The Bratz Count's Manor
"Did the meal suit your taste?"
Count Derga set down his utensils as he asked. The luncheon, which had gone on for nearly two hours, was finally drawing to a close. The sun that had hung at its peak was already leaning toward the mountains.
"It was splendid. Truly. It would not pale even beside what one might be served in the Imperial Palace."
Ian, who had been neatly folding his napkin, paused.
To compare anything with the Imperial Palace—the highest, most sacred seat of power—would have been unthinkable in his own time. Yet none of the Bratz family members at the table seemed surprised in the slightest.
So that's… normal here?
If that were the case, then the power of the Imperial Palace must have weakened considerably. A hundred years earlier indeed—seven emperors had passed since his own short reign.
"I'll have dessert brought in."
"Thank you, Countess."
While Ian was lost in thought, the meal concluded completely. Countess Mary smiled with elegant warmth as she addressed her sons.
"Chel, Ian. The adults have things to discuss—why don't you both go next door and have some tea and sweets?"
They were certainly going to discuss his legitimization—without him present, of course.
Though it was all but a foregone conclusion, the frontier region had always been largely free of the Imperial Palace's direct influence. So the capital would no doubt scrutinize and probe, pretending to be cautious and formal.
"Yes, Mother."
Ian's crisp, polite reply made the countess's lips twitch ever so slightly. To pat the shoulder of a bastard child must have been unbearable work for her.
She managed a hollow display of affection, lightly tapping his cheek. The more she did so, the narrower Chel's eyes grew.
"This way, Lord Molin."
"Oh my. Splendid indeed."
Leaving the rear garden behind, they entered the main building.
The reception hall at the heart of the mansion was so lavish it bordered on gaudy—everywhere glittered with gold that caught and scattered the sunlight.
Creak.
When the adults stepped into the inner parlor, only Chel and Ian remained. They sat facing one another—Chel glowering, Ian merely observing.
He really does look just like Count Derga. Anyone passing by could tell they're father and son.
The boy had the same curly red hair, the same freckled nose, and even the same soft, rounded belly—a testament to gluttony and bloodline alike.
Ian's reflection in the glass, on the other hand, showed blonde hair and absinthe-colored eyes—delicate, refined features that likely came from the unknown mother. Pretty, almost angelic. Nothing like Chel at all.
"Master Chel, Master Ian, your tea and cookies are ready."
A servant approached respectfully and set the tray down. But Chel's eyes narrowed; without warning, he struck the servant's head with his palm.
Smack!
"Ah!"
Hot tea sloshed over the servant's hand. Ian instinctively looked for a handkerchief—but of course, a bastard son wouldn't have one.
"Say that again."
"…Pardon?"
The servant rubbed the reddening back of her hand with her apron—fortunately, the burn wasn't severe.
"How dare you call me by name?"
"I—I'm sorry, young lord."
"So-baekjak," he meant—the Young Count, title reserved for the heir apparent.
Ian, well-versed in noble etiquette, understood—but Chel's hostility still seemed excessive.
"You spilled tea. You'll pay for it."
"…I'll bring another pot."
"Another pot? Do you think tea grows on trees? I'll dock it from your pay. Take what you spilled and drink it yourself—lick it up if you must. You'll never taste its like again."
"I beg your pardon, young lord. Please forgive my mistake."
"Pathetic."
Such cruelty was rare even among nobles. How could one so young already be this vicious? Clearly, his parents had failed him.
"Enough. Go cool your hand."
Ian's quiet instruction made Chel's face twist. The servant, sensing danger, quickly grabbed the tray and fled.
A wise choice—Chel looked ready to leap across the table.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Whatever do you mean, brother?"
"Your brother was speaking. And you dare interrupt me to give orders?"
Ian's expression was calm, even a little amused.
"If you treat servants like that, you'll soon have no one left. Then you'll have to do the work yourself, brother. Best not to cause unnecessary trouble—keep to your station."
The composed, rational retort made Chel's eyes bulge.
"A bastard whelp like you dares talk about station? You think you're a real noble now, just because Lord Molin praised you?"
His voice was low; even he had the sense not to shout with guests in the next room. Still, Ian found it mildly impressive that the boy had any self-restraint at all.
He took a calm sip of tea, smiling faintly.
"And if I'm not a noble?"
"…What?"
"Then you'll be the one sent to the Cheonryeo tribe."
Even saying it made Ian chuckle inwardly.
He had been emperor—if only for three years—the very apex of Bariel. Chel needed to understand that being chosen as a hostage was, in a sense, an honor.
Judging by Chel's reddening face, though, he clearly thought Ian was mocking him.
"You—You're insane!"
Chel raised a hand to strike him—but it stopped midair. Ian had caught his wrist effortlessly.
"Chel, was it?"
Ian was thinner and smaller than most boys his age. Ordinarily, Chel could have overpowered him easily—
but he didn't. The calm authority in Ian's tone made the hairs on his neck stand on end.
