Chapter 20
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 20
Chapter Title: Marriage Alliance (2)
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"How do I look? Silver hair definitely suits me better than blonde, right? It gives off this mysterious vibe, don't you think?"
'Damn brat.'
Izrelin, who had been cured of the poison with Moonlight Grass, jumped right up as if she'd never been on the verge of death.
Thanks to her scampering all over the mansion, the family physician trailing after her was the one who looked ready to collapse.
And no matter where she went or what she did, her last stop was always Blanc's room.
"Listen up, brat. If you want to come into my room, you have to follow the rules."
"No way."
"First, you knock before entering."
"No way."
"If I don't say come in, you turn right around."
"No way."
"And when I'm sitting cross-legged, don't even talk to me. Got it?"
"Shove it~!"
Izrelin propped her chin on the desk, grinning mischievously as she stared at Blanc.
Blanc seethed at the sight, but he couldn't rough her up.
Just a week ago, she'd been hovering between life and death, and since then, Bartolomeo had grown unusually lenient toward her.
The longtime servants said even Blanc's mother, Nedrian, hadn't doted on her that much.
With the family head's lavish love and attention, mistreating her would surely bring trouble.
"......Anyway, could you leave now?"
Paradoxically, Blanc's recovery was slower than Izrelin's, who had actually been poisoned.
His hands, overworked from piercing the serpent's skull, hadn't healed yet, so training with Edwin—who could move freely—had been paused.
Instead, Blanc had been meditating to deepen his insight into White Lightning, but even that was tough.
"How can you treat your lifesaver like this? I might not even be able to get married because of you!"
It was all because of Izrelin yammering nonstop right in front of him.
Ever since waking, she clung to the same refrain:
-I drank the poison in your place, so you survived because of me. That means you owe me your life.
It was absurd.
The Yellow-Striped Mushroom poison only caused intense pain in men, so Blanc drinking it would've been far better.
But Izrelin was a ten-year-old girl who'd nearly died a week ago—and above all, Bartolomeo's favorite—so no one bothered refuting her nonsense.
And so, all the fallout landed squarely on Blanc.
"For the record, the Yellow-Striped Mushroom..."
"Who cares about that? It's not about the facts! What matters is that I did it for you. Why can't men ever grasp the true intent behind words?"
'Should I hit her?'
Of course, Blanc carried guilt for failing to protect her, so he was willing to indulge her childish whining.
But there was one thing he wouldn't let slide.
"Why wouldn't you be able to get married?"
"Because of you! I nearly died from poison, my body's weakened, and my hair turned white—who'd want me now?!"
If her claims held even a shred of truth, they'd be convincing enough.
Bearing heirs for the next generation was one of a noblewoman's greatest duties, after all.
If the poison had truly ruined her body, as she claimed, finding a suitable match would be impossible.
Even if one turned up, it'd be some low-rank noble or a concubine's position at best.
The problem was, Izrelin was perfectly healthy.
Blanc sighed at her clever twisting of truths to suit her narrative.
"Earlier you said silver hair. Now it's white?"
"That's not the point! Why can't men grasp the true intent?"
"Fine, whatever. What's this 'true intent' of yours?"
Izrelin shrieked at Blanc's question.
"What else? You ruined my marriage prospects, so you have to take responsibility!"
"Bullshit."
At Blanc's firm tone, Izrelin wailed dramatically, but Blanc was used to it by now.
He grabbed the precious noble girl by the scruff and unceremoniously tossed her into the hallway, then shut his ears and resumed his White Lightning training.
"Waaah... Blanc, you jerk! It's your fault I can't get married..."
Izrelin enjoyed Bartolomeo's favor, but Blanc had his interest too.
He was probably the only one in the Tolome mansion who could get away with throwing her out.
She pounded on the door, sobbing pitifully outside, but Blanc—deep in focus—had already slipped into a void state.
Edwin was right. Her interruptions were sharpening his concentration.
"So, you want to go to the Steel Bank?"
"Yes, Uncle Weard. I've heard every noble on the continent has at least one account there."
"That's true, but..."
Weard Tolome stroked his chin, looking troubled.
His near-loss of Izrelin had left him reflective.
Work had always given his life meaning—perhaps a way to bury his grief over his late wife.
