Illiterate
"Ian, you must focus."
Ian turned his head toward the tutor's voice.
The guest room of the western annex.
Unlike before, fresh air flowed freely through the open windows. Seeing the student's indifferent attitude, the tutor sighed and scribbled something with his pen.
"Now, let's try again. Let's say one hundred tenants offered five sacks of wheat as tax. Half of that was sent to the capital, and then half of the remainder was distributed among the servants of the mansion. How many sacks are left in the end?"
Ian yawned lightly and averted his eyes.
The daily afternoon study hours were, in all honesty, unbearably dull.
"I don't know."
He figured it might look suspicious to suddenly change, so at first, he pretended to count on his fingers.
But that trick only worked a few times—doing it constantly was just too bothersome. Ian decided it was better to simply feign ignorance.
"At least try to calculate it."
"Hmm… a hundred sacks, maybe?"
In fact, pretending to be a dull-witted illegitimate child sometimes had unexpected benefits. The tutor and the butler often exchanged written notes concerning Ian's education.
Most of it was trivial, but occasionally, bits of information about the count's affairs would slip through.
"…We'll stop arithmetic here. Next is literature. Last time we read The Fate of Destiny, correct?"
The tutor was not a man of passion. Whether Ian understood or not, he dutifully covered the material assigned to him and collected his pay.
For Ian, that was a relief. When he claimed not to know something, the tutor would simply give up, sparing him from having to act eager.
Knock knock.
"Come in."
"Pardon me."
The butler entered, carrying refreshments.
For the butler himself to deliver them, rather than a servant, clearly meant he intended to observe the boy's attitude toward study.
"How far along are you?"
"We're finishing up with literature."
"I see. Seems today's lesson ended rather quickly."
"Ian is quite an attentive student."
Oh, sure. What nonsense.
Ian crunched his snack while looking down at a book that was half pictures.
The butler turned his palm toward the tutor and scribbled something quickly—too far for Ian to read.
"Well then, carry on."
"Yes, sir."
Clack.
The tutor resumed reading the few remaining words, writing them on parchment, and having Ian copy them.
Thus ended another tedious afternoon of lessons.
When the clock on the wall chimed, the tutor gathered his books and stood.
"I'll see you off, sir."
"No need. I'm busy today. Please continue practicing your writing."
Usually, Ian would accompany him to the door to practice walking, greetings, or manners.
But when the tutor declined like this, it meant he had a meeting with someone in the household.
"Yes, sir. See you next time."
Ian simply nodded without protest.
The tutor donned his coat, smiled, and left the room.
'Going to see the butler, perhaps?'
Sometimes it was the count or the countess, too.
But since being moved to the annex, there were always attendants nearby, making it impossible to follow unnoticed.
Giving up, Ian tidied the parchments and stretched lightly.
One good thing about the larger room was that he could still train his body indoors.
"Physical strength is magic."
You build stamina through magic, and then use that stamina to channel more magic in turn. That's why sages known as Archmages remained vigorous even as gray-haired elders.
"Ian."
Knock knock.
Later that night—
After dinner, the butler came to summon him.
"The count requests your presence in his office."
Finally, the time had come.
Count Derga's office was on the top floor of the mansion.
Ian had never walked down that corridor before—it occupied the entire floor. Still, he followed the butler calmly, though curiosity stirred inside him.
"My lord, Young Master Ian has arrived."
After a few knocks on the heavy door handle, permission came from within.
"Enter."
Creak.
Unlike Ian's old room, which had only one dim glowstone, the office shone brightly as midday. Magic lanterns filled every corner.
Even so, the atmosphere felt oppressive—undoubtedly because of Count Derga's very presence.
"You called for me?"
Ian spoke politely, but Derga gave no answer.
Compared to peasants toiling in the fields day and night, the count's work environment was leisurely indeed—but he had his own burdens.
"…You're aware there will be a luncheon the day after tomorrow?"
"Yes, of course."
Derga murmured without lifting his gaze from the papers.
"This time, other attendants from the Central Office will accompany them."
So the first meeting must have left quite an impression.
A rural borderland boy—an illegitimate one at that—discussing the philosophies of Pölne must have piqued their interest.
"You'll need to be even more alert than before."
"I will keep that in mind."
Was that really why he'd been called here?
Even when Ian's room was changed, Derga hadn't said a word. Ian waited patiently for him to continue.
The pen scratched across parchment for a while before the count finally spoke again.
"The Cheonryeo Tribe requested a handwritten letter from you."
Ian knew about this—the tribe had been informed that Derga would send his second son as part of their peace terms.
A potion that reacted only to members of the same bloodline had been included, so there could be no dispute about kinship.
Of course, they didn't know Ian was a commoner's bastard. Still—
"My handwriting, sir?"
It seemed they wanted extra security.
Perhaps they feared Derga might swap in another child at the last moment out of pity.
The Cheonryeo valued familial bonds, so their suspicion was understandable.
"Barbarians, always making things needlessly troublesome. Tch. They'll even use that same blood-verification potion during the ceremony."
Unlike the Empire of Bariel, the Cheonryeo had no mages.