"If you walk around with a bruise on your face, what do you think Lord Molin will say? Hmm?
What will Father and the Countess think—while they're busy trying to sell me off as a token of peace? As their son, shouldn't you at least cooperate instead of ruining the bargain?"
Ian patted Chel's cheek lightly—almost kindly.
A reminder to get your head straight.
"What will you do if I disappear, I wonder?"
Chel's frightened eyes flickered—then turned sly.
"Heh. You?"
The oily grin that spread across his face didn't belong to a child at all. It was the smile of a guttersnipe from the back alleys. Suddenly, Ian understood why people called the Bratz family vulgar among nobles.
"Try it, bastard. Then your mother's head will roll through the marketplace like a ball! Hahaha!"
Ah. Ian let out a quiet, almost impressed breath.
As emperor, he'd never been threatened in such a crude, primal way. The insults of the court had always been sharp and refined—never so raw.
Still, Chel's words revealed something valuable.
So his mother's the leash, huh.
That explained why the boy—this body—had no choice but to obey.
A child born of the slums had no way to escape Derga's grip.
There must be a reason I ended up in this body of all people.
While Ian considered this, Chel misread his silence as fear.
"Crawl, you little rat. That's the only way you and your whore mother might live another day. Not that anyone would notice—your filthy blood belongs in the gutter anyway."
That was when Ian moved.
He seized Chel's hair and forced him to meet his gaze. The absinthe hue of Ian's eyes burned into molten gold as mana surged through him.
It was instinct—like blood boiling in reverse.
"Foolish child."
Ian's voice rang with restrained power.
Though his mana was but a shadow of what it once was, it was more than enough to overwhelm Chel.
After all, Ian had once been the brightest star in the history of magic.
"No matter how young you are, your words have weight. A tongue three inches long is more than enough to decide your life—so be careful it doesn't get cut."
A century earlier—
in this era—the very idea of a mage was nearly forgotten.
Even nobles of the capital might never meet one in their lifetime.
And here, in this distant frontier… there wasn't a trace.
"Ah…"
Thus, even when confronted with an inexplicable phenomenon, Chel could not grasp what it meant. His mind went completely blank—he was on the verge of fainting.
Drip.
He collapsed onto the sofa with a thud… and wet himself.
Ian clicked his tongue softly and took a step back. Standing with the sunlight at his back, his figure was radiant—almost divine. In that moment, he looked less like a boy and more like an angel incarnate.
Chel, however, continued to disgrace himself without the faintest sign of stopping.
"…Unbelievable."
Ian was just about to call for a servant when—
Creak.
The door to the reception room swung open.
"Young masters, I trust the refreshments were—"
Molin entered with his usual genial smile, only to falter mid-sentence.
For he was now facing Ian directly, bathed in sunlight.
For the briefest instant, the golden hue of Ian's eyes shimmered into absinthe green.
'Just now…?'
Was it merely a trick of the light?
No—something about it didn't feel right.
Molin replayed that fleeting moment in his mind, studying Ian's eyes more closely. But before he could think further, Countess Mary's shrill exclamation shattered his focus.
"Chel! What on earth—!"
Countess Mary had spotted her son standing there, frozen like a statue. Chel stammered, glancing at Ian, whose expression remained perfectly calm.
'Say something foolish, and it won't end well for you.'
A silent warning, but an unmistakable one—and it seemed Chel understood.
His lips trembled as he blurted out a pitiful excuse.
"…I-I spilled my tea, Mother."
"Oh dear… Oh heavens above!"
At last noticing the situation, Molin cleared his throat awkwardly and turned his back, while Count Derga closed his eyes in mortification.
Utter humiliation. Complete disgrace!
Seventeen years old—and his son had soiled himself in the reception hall! If word of this spread, the family name would be dragged through the mud.
"Is no one out there? Someone—anyone, come at once!"
"What is it, my lady? Oh dear me!"
"Bring clothes, towels—something to clean this up!"
As the countess shouted and chaos filled the room, Molin quietly turned toward Count Derga.
"Count, if you'll pardon me… I'm afraid I have urgent matters to attend to. Standing idle here would be rather improper."
"Ah—ah, yes, of course! It was truly an honor having you today."
"And the same to you. If it's no trouble, might I ask young Lord Ian to see me out?"
Derga nodded before realizing what he'd agreed to—his thoughts scattered by the sound of Chel beginning to sob.
"Thank you kindly, Count. Lord Ian, this mansion of yours is quite vast. Might this old man trouble you for a guide?"
"Of course, Sir Molin. I'd be delighted to escort you."
Ian had no idea of the mansion's layout, but that hardly mattered—anything was preferable to staying here amid the chaos. He could always grab a passing servant to lead the way if needed.
"Shall we?"
He smiled brightly and gestured toward the corridor.
Once again, Molin found himself meeting those absinthe-colored eyes.
He studied the boy in silence, eyes reflecting the long years of his life—
and in that gaze, there was both curiosity and unease.