The Hero Family's Scoundrel (1)
Booze, gambling, and women.
Those three vices—collectively known as the scoundrel's holy trinity—were all it took to complete a proper wastrel.
"Mom, when I grow up I'm gonna be a scoundrel!"
If any child of yours ever spat out garbage like that, the cure was simple: introduce him to those three things and let nature take its course.
But Shiron wasn't trying to become a real scoundrel. He only needed to tank his Reputation by driving down the NPCs' affection for him.
For roughly a month now, Shiron had been taking his meals alone in one of the main mansion's dining rooms.
"Hmm..."
He stared at the meat in front of him for a long moment, then reached for the knife and fork. He barely applied any pressure at all, yet the meat parted as if it had been waiting for the blade. When he speared a piece cut to the perfect bite size, juice welled up and burst free in a glossy rush.
"..."
The herbs that had been used to kill any gamey notes made their presence known, yet they never managed to bury the meat's own distinctive savor. A wild, full-bodied fragrance filled his nose, woven through with the bright bite of spice—a dish so good it almost forced a smile onto his face. Shiron clenched his jaw and smothered the smile before it could fully form.
"Young Master, just as you requested last time, I tried changing the spices..."
Perhaps it was the sneer already twisting Shiron's expression. The young man stood frozen with both hands clasped tightly in front of him.
The person standing before Shiron was none other than [Master Chef Hurst]—the man who, ten years from now, would oversee every kitchen in the estate. For the moment he was still a soft-faced youth with the look of someone barely past apprenticeship, yet even without the head chef's title his cooking already rivaled anything that man produced.
"The aroma's fine. Perfectly fine, but..."
Unfortunately for him, Shiron had not arranged this audience to hand out praise.
"The taste is just..."
"...Just?"
"Dogshit."
Of course nothing kind came out of Shiron's mouth; he had come here with the express purpose of wrecking the man's affection score.
"I distinctly told you to cook it a little past medium, didn't I?"
Shiron turned the cut face of the meat toward him and pressed a finger into the flesh.
"Look at this blood. The thing's so underdone it could get up and walk off the plate."
The rosy color was enough to make anyone's mouth water, and what trickled out was clear juice rather than anything that could honestly be called blood—but Shiron insisted, bullishly, that the meat was raw.
"I-I'm sorry. It's because my training is still lacking."
Hurst never even checked. He simply dropped his head as if he meant to bury it in the floor.
Shiron pretended not to notice and poured the wine from his glass straight over the meat. The once-appetizing cut turned a murky purple; there was no longer any way to tell how well it had been cooked. He swirled the last of the wine in his mouth and swallowed.
"Cook it again and bring it back. Right now."
"Y-Yes, sir...!"
Hurst bolted from the dining room as if his heels were on fire. The mansion maids, unable to hide their discomfort, began clearing the table. Shiron ignored them, took out a small notebook and pen from inside his coat, and made a mark.
[Bitch about perfectly good food ✓]
The private tutoring room on the second floor of the main house.
Shiron had moved on to the next item on his scoundrel agenda. Flowers were in full bloom all over the estate, and a warm breeze drifted through the wide-open windows to tickle his still-boyish cheeks.
"S-So the important part here is Imperial Year 322. That was when the local lords of the Bemir region banded together and founded a city-state..."
On a day perfect for an outing, Shiron was stuck listening to a lesson that could not honestly be called interesting. In truth, even calling it "listening" was generous. He had zero interest in the woman lecturing in front of him and was letting every word sail in one ear and out the other.
"Th-Therefore the Grand Duchy of Litricia, which had held military power in the south, began expanding its armaments, and as a result small-scale clashes have continued to this day, leaving the area a contested zone..."
Wasting precious time on a class he didn't even want to attend would normally have been ridiculous—but if the person in front of him was an NPC whose affection could be farmed, the calculation changed completely.
[Part-time Lecturer Echidna]
An NPC one often ran into around the Academy district, Echidna was currently living ten years before the original story's start—doing slave labor under the thin disguise of a research student. Because she was still so young, Shiron had lacked an easy way to approach her, yet summoning her had turned out to be surprisingly simple. He had only needed to send a letter to her supervising professor that pointedly said, "I would like to hire a student from your lab as a private tutor," and the other side had practically thrown open its arms in welcome.
And so, for a little over a month now, Shiron had been steadily driving her affection into the dirt.
