Lucien sat in his study, a brush held loosely in his fingers, eyes fixed upon the blank canvas before him. An expanse of untouched white, vast and empty, like the recesses of his mind, reaching for inspiration and finding nothing. He searched for a subject, a vision worth immortalizing in color, but all that surfaced was the memory of his mother.

  She had taught him many things such as poetry, calligraphy, painting, crafts woven with delicacy and patience, yet tedious in their demand. Of all her lessons, painting had been the most detestable. He had neither the skill nor the passion for it.

  He had scoffed at the notion, dismissing it with cold logic.

  Her response had been swift was a sharp flick to the head, more startling than painful. she conceded,

  A sigh left his lips.

  It was said that human memory clung to the extremes, moments of overwhelming joy, of crushing despair, of searing guilt or incandescent rage. The in-between faded, but the extremes remained, unyielding and sharp-edged.

  He once asked his mother what her oldest memory was. She had laughed at the question, a wistful sound that carried both warmth and sorrow.

  she said,

  She recounted how the entire village searched for her as night fell. When they found her, trembling in the dark, they carried her home. But instead of anger, instead of the scolding she had braced for, she was met with the sight of her grandmother sobbing, her relief so raw it bordered on madness.

  She had laughed again.

  That was her oldest memory. And for Lucien, his own earliest recollections were of sitting before paper and ink, forced to learn the crafts she so adored and what he thought to be useless.

  But there was one difference.

  His mother could name each of her emotions with certainty. She understood them, embraced them.

  He did not.

  He had no idea what he had felt back then or even now. And yet, he remembered it all.

  Lucien’s deadened gaze remained fixed upon the empty canvas.

  "Hah… it’s hopeless," he muttered, setting the brush aside.

  Lucien turned his head, catching sight of Pelta standing near the doorway. His voice, calm but firm, broke the silence.

  "How long have you been there?"

  Pelta offered a small nod and an almost imperceptible smile. "Not long, brother. I didn’t want to disturb you. You seemed… deeply concentrated on your painting."

  A quiet scoff left his lips as he set the brush aside.

  "Next time, don’t bother waiting. Just interrupt me."

  Without another word, he moved to the couch, gesturing for her to join him. She complied, settling into the seat opposite him.

  "I’ll keep that in mind, brother," she said, though the slightest hesitation lingered in her tone.

  Lucien studied her, his gaze sharp yet unreadable. "You’re good at hiding your presence."

  Pelta blinked, puzzled.

  He continued, "Even if my mind was preoccupied, I should have been able to felt your presence considering how close you were to me. You could have easily stabbed me."

  Her expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes subtle, fleeting. "There’s no way I would do something like this, brother, Especially not to you."

  Before he could respond, a humanoid golem entered, carrying a tray. It placed a cup of tea and a plate of cookies on the table between them before retreating into the background.

  Pelta glanced at the tray. "There’s only one cup. It seems they made a mistake with the order—"

  "They didn’t." Lucien cut in smoothly. "I don’t drink tea. That’s why there’s only one. Go ahead and have yours."

  Pelta hesitated. "It would be improper for me to drink alone. I’m not particularly craving it, either."

  Lucien sighed. "Skip the formality. You are my secretary and my sister, There is no need for it between us. If you want to work efficiently with me, be casual. I despise unnecessary decorum that hinders actual progress."

  A pause. Then, with a small nod, Pelta reached for the cup. "Understood, brother. I’ll have my tea, then."

  She took a sip, methodical, almost detached. Even as she consumed the cookie, her expression remained eerily neutral. It was as if she wasn’t savoring the taste at all, merely completing a task.

  Lucien observed her in silence before speaking again. "Would you honor me with a question?"

  Pelta, mid-sip, raised an eyebrow. "A question? From you? Sure, I don't have an issue."

  "What is the oldest memory you can recall? And more importantly—what did you feel at that moment?"

  She lowered her cup, taking a moment to ponder. It was a genuine effort, an attempt to reach into the depths of recollection, to find something worth calling a memory.

