Chapter 7
Chapter 7
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 7
Chapter Title: Illiterate
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“Ian, you need to concentrate.”
Ian turned his head at the tutor’s words.
The guest room in the western annex. Unlike before, clear breezes blew in through the wide-open windows on all sides. Sighing at his listless pupil, the tutor scribbled with his pen.
“Alright. Let’s try again. Suppose 100 villagers offer five bundles of millet as tax. Half of that goes to the capital, and half of what’s left is distributed to the mansion servants. How many bundles remain in the end?”
Ian yawned lightly and averted his gaze. The study sessions of a couple hours each afternoon were truly unbearable in their tedium.
“I don’t know.”
If he answered right away, they’d think it strange, so at first he’d pretended to calculate, even counting on his fingers.
But that only worked once or twice. Continuing was annoyingly tedious, so Ian steeled himself and feigned complete ignorance.
“At least try calculating it.”
“Hmm. 100 bundles?”
On top of that, playing the dull bastard son brought unexpected gains. The tutor and butler often exchanged notes about Ian’s lessons.
Most were trivial matters, but occasionally they’d let slip info about the family head’s schedule.
“…We’ll stop math here. Next is literature. You read [Fate’s Fate] last time, right?”
The tutor lacked passion. Whether Ian understood or not, he doggedly covered his assigned material and collected his pay.
For Ian, it was a relief. If he said he didn’t know, the tutor neatly gave up—no need to fake strenuous studying.
Knock knock.
“Come in.”
“Pardon the intrusion.”
The butler entered with snacks. A butler delivering them personally, rather than a servant, surely meant he intended to observe the child’s study habits.
“How far along are you?”
“We’re wrapping up with literature.”
“I see. You’re making good time today.”
“Ian’s been following along so well.”
Oh, please.
Ian munched on the snacks and glanced down at the book, half-filled with illustrations. The butler flashed his palm toward the tutor and quickly scribbled something. Ian couldn’t see from his angle.
“Then. Carry on.”
“Yes, butler.”
Tap.
The tutor read the few words aloud, wrote them on parchment, and had Ian copy them.
Thus, the dull afternoon study session ended. When the wall clock chimed, the tutor packed his books and stood.
“I’ll see you out, teacher.”
“No need. I’m busy today. Ian, finish practicing your letters.”
He usually escorted the tutor to and fro, learning gait, greetings, or social etiquette along the way.
But refusals like today meant the tutor was off to meet someone in the household.
“Yes. See you next time.”
Ian nodded without retort.
The tutor donned his coat, smiled, and left the room.
‘Off to meet the butler?’
Sometimes it seemed he met the count or countess too. But since moving to the annex, more servants patrolled nearby, making it impossible to tail him.
Ian gave up the thought, haphazardly cleared the parchment, and lightly stretched. The room’s size was a blessing—at least he could train indoors.
‘Stamina is mana.’
Build stamina with mana, then store more mana with that stamina. That’s why great archmages, called sages, remained vigorous even as white-haired elders.
“Ian.”
Knock knock.
And that night.
After dinner, the butler summoned Ian.
“The count calls for you in his study.”
The time had finally come.
* * *
Derga’s study was on the mansion’s top floor, occupying the entire level—no one wandered those corridors. Ian followed the butler calmly, though puzzled.
“Count. Young Master Ian is here.”
After knocking on the heavy door a few times, permission came from within.
“Come in.”
Creak.
Unlike Ian’s old room with its single glowstone, the study blazed like daylight. Mana lanterns lined densely, glowing everywhere.
Yet the heavy atmosphere stemmed from Count Derga himself.
“You called for me?”
Ian asked politely, but Derga didn’t reply. Compared to peasants plowing day and night, his work environment was leisurely, but counts had their own busyness.
“…You know there’s a luncheon tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course.”
Derga muttered without lifting his eyes from his papers.
“This time, other aides from the capital will join.”
The first meal must have left an impression. A rural border bastard discussing Purn’s philosophy—intriguing, no doubt.
“Be sharper than last time.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Was that all he called for?
Derga hadn’t said much even when Ian changed rooms. Ian waited patiently for more. The pen scratched across parchment, and the count finally spoke again, lips parting heavily.
“The Cheonryeo Tribe demands your handwriting.”
Ian knew they’d sent word offering Derga’s second son as a peace condition.
They’d enclosed a potion that reacted only to blood kin, so no quibbling over lineage.
Though they didn’t know he was a lowborn bastard, of course.
“My handwriting?”
They wanted their own security measure.
What if Derga pitied his son and swapped him at the last minute? The family-bond-obsessed Cheonryeo would suspect as much.
