is here, please make your proposal directly, as you mentioned earlier."
Proposal? What proposal?
Iris set her teacup down soundlessly. Clink.
She slowly raised her head and fixed her gaze on me. Those eyes. Worlds apart from the lion eyeing me like gazelle in class.
Sticky, greedy, glinting with madness. Like some obsessive seme from a BL novel I'd never read. For real.
I gulped involuntarily. Goosebumps; PTSD incoming.
Then, Iris's red lips parted slowly.
"Yes, Palace Count."
And she dropped the nuke that would upend my life entirely. Her eyes stayed locked on me.
"Give me your son."
Pffft—!!!!
"Cough! Hack! Hack!"
I didn't just spit out my mouthful of tea—I choked hard, coughing like my throat was ripping apart. Hot tea refluxed up my nose. Sinuses burned, eyes watered.
"Gahk, urk! F-Fuck, what did you say?"
If my mouth hadn't been sealed, that thought would've burst out loud. Or half did already.
I frantically dabbed my mouth with a napkin and stared at Iris.
Normally, you'd look away or scorn such a mess. But this crazy woman didn't blink—ignored the tea splatter on the table and stared straight at me.
Like I wasn't some research subject needing trajectory observation.
"Give him to me, Palace Count. I'll take responsibility."
"No, professor! Responsibility for what? Why're you taking charge of my life?!"
Then the madwoman turned to Father.
"May I explain in more detail?"
"By all means."
"You don't know your own worth."
Iris shot up from her seat. She leaned over the table toward me, black hair cascading before my eyes. Suffocating rose scent, laced with an even thicker madness.
"Let me show you. How… special you are."
"No, wait. Your wording's off? Sounds super misleading."
I pressed back against the sofa as far as possible.
What the hell? What's this situation? A proposal? Professor proposing I join grad school?
Fuck this.
In my confusion, I glanced at Father beside me. He wore a deeply, intensely satisfied smile.
'Finally, you've proven useful somehow.' That triumphant look.
I'd seen it before. Back when private magic tutors from the countryside raved about my genius.
Only difference: those were nobodies we had to drag in from the sticks. This time, the target was the era's top prodigy.
That single difference was enough to turn Father into a helicopter dad overnight.
"Hoho, if a professor like you says so, I have no reason to refuse."
His pant legs flapped in excitement.
"Father?! Hold on! Refuse what? You selling off your son?!"
"Quiet. The greatest mage of our time, Professor Iris, wants to take you under her wing. Be grateful."
Corinth dismissed me and nodded to Iris.
"Take him. Boil him, roast him—do as you please."
"Thank you."
Iris smiled faintly. Eerily beautiful, equally terrifying.
She looked back at me and whispered low.
"You heard, Kasian? You're mine now."
Felt like a gazelle before a fucking lioness.
Anyway, I'm just a button-masher three times a day outside that. Hot-headed otherwise.
So what now? If it shines?
To Father, I'm no longer an "unscratched lottery ticket"—just a dud printed with a glitch saying "maybe a winner?"
He'd whip me to at least act human.
Damn! Gotta survive.
…But how?