They were beasts in human form, their very blood defying the laws of nature.
"Well, I've no reason to refuse."
They wanted a sample of Ian's handwriting to compare later—proof that he was indeed Derga's illegitimate son, the chosen offering.
"You'll write and send letters regularly. I'll instruct your tutor; you only need to take dictation. Surely you're not so witless you can't manage that."
"I will make no mistakes."
Creak.
Just then, a small side door in the office opened.
The secretary entered, bowing deeply with a strained face.
"My lord, no matter how I check it, the calculations don't add up."
He was clutching a dangerously tall stack of papers, threatening to collapse at any moment. The count waved him off impatiently.
"Enough. I'll handle it myself."
The look in his eyes told Ian to wait a moment.
Documents lay open across the desk, but the Count didn't seem the least bit cautious. Ian was nearly illiterate—at best, he could sound out syllables—so there was little reason for Derga to guard his papers.
"Wait here."
Derga gave the order as he stepped into the secretary's office. The polite smile Ian had worn instantly vanished.
'Let's see what's keeping you so busy.'
It was early spring. Diligent lords oversaw their lands even when the soil was frozen, but Derga had never struck Ian as that sort of man. Hadn't he been out enjoying himself in the back alleys the very day he met Molin?
Rustle.
Ian swiftly skimmed the documents. His hands moved deftly, careful not to disturb their order.
'Hmm?'
His brow furrowed, unsurprised by what he found.
As he suspected, Derga maintained far more private soldiers than his domain could sustain.
For a border territory the size of Bratz, three hundred men would be the upper limit for efficient upkeep. But based on the figures for provisions, the actual count could be anywhere from two to three thousand.
'It's a miracle he hasn't gone bankrupt.'
On top of that, the taxes imposed on the commoners were more than double the recommended rate set by the capital.
Perhaps it was only natural that, in history, the Cheonryeo Tribe had wiped out the Bratz family.
The estate was already so fragile that it would have collapsed on its own. Ian stared blankly at the small office.
What could possibly be going through that man's head, to run the domain into the ground like this? This wasn't some upstart family—it had endured for generations.
'Could there be another source of income?'
However long he'd been mismanaging it, taxes alone could never cover these expenses.
'There's nothing of value in Bratz.'
The Bratz territory bordered the lands of the Cheonryeo beyond the frontier. The soil wasn't fertile, there was no coastline, and there were no notable resources to speak of.
'If there were, the former emperor would have granted that land to another noble.'
After all, the late emperor had divided conquered lands among nobles who fought against the Cheonryeo.
If there'd been anything important here, the imperial family would have taken it for themselves.
Click.
Just then, the door opened without warning.
Ian, who had been leaning over the desk, instinctively held his breath and released a burst of mana.
Bzzzzzt… bzzzzzt.
"Hm?"
In an instant, every lantern in the room went dark—along with the secretary's office next door.
The moon was hidden behind clouds, plunging everything into complete darkness.
"My lord? Are you all right?"
"Didn't we just replace those mana lanterns?"
"Hold on, I'll light a candle—augh!"
Thud!
The secretary had stumbled into something.
Before the moonlight returned, Ian silently shifted to the center of the room, masking his presence.
Derga groped his way toward the desk.
"Ian. Answer me."
"Yes, Father."
Ian's clear voice rang out in the dark. From the sound of it, he was standing near the sofa.
"There's no one outside?!"
The secretary kept crashing about, unable to find the candles, and the darkness refused to lift.
Derga snapped irritably.
Bzzzzt… bzzzzzt.
The lanterns flickered back to life. Ian had withdrawn his mana.
Derga's gaze met Ian's calm, unblinking one. Those absinthe-colored eyes glimmered faintly.
"Are you all right, Father?"
"…"
The Count looked down at his hand on the desk. The papers were a bit out of order, but he could easily assume he'd knocked them askew himself in the dark. Without suspicion, he opened a drawer.
"It's fine. Here—take this."
"What is it?"
A small pouch, embroidered by hand. Derga tossed it casually; it landed precisely at Ian's feet.
"It's from your mother."
The little pouch lay on the floor. Ian slowly picked it up.
"Keep it with you and remember your place. Let it remind you how to behave."
When news of Ian stopped reaching his mother through Haena, the woman had attempted suicide—saying that if she couldn't see him alive, she would meet him in death.
That reckless act had forced the Count to compromise: he promised to send letters and small gifts to keep her alive.
After all, if she died, the chain that bound Ian would break as well.
"…"
Haena had told Ian every detail through the coachman, and she wasn't one to lie—especially when well compensated.
"Now go."
Derga waved him away.
Ian left the office silently, the worn pouch in hand.
Leaning against the dark corridor wall, he loosened the string.
Clink!
Out spilled five gold coins, a pressed flower, and a tiny folded note.
A single gold coin equaled a commoner's monthly wage. Ian examined the letter with a steady expression.
The handwriting was neat—clearly written by someone else at her request.
So, could it truly contain only his mother's words?
'No… there's a chance Derga hid a message of his own. He could've replaced it entirely.'
Ian rolled the gold coins between his fingers, then began to read.