But after the incident, he devoted far more time to his daughter.
So when he stopped by the mansion to see her, Blanc seized the chance to ask for advice.
"To open your first account, you'll need to head to the head office. You know where that is, right?"
"Yes. In the Neyanpalgarr Mountains, one of the dwarves' holy sites."
As the vault of the world's wealth, the Steel Bank's headquarters demanded utmost security.
The Neyanpalgarr Mountains fit perfectly.
Outwardly barren rock piles with not a blade of grass, but inside? A different world entirely.
If you could get inside.
Dwarves had spent over five centuries mining ores, turning the range into a rag.
Surface level: ordinary mountains. But delve in, and you'd find dwarven mines twisting like an ant colony—a massive labyrinth.
Rumor had it, without a dwarven guide, you'd wander till you died.
A treacherous exterior and inner maze—ideal for safeguarding treasures.
"Even then, they won't open an account willy-nilly. You'll need about 500 gold upfront as a deposit."
'500 gold!'
That exceeded a minor noble's annual tax revenue. Impoverished houses scraped by on 100 gold.
500 gold just to start trading? Beyond most nobles' dreams.
"Plus a guarantor. Every ten years, the Steel Bank publishes a list of 100 trusted families or organizations. Only they can vouch. No matter how prosperous a noble or merchant, if you're off the list, no dice."
The 100 groups trusted by the pinnacle of wealth.
The Steel Bank scours all races, nations, and entities to select them.
Not just noble houses—religious orders like the Goddess Church, elite mercenaries dubbed "Sons of Asinawor," merchant guilds like Tenascio, or any with power, riches, or influence.
Thus, every house and group obsessed over the decennial list.
It was phrased as "trusted 100," but really a global top-100 ranking.
"Our Tolome family didn't make the cut in the last list from eight years ago... I could swing the 500 gold, but for a guarantor, you'd need Grandfather."
Weard had checked per Bartolomeo's orders: Tolome missed top 100 but hit around 150.
Felix Kingdom's premier merit nobles, yet landless.
Rootless trees earned low marks from the Steel Bank.
This bias wasn't unique— all merit nobles harbored deep insecurity over their lack of fiefs.
Perhaps Bartolomeo craved Norinton's reclamation even more than Blanc.
He planned to front the Cardmus name for Tolome land.
"No need, Uncle Weard. Your words alone are a huge help. This is Cardmus business; I'll handle it myself. Thank you for the advice."
At "handle myself," Weard's eyes flicked to Blanc's bandaged hands.
Those hands, bloodied to the bone, had fought for the Moonlight Grass that saved his daughter.
"Sorry I can't help more. I'll do my best to look into it."
As head of the Tolome trading company—the family's lifeblood—Weard's full effort could pull strings for an account.
But Blanc wasn't sure about burning that bridge yet.
'Might need Weard's help more later.'
Not Bartolomeo-level, but Weard was a top Felix figure in money and influence.
Plus, Blanc had saved his niece and only daughter—he could cash in a big favor someday.
'No rush anyway. Opportunity will come.'
Fourteen and uninitiated. Time to build strength within Tolome walls.
"By the way, there's a rumor going around..."
"What rumor?"
Aside from Billy, Blanc had no info networks yet.
"About your marriage."
"My marriage?"
He hadn't even had his coming-of-age ceremony.
Felix law forbade marriage before adulthood.
But betrothals? Fourteen was late for nobles.
Noble marriages were alliances between houses, not personal unions.
Family heads' agreements mattered most—Bartolomeo held Blanc's reins.
"Do you know which house is in talks?"
For Blanc, marriage was a rare, precious card.
This one—for a proper wife, not concubine—was his one shot.
"Closest is the Neuendorf Count family. You know them. Famous house."
"Lord Berger's? The Neuendorf Counts?"
"That's right."
Only one Neuendorf woman matched Blanc's age.
Weard watched Blanc clench his fists and bow his head, assuming restrained joy.
He was wrong.
'Of all the...'
Blanc felt true dismay.
He knew her well.
Ciela Neuendorf.
The woman said to wear black mourning her whole life. In his past life, she'd been the "Red Widow Spider."
Devourer of eight husbands.
A cursed woman.