  "I… don’t know," she admitted. "The earliest thing I remember is waking up in a cell. But I don’t think I felt anything particularly noteworthy at the time. If anything… I felt something only after I stepped outside."

  Lucien’s gaze sharpened. "And what was it?"

  Pelta’s fingers idly traced the rim of the cup. "Curiosity," she said finally. "When I first saw the garden, those strange, vibrant flowers—I remember feeling… intrigued. But is curiosity even an emotion? I’m not sure."

  Lucien studied her in silence, something stirring within him. A quiet recognition.

  He said nothing. Instead, he picked up a cookie and took a bite.

  Lucien: So, what brings you here? Work, I assume."

  Pelta: "Yes, I have been looking for you so I could begin performing my duties, but I couldn’t find you in the grand study—it was still closed. For that reason, I came here."

  Lucien: "I won’t be using that study. You’ll always find me here. Nevertheless, that study is important and cannot be left unattended. It’s a vital place for management."

  As Lucien said this, he stood and gestured for Pelta to follow. Pelta did the same.

  Pelta: "If I may ask—why did you not want to use the study?"

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Lucien: "I still won’t be using it. It is who will be using it to perform your duties."

  Pelta, reasonably shocked: "Why me? I definitely do not deserve it."

  Lucien: "You were made for the very purpose of managing estate functions and handling contact with the outside, weren’t you? That place is very suitable for such a job."

  Pelta: "Still, wouldn’t this be too much? How can I be allowed? I doubt anyone would be okay with this."

  Lucien: "No—you’ll be fine. It would actually cause trouble if any of the others tried to use that study."

  Pelta: "Brother, forgive my silly question, but—why would that be an issue? Do you think the others still don’t recognize you as the head?"

  Lucien: "You know how some things have a certain symbolism attached to them? A crown, on its own, is just a piece of gold or metal. A flag is just cloth. But the moment they become symbols, everything changes. That crown becomes a sign of something far beyond what it physically is. The same with a flag—the moment it becomes associated with an empire, it becomes the identity of its people. The materials themselves don’t matter. What matters is what they signify. Do you understand what I’m saying?"

  Pelta: "Shouldn’t that be all the more reason to use the study?"

  Lucien, with confidence and a commanding tone,"Only those who are unsure of their power or worth, cling to the symbolic meanings of power and control. I, by nature, do not need it."

  They reached the grand study. Lucien and Pelta stood before it.

  Lucien: “Did you, last time when you were here, try to open it?”

  Pelta: “No, I didn’t.”

  Lucien: “Try now.”

  Pelta moved toward it, placed her hand on the knob, and in an instant, the giant door opened on its own.

  Pelta: “How?”

  Lucien: “See, Father made you for this very purpose to begin with. Therefore, his study already recognizes you as someone who can enter it without anyone’s approval.”

  Pelta, amazed at the realization, followed him, and both entered the grand study.

  An incredibly vast and luxurious study, white and black marble, artistic tapestry, a roof giving off light as if bathed in natural sunlight. The room temperature adjusted itself to the owner’s desire. The walls and designs shifted and changed every few minutes on their own.

  Inside the study were showcases of weapons: swords, daggers, bows, arrows, and modified magical weapons, all hanging along the sides of the room. There were also three or four visible doors leading to different rooms.

  The main room itself was filled with artifacts, some made with magic, runes, alchemy, or simple craftsmanship, and some that combined all of it.

  As they walked, Pelta’s eyes caught a dagger resting in a black case. It shimmered with strange hues—part shadow, part glinting silver—and pulsed faintly, as if breathing.

  Pelta: “What is this one? It has a unique energy… something I’ve never felt before.”

  Lucien glanced at it. “That is the Night Slasher. It was forged by combining two S-rank weapons and infused with the essence of the monster of the lake. It’s unique, a one-of-a-kind piece. But it wouldn’t suit you. There is an abundance of S-rank or above weapons here. Choose something else.”

  Pelta: “I was just curious. Weapons—what I prefer—is something else entirely.”