He watched Echidna as she wrote something on the blackboard. If he had to describe her, she was the textbook picture of a female social reject. Unmanaged purple hair, dark circles drooping under her eyes, and clothes that, even with the most charitable reading, could only be called shabby. The plain white blouse without a single frill was fraying at the cuffs; the skirt she had carefully chosen for the day was still creased from never having been properly ironed. One glance was enough to see she was scraping by. Her bare, unadorned face, combined with the constant tension in her posture, instantly summoned the phrase gloomy nerd girl.
She kept stealing glances at Shiron while she wrote, as if his total lack of interest was getting under her skin.
"Um..."
After a long stretch of that, the picture-perfect gloomy nerd finally seemed to steel herself and turned toward him.
"Y-Young Master. P-Perhaps... is my lesson boring? If it's boring, maybe we should just, j-just stop for today..."
Her eyes darted every which way, desperate for an escape. Shiron seized the opening with a cold little smile.
"You actually think your lessons are interesting?"
"Ah—no."
"Then keep going."
"Y-Yes..."
Echidna's head drooped as she returned to the board. The gloom around her thickened so visibly that you could almost watch her affection score plummet in real time.
"Haaah..."
The yawn from behind her made her eyes pinch shut.
This damn brat... why is he taking it out on me...!
She exhaled one deep sigh after another, replaying how she had ended up here.
The terms just looked too good...
She regretted every choice that had led to this. Even for a noble household's heir, the pay had been suspiciously high from the start; she should have known better. Instead she had snapped it up without a second thought, and now she wanted to murder her past self. Because the job had come through her supervising professor, quitting wasn't an option either.
She risked a quick look over her shoulder. The boy was sprawled back in his chair, staring out the window. Not a single writing implement sat in front of him—just one lonely textbook left out for show. The sheer childishness of it made her grind her teeth.
Crunch—
This little shit... he's not even pretending to study! If you're going to act like this, at least have the guts to fire me!
"Hey."
Of course Shiron heard every word. Echidna jerked around in pure panic.
"Y-Yes?!"
"Your hand stopped. You're not getting paid pocket change—planning to half-ass it?"
"N-No, sir!"
She could feel her stomach lining dissolving by the hour.
Only when the lesson finally ended did Echidna taste anything like freedom. That feeling lasted about three seconds—until the boy walked over with a bright smile while she was still stretching.
"Well, good work on today's lesson. See you again tomorrow."
"..."
"If you don't show up, you're dead."
"..."
"Answer me."
"Y-Yes..."
Having finished the affection farming for the day, Shiron watched Echidna retreat into the distance, then prepared to move on to the next location.
A back alley in the commercial district.
[Jackson of the Sticky Fingers] could not make sense of what he was looking at.
What the hell is with this kid...
A boy who screamed rich young master was wandering the rear alleys without a single escort. His clothes were flawlessly tailored, glittering accessories hung from him in several places, and a coin purse jangled openly at his hip.
Even if the capital's public safety is good, walking around this exposed is just asking for it.
A thin, greedy smile tugged at Jackson's mouth—then collapsed almost at once.
But... how did a brat like that make it this far in one piece?
The thought struck him out of nowhere. From the regularly patrolled main thoroughfares to this deserted stretch was a long walk. Plenty of rough customers besides himself worked these streets; reaching this spot without running into any of them should have been impossible.
Is this some kind of cop trap?
Jackson immediately shelved the idea of an easy score. Pickpocketing was a trade that required careful target selection. He had watched too many seniors lose both arms after going after the coin purse of someone who could project Aura. Eyes squeezed shut, he quietly started to slip past the boy.
But—
"Hey. Stop."
"...Huh?"
"Yeah, you. Brown seaweed-hair. Stay right there."
The kid he had just brushed past called him back. Jackson turned his stiff neck and pointed at himself with one finger.
"You're the pickpocket Jackson, right? Why aren't you doing anything?"
For a second Jackson could not parse the words. Was this brat seriously bitching about not getting his pocket picked?
A hollow laugh burst out of him.
"Ha! Am I crazy? You think I'm gonna rob a suspicious little freak like you?!"
"...Whatever. I'm short on time, so take your pain money first."
The boy—Shiron—came closer with the coin purse still swinging and tossed it at Jackson. This was the fifth purse he had handed out today.
Jackson caught it on pure reflex.
Smack—!
Shiron closed the distance like a tiger and cracked him across the cheek with an open palm.