As Adrian continued down the stairs, his gaze caught upon something he had not noticed the day before—a portrait mounted along the wall.

  It depicted an older man and woman, their features elegant and composed, their light gray hair bearing a clear resembnce to Archer and Theodosia. The likeness was unmistakable, as though time itself had merely softened them.

  Yet it was their eyes that gave him pause.

  The woman's gaze was gold. The man's, a deep blue.

  The pattern was reversed in the present—Archer carried golden eyes, while Theodosia's were blue. The discrepancy lingered only briefly in Adrian's thoughts before he dismissed it.

  He assumed the trait had simply been inherited differently.

  With that, he continued his descent, the portrait watching silently from above.

  Adrian reached the base of the stairs and turned to Theodosia.

  "Thank you for the clothes," he said, his tone measured.

  She looked at him then, confusion briefly crossing her features.

  "I didn't give you any clothes," she replied.

  The words settled heavily.

  Adrian did not respond at once. Instead, understanding formed in silence. It must have been Archer—the only expnation that made sense. That would also expin why Adrian had sensed nothing: no presence, no intent, no disturbance of mana.

  Whoever had entered the room had done so without leaving a trace.

  Adrian accepted the conclusion without comment, his expression unchanged, even as the implication lingered quietly in his mind.

  Theodosia moved toward the dining hall with measured steps. Adrian followed without hesitation, his eyes taking in every shadow and corner along the way.

  The room they entered was familiar in its decay—dust clung to the edges, and the air carried the faint scent of disuse—but the table itself had been carefully attended. Most of the utensils were arranged neatly, polished to a muted gleam despite the surrounding neglect.

  Theodosia gestured toward the chairs.

  "Sit," she said softly, her tone even, almost ceremonial. "You may begin."

  Adrian moved to the table, noting the contrast between the care here and the rest of the estate. Everything else could crumble; this, at least, had been tended to with intent.

  Adrian seated himself and began to eat. The food, he noted, cked the refinement of any meal he had once known. Its texture was coarse, its presentation humble—but after six months of subsisting on branches, leaves, and whatever else the world offered, often poisonous, this was nothing to scoff at. Compared to the modern world, the fare here fell far short—but Adrian's pate had long since hardened. He ate without compint, silently acknowledging the sustenance it provided.

  While he focused on his meal, paying little attention to his surroundings, he became aware of a piercing gaze upon him. Theodosia watched with a scrutiny reserved for one who measures trust with the weight of a bde.

  She parted her lips, her voice deliberate, smooth, almost deliberate in its elegance:

  "So… you cim to be a vilin."

  The words struck him unexpectedly. Adrian choked, a sudden harsh cough escaping as the bite lodged awkwardly. For a moment, the room spun with the weight of her accusation, and he was forced to struggle for composure, clearing his throat before continuing to eat.

  When Adrian had finished clearing his throat, he returned to his meal with steady hands. He looked up at Theodosia, eyes calm, voice measured, almost detached:

  "Ah… so Archer told you," he said, without lifting his gaze from the food.

  The words carried neither accusation nor surprise—only quiet acknowledgment. And still, he continued to eat, each bite deliberate, as though the conversation itself were merely another fvor to consume.

  Theodosia's irritation showed, subtle but unmistakable. Adrian's dismissal had not gone unnoticed.

  She let her mana spread outward, unfurling through the dining hall like a rising tide. The air thickened, pressing down upon the room, turning breath into effort.

  Her voice cut through it, calm but edged with intent.

  "Then hear this as it is meant to be heard," she said. "Give me a single reason why I should not end your life where you sit."

  Adrian finally lifted his gaze. His eyes settled not on her face, but on her hands. They were unscarred—soft, bearing no marks that suggested they had ever known the weight of a weapon.

  The mana pressing in around him was suffocating, relentless. Yet he did not flinch. There was no fear in his posture, no urgency in his breath.

  He spoke evenly, almost thoughtfully.

  "What," he asked, "have I done to warrant being killed?"

  The pressure of her mana continued to rise, tightening its hold inch by inch, until the air itself felt dense enough to fracture.

  Theodosia did not raise her voice. She did not need to.

  "A man who names himself a vilin," she said, "forfeits the benefit of doubt."

  Her gaze did not waver.

  "For the sake of my family, I will kill you—even if your hands are clean."

  The weight persisted, unrelenting.

  In that suffocating stillness, Adrian came to a realization—cold, precise, and utterly devoid of panic. He could not overpower her like this. Not unarmed. Not without committing to something final.

  This was not a woman who needed steel to kill.

  And this was not a situation that could be resolved through force alone.

  Outwardly, Adrian remained calm—collected, unshaken. Inwardly, panic stirred. The density of the mana pressing against him was becoming a genuine problem, each passing second stealing a little more air. For a fleeting instant, the thought crossed his mind that he might die here, quietly and without spectacle.

  Clinging to a desperate thread of reason, he spoke.

  "I am under Archer's employment," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "I will bring no harm to this family—under any circumstance."

  The words hung between them.

  Theodosia studied him for several long seconds, her gaze sharp, searching for fracture or deceit. At st, the pressure eased—only slightly, but enough to be felt.

  For now, she seemed satisfied.

  And Adrian, still seated, still breathing, understood that he had narrowly avoided a confrontation that would have ended in blood—hers, his, or all of it.