  Lucien: “Do you want a short tour, if you’re overwhelmed?”

  Pelta: “No. I’ve already wasted your precious time. I’ll start doing my job without any delay now.”

  Lucien: “Very well. Knowing him, he would have left many notes and reports for you so you don’t get confused. Check his upper drawer for it.”

  As Lucien moved around, he continued, “Also, here you can see this orb. It is a terrestrial communication orb, used to talk with those in the Empire. Especially—it is the only legal way to contact them. Though it’s rarely used, still, keep an eye on it. Those in the Empire still rely on old technology such as communication talismans, emblems, and orbs like this. Thanks to our father, we are far ahead in many areas compared to those outside. And that is why, if you happen to engage with any of them, do not reveal anything—I mean anything—regarding us to them. Understood?”

  Pelta, sharply,“Understood.”

  Lucien was just about to leave when a golem beeped and brought a sealed package along with two letters for him.

  Pelta, looking at it: “Is it the gifts Father talked about?”

  Lucien: “Possibly. The others’ shares must be here as well. Distribute them too.”

  Pelta nodded.

  Lucien ordered one of the golems: “Take it to my study. And throw it in some corner of it.”

  Pelta: "Aren’t you going to at least look at it?"

  Lucien: "That depends on my mood. Just leave it there."

  Pelta: "Sure."

  Lucien: “Now that we are done, excuse me. I have some work I need to deal with as well. Still, if you ever feel like you're stuck, just call me or anyone else. None will refuse you. On that matter, how were you treated? Did you feel any problem with anyone of any kind?”

  Pelta: “Not at all, Brother. If anything, they are helping me very much. Brother Max even roped me into playing house with Sister Daisy.”

  Lucien: “Don’t let him push you around too easily, or he’ll keep pestering you.”

  Pelta: “It’s fine. It’s not like I hated it. Playing gave me some new experiences, like figuring out what sounds a baby makes.”

  Lucien, somewhat surprised,“Wait… did he actually make you play as a baby?”

  Pelta, obliviously smiling,“Yeah! He made me keep practicing my impression until I perfected it. Want to hear it, Brother? It goes like this—‘Gaa gaa bu bu bu ga...’”

  Lucien, staring at Pelta, still in shock but with a straight face

  “Huh… that’s actually not bad. Daisy did make sounds like that, as far as I recall. Though I haven’t really seen any other babies, so I suppose it’s accurate enough.”

  Pelta thanked him for the praise as he exited the study.

  As Lucien lounged on his couch, his gaze drifted toward the table. The items—a sealed package and two letters—sat untouched. Even without opening them, their origins were obvious. One letter was from his mother, the other from his father. And the package? Likely another remnant of his father’s possessions.

  With idle curiosity, he reached for the letters. His fingers traced the edge of his mother’s envelope first. He hesitated. A moment passed. Then, just as he was about to tear it open—

  “…Hmm. Never mind.”

  His voice was flat, dismissive. Without a second thought, he tossed the letter aside.

  He gestured to the humanoid golem standing in the corner. “Put that thing in my drawer. Along with these.”

  [ LITTLE VALLEY TOWN ]

  A rowdy warmth filled the tavern, though the place had only one party. The sign outside had been flipped to , and no one dared argue with that. Inside, laughter echoed, and half a dozen women surrounded a single man seated like royalty at the center table, Kael Harrington.

  The girls poured drinks, flirted, laughed too hard at jokes that weren’t funny. Kael leaned back in his chair, boots kicked up on the edge of the table, his red hair looked like as if he has just goten up from his bed, golden eyes half-lidded, bottle swinging from one hand.

  Kael: “Bring the dark one this time. Not the piss you gave me earlier.”

  One girl giggled and ran to fetch it. Another fed him something sweet and sticky.

  Then the door creaked open.

  The music stopped. A figure stepped inside. A woman.

  Slim, tall, and wrapped in muted traveler’s cloth. A strange, angular mask hid her face, bone-white and birdlike. Every step she took made the wooden floor groan like it hated her presence. Kael’s smirk didn't fade, but his eyes sharpened.

