I used to be good at video games.
Like, really good.
Top 1% in most leaderboards, could clear a tactical shooter map with my eyes half-closed, and had an almost psychic sense of when something was about to go wrong.
My friends used to joke that I didn't play games — I read them.
Patterns. Timing. Enemy spawns. The rhythm of chaos.
Now I wished that skill applied to this world — a place where my next "boss fight" apparently involved a man whom "Arthur" could only remember as being someone to be feared from.
Because right now, I was walking through a candlelit corridor towards my father's study.
Or rather, Arthur Wellesley's father's study.
And I could already feel that "final boss" music playing in the back of my head.
The hallway stretched forever — portraits on both sides, each ancestor staring down like they were silently judging my posture. The carpet was thick, the air smelled faintly of cigar smoke and old leather. A faint hum of rain still whispered against the windows.
The man wasn't just Arthur's father.
He was the kind of man even shadows stepped aside for. Afterall, ruling over such a large estate brings along sterness in one's character.
I passed few servants who bowed quickly, eyes lowered in the hallway.
I paused outside the study, my heartbeat ticking faster than the clock nearby.
Okay, Kieran. Deep breath. Pretend it's just another dialogue choice. Select calm tone. Say "yes, father." Don't die.
I knocked.
"Enter."
His voice was deep, measured — the kind that carried weight even when whispered.
I pushed the door open.
The study was massive — all mahogany and velvet and quiet intimidation.
Tall shelves lined the walls, filled with ledgers and books whose spines gleamed with gold leaf. A fire crackled behind an iron grate, casting a soft orange glow across the desk.
Behind it sat Viscount Alistair Wellesley.
He didn't look up right away. Just kept writing something with deliberate strokes, the scratch of his pen loud in the silence.
When he finally did glance up, I nearly forgot how to breathe.
Sharp eyes, grey as winter rain. Lines carved deep into his face from decades of command. The sort of man whose approval you earned once in a lifetime — if you were lucky.
"Arthur," he said. "You kept me waiting."
"My apologies, Father," I replied automatically — the words sliding out before I even processed them. Maybe Arthur's muscle memory.
"Hmm." The Viscount's pen clicked softly against the desk. "Be cautious of who you bring into this house. Association reflects lineage."
"Yes, Father."
They both knew this was about Adrian but he slid it off with a warning.
He leaned back, fingers steepled. "And lineage," he added, "is everything."
The silence that followed was suffocating. I shifted slightly, but even that felt like a crime.
Finally, he spoke again.
"I've decided your bethrothal to Lord Harrington's daughter. You are to meet her 2 days from now. Make the preperations."
"Yes."
Right. The marriage mission.
The glowing text from my phone flashed in my mind again:
> Accept the proposal. Reward: 10 Skill Points.
I swallowed. "Of course, Father. I'll do what's expected."
The Viscount hummed faintly, as if testing the weight of my sincerity. "See that you do. The Wellesley name has weathered wars, debts, and politics. It will not falter over personal hesitation."
Personal hesitation. Right. That's what we're calling free will now.
Then something in his tone changed — not softening, exactly, but cooling into warning.
"I hear you started visiting Ginshops."
He looked straight at me. "Is something the matter, Arthur?"
For a moment, I forgot to breathe.
But years of gaming reflexes kicked in.
Keep the dialogue neutral. Don't trigger the boss phase.
I smiled faintly. "Just… restless, I suppose. The rain makes one think too much."
A long pause.
Then he nodded once. "Restless minds are dangerous. See that yours stays loyal to the house."
Before I could respond, a knock sounded at the study door. He looked almost as if he was expecting someone.
" You may go now,"he commanded.
"Yes, Father."
I opened the door to see Dr. Hawthorne — the family physician, if memory served.
He was tall and thin, dressed in a dark, impeccably pressed coat despite the early hour. Steel-rimmed spectacles rested low on his sharp nose, and his graying hair was combed back with clinical precision. In one hand, he carried a large black leather medical bag — worn at the edges but polished carefully, like a trusted instrument.
I stepped past the doctor. Up close, I caught the faint scent of antiseptic and something metallic.
I exhaled only when the door closed behind me.
My palms were damp. My pulse still high.
As I walked back down the corridor, the sunlight spilling through the tall windows looked colder somehow.
And somewhere, deep down, I could still hear the faint buzz of my phone against my chest pocket.
The mission reminder blinked faintly on the screen.
> Next Objective: Meet Lady Eleanor Harrington
> Bonus: Maintain social composure.
> Failure: Undesirable consequences.
I grimaced. "Undesirable consequences," huh?
That could mean anything here — from social humiliation to execution by silver spoon.
I shoved the phone back into my pocket and started walking faster.
Because if there's one thing I'd learned from all those games, it's that the calm part before the real mission was always the most dangerous.
By the time I reached my room, the house had resumed its usual rhythm — distant footsteps, clinking porcelain, low murmurs drifting up from the dining hall.
My breakfast tray was still there. Eggs gone cold. Toast untouched. Tea untouched.
I hadn't gone back to finish it.
Hard to enjoy a proper English breakfast when your aristocratic father subtly implies your mind needs "discipline".
Dante was pacing when I entered, hands buried in his hair. Edward stood near the window, watching the grounds like he expected the trees to start whispering secrets.
"Well?" Dante asked immediately.
"Father thinks I'm restless," I said flatly. "And apparently that's dangerous."
We fell into silence for a moment.
Then Dante exhaled sharply. "We can't keep talking here."
He wasn't wrong. Servants passed through the halls too quietly. Doors opened without warning. And in a house where titles mattered more than truth, walls absolutely had ears.
Dante lifted up his hat from the chair and said,
"Let's go!"
"Where?", I asked
"Somewhere, where the coffee is free and the 'Do Not Disturb' sign is implied by my terrifying lack of eye contact."