“Barbarians, making needless trouble. Tsk tsk. We’ll use the blood potion at the pact ceremony anyway.”
Unlike the Variel Empire, the Cheonryeo had no mages. They were beast-like, defying nature from birth.
“Well. No reason for me to refuse.”
They’d verify the handwriting later, confirming Ian was Derga’s bastard—the very target they’d marked.
“Write letters periodically and send them. I’ll tell your tutor; you just transcribe. Surely even you aren’t too dim for that.”
“I’ll do it flawlessly.”
Creak.
At that moment, a small side door to the study opened. An aide rushed in, pale-faced, to see Derga.
“Count. No matter how I calculate, it doesn’t balance.”
He clutched a precarious stack of papers. One slip and it’d topple; Derga waved him off.
“Enough. I’ll handle it.”
To Ian, it was a glance to wait.
Papers lay open on the desk from his work, but Derga showed no wariness. Ian was near-illiterate—could barely string syllables together, even if he read.
“Wait here.”
Derga entered the aide’s office and ordered. Ian smiled politely in assent, but his expression flipped instantly.
‘Let’s see what’s keeping him so busy.’
It was early spring now. Diligent heads patrolled estates even in frozen ground, but Derga wasn’t the type. Hadn’t he snuck to back alleys even after meeting Molin?
Rustle.
Ian quickly scanned the papers. He shuffled them smoothly, keeping order intact.
‘Hm?’
Ian frowned, as if he’d expected it.
As suspected, Derga maintained far more private soldiers than he could handle.
For Bratz borderlands, 300 tops would run smoothly. But grain expenditures suggested 2,000 to 3,000.
‘Lucky he hasn’t collapsed yet.’
Taxes on villagers were double the capital’s recommended rate. Historically, the Cheonryeo wiping out Bratz seemed almost natural.
Just leaving it alone would cause implosion. Ian eyed the small office in disbelief.
What filled that fool’s head to mismanage a multi-generational domain like this?
‘Some other income source?’
No idea how long he’d run it this way, but taxes alone seemed tight.
‘Nothing special in Bratz.’
As expected, Bratz bordered Cheonryeo lands outside the border. Soil wasn’t fertile, no sea access. No standout resources.
‘If there were, predecessors wouldn’t have let the emperor split it with other nobles.’
The late emperor granted lands to nobles who fought the Cheonryeo. He wouldn’t if key resources existed.
Click.
Then, the door opened without warning.
Ian, leaning on the count’s desk, instinctively held his breath and poured out mana.
Zing. Zzzing.
“Hm?”
Every lantern in the room extinguished at once.
The aide’s office too.
With the moon cloud-hidden, darkness swallowed everything instantly.
“Count? Are you alright?”
“The mana lanterns were just replaced.”
“Wait. I’ll light a candle, ahh!”
Thud!
The aide crashed into something.
Ian slipped to the room’s center, masking his presence before the moon could emerge. Derga groped for his desk.
“Ian. Answer me.”
“Yes, Father.”
Ian’s bright voice echoed from the darkness. Sound placed him near the sofa.
“Anyone outside?!”
The aide, fumbling for a candle, had tripped again; darkness lingered. Derga bellowed in irritation.
Zing. Zzzing.
The lanterns reignited. Ian, composure regained, withdrew his mana.
Derga’s eyes met Ian’s steady gaze. Absinthe-colored irises gleamed.
“Are you alright?”
“……”
The count glanced at his hand on the desk. Papers were slightly askew, but he could blame his own fumbling in the dark. He opened a drawer without suspicion.
“Never mind. Come take this.”
“What is it?”
A small, hand-embroidered pouch. Derga tossed it lightly, as if no big deal; it landed precisely at Ian’s feet.
“From your mother.”
Ian slowly picked up the pouch from the floor.
“Always look at it and remember your place. Mind your actions.”
When Haena’s updates on Ian via coachman abruptly stopped, she’d attempted suicide. If she couldn’t meet him alive, she’d do so dead.
Derga had compromised, promising letters and gifts. Her death would free Ian’s leash.
“……”
The coachman, well-paid for errands, had reported it faithfully—no lies there.
“Out.”
Derga waved him off.
Ian clutched the worn pouch and quietly left the study. Leaning in the dim hall, he untied the string; contents spilled.
Clink!
Five gold coins. Dried flowers. A tiny note.
One coin matched a peasant’s monthly wage. Ian read the note with a calm face. Neat handwriting—clearly dictated to someone.
But was it purely her heart from start to finish?
‘No. Derga’s intentions might be hidden. Swapped the letter…’
Ian toyed with a gold coin, then read on.