  Kael: “Lady, are you blind or stupid? This place is booked. Can’t you read?”

  She didn’t stop walking.

  He set the bottle down. His fingers twitched.

  Kael: “You're radiating something foul. What—are you here for a fight?”

  He waved his hand without looking. The girls took the signal and vanished fast, skirts rustling, doors swinging shut behind them. Kael stood, boots thudding against the floor.

  The masked woman stopped a few paces away. Her voice came low and cold.

  Masked Woman: “Are you Kael Harrington? Fourteenth Commander of the Skull Knights?”

  Kael barked a short laugh, swagger returning instantly.

  Kael: “What if I am?”

  Masked Woman: “I’ve got a job for you.”

  Kael: “Sorry, sweetheart. It doesn’t work like that. You don’t walk into my space, stare me down behind a mask, and toss a job at my feet like a bone to a dog.”

  He stepped forward now, closing the space. Eyes narrowed.

  Kael: “If you want something... Follow the proper procedure.”

  Masked Woman: “I need someone to cross Stellar Mountain. There’s a family hiding there. I want them hunted down. Every last one.”

  Kael stared at her, then let out a short, sharp laugh. Then another. Full-bodied now.

  Kael: “You’re insane. Seriously. You stroll in here, masked up like some cult relic, and ask me to cross Stellar Mountain like it’s a bloody sightseeing hike?”

  He stepped forward, amusement fading just a little.

  Kael: “You do know what that place is, right? It’s the only A-rank site in the entire region that hasn’t been completely mapped. Crossing it is not just another job, little lady.”

  He leaned in, voice dropping low.

  Kael: “It’s just beneath Abysmal Pit in terms of danger ranking. And you want me to walk through that hell to kill a family?”

  Kael: “What did they do, spit in your tea?”

  The woman’s voice remained calm.

  Masked Woman: “Their existence is a threat. And the price will reflect the risk.”

  Kael chuckled again, though it sounded more thoughtful this time.

  Kael: “A threat to whom?”

  Masked Woman: “To everyone.”

  Kael studied her for a moment.

  Kael: “Stellar Mountain, huh... Even if I want to take this job, it won’t be cheap, you know. Nobody will risk their lives for chump’s change.”

  He downed it in one go, then turned back to her.

  Masked Woman: “Ten billion. One billion now. Nine upon completion.”

  Kael’s grin faltered.

  She continued: “Cross Stellar Mountain. Hunt down whole bloodline. Erase them—quietly. No trail. No witnesses. No survivors.”

  Kael sat forward, tone shifting.

  Kael: “Ten billion what?”

  Masked Woman: “Anything you want. Gold, cash, gems—whatever you desire.”

  Kael’s fingers tapped the wood.

  Kael: “Lady… do you even know what you’re asking? Stellar Mountain’s... You don’t cross Stellar. There is a reason no army or group has been able to cross it. No one will allow me to take such a messy job. It is not in my hands to take a job on my own will.”

  The woman didn’t flinch.

  Masked Woman: “That’s why I came to you, Kael Harrington. Fourteenth commander of the Skull Knights. You don’t follow rules and protocols.”

  Kael blinked, then laughed again—but this time quieter. Darker.

  Kael: “You are asking me to break rules of my guild, right? Hmm… I guess for ten billion, it is considerable.”

  He stared down at the pouch, then back at her mask.

  Kael: “You really want them gone that bad?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Kael: “Fine. I will do it. But send me one billion first.”

  Masked Woman: “Very well. I will send one billion to your house along with more information. And once you accept the job, just do it. Don’t tell anyone about me. You were never contacted. This meeting never happened. Do what you do. Get money and disappear.”

  Kael watched her vanish into the rain-soaked alley beyond the tavern door. Then he leaned back in his chair, one hand stroking the rim of his mug, the other tapping the pouch gently.

  Kael: “Ten billion... I hit a jackpot.”

  He gave a low whistle.

  Kael: “Whatever poor bastards she wants dead—they must’ve really pissed off the wrong people.”