  Theodosia withdrew her mana. The crushing pressure vanished, and the dining hall reverted to its former state—dust settling back into corners, cobwebs once more ciming the shadows. It was as though the room had never been disturbed at all. All that power returned to her, contained, controlled.

  She looked at Adrian. Not a single tremor touched his outward calm, she thought. Archer was right.

  Her gaze lingered on him, sharper now, more measured. He survived the Gravebloom Forest alone—for six long months. A nd no human should endure.

  A darker thought followed, unspoken, lingering at the edges of her mind.

  I do not know what my brother is thinking. But if he ever turns on us… I hope we can kill him.

  Adrian, unaware—or perhaps simply unconcerned—continued to eat.

  When he finished, Theodosia spoke aloud, her expression composed, as though she had not been prepared to end his life moments earlier.

  "Archer has requested you," she said evenly. "When you are done eating, go to his office. He wishes to discuss your task for the day."

  Adrian did not reply. He rose from his seat, a faint smile touching his lips—subtle, unreadable.

  "The food was good," he said simply.

  Then he turned and left the dining hall, the quiet echo of his footsteps lingering behind him.

  Adrian left the dining hall, his footsteps soft against the worn floorboards. He passed through the main hall and ascended the staircase, each step deliberate, unhurried. At the nding, he turned right, walking down the short corridor until he reached the door to Archer's office.

  He paused, pcing a hand lightly upon the door. With a quiet knock, he waited.

  "You may enter," came Archer's voice from within.

  Adrian opened the door just enough to slip inside, the room unfolding before him in muted light.

  Archer stood near the bookshelf, stretching slightly as he reached for a book perched high upon the shelf. The motion was casual, but even in that ordinary gesture there was an air of tent precision—each movement purposeful, controlled.

  Adrian's eyes followed him for a moment, taking in the scene without a word, the quiet tension between them filling the space like smoke.

  Archer gnced at him, a faint smile pying across his features.

  "Ah, it seems the clothes fit you perfectly," he remarked, eyes lingering briefly on Adrian's form.

  Adrian inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the comment.

  "Thanks for the clothes," he said. His tone was neutral—neither warm nor distant, merely measured. Not rude, not effusive, only precise.

  Archer's gaze shifted to Adrian's face, then back to the room.

  "And how was the food?" he asked. "I know my sister's cooking isn't exactly… exquisite, but it should at least have alleviated your hunger."

  Adrian's mind flickered, an observation forming quietly. Perhaps his taste buds had been dulled by six months of leaves, branches, and whatever else the world had offered. Perhaps he could no longer distinguish good from bad. Though the meal cked the fvors of the modern world, it had served its purpose—sustenance in a pce where such things were rare.

  He dismissed the thought entirely, turning instead to the window. Morning light filtered in softly, mingling with the distant chirping of birds, casting pale illumination across the room.

  Adrian did not speak. He simply stood there, silent, letting the quiet weight of the morning settle around them both.

  Adrian let the silence linger for a moment, the air between them heavy but controlled. Just as he was about to speak, Archer's voice broke it first—calm, deliberate, carrying an unmistakable authority.

  "No questions," Archer said. "When we were in the Gravebloom Forest, you had many questions. You were going to ask why this pce looks as though it hasn't been maintained in years, where the staff is, or why you've been here without seeing our parents."

  He regarded Adrian with a gaze that suggested the answers were obvious, if only one cared to see them.

  Without offering a seat, Archer continued, and Adrian lowered himself into the chair of his own accord, silent but measured.

  Once seated, Adrian spoke, his tone even, almost understated:

  "I already know most of the answers to those questions."

  There was no challenge in his voice, only quiet acknowledgment—a subtle assertion that he understood more than he let on.

  Archer's lips curved into a faint, amused smile, the kind that threatened ughter but never quite gave in.

  "Indulge me," he said, voice light, almost pyful, "let me hear your reasoning."

  Adrian met his gaze evenly, unshaken. His words came measured, deliberate.

  "When we were in the Gravebloom Forest," he began, "you said you were the lowest-ranked noble. I assumed you did not have much wealth. And so, seeing this estate neglected, I concluded that you must have faced a choice between maintaining staff or maintaining soldiers. You pced your priority on the soldiers outside rather than those within."

  He paused briefly, letting the observation hang in the air.

  "And the reason I have not seen your parents," he continued, "is because they are long deceased."

  Archer's smile widened slightly, and he let out a low ugh, voice carrying approval.

  "You are correct on every point," he admitted. "Analytical, on top of fighting skill… I may have made a small but wise decision in employing you."

  The room was quiet again, but the weight of that acknowledgment lingered—a subtle acknowledgment of Adrian's mind and precision.

  Archer ughed, a sound light yet commanding, filling the office with a strange warmth.

  "Very well," he said, "the task I have for you today is to deliver the taxes to Baron Devon Vein."

  Adrian froze for a moment, brow furrowing in confusion, as though the words did not belong to the expectations he had formed of this pce or his role.

  Archer's eyes twinkled.

  "I cannot do it myself—I am swamped with paperwork as we speak."

  Without warning, the book he had been reaching for on the shelf flew through the air. Adrian's reflexes were sharp; he caught it effortlessly.

  The title, embossed in neat, formal lettering, read: "And So: Proper Etiquette and Speech."

  Though Adrian was not of this world, his mind retained the tools of his origin. Born in the modern age, he could read the nguage effortlessly, even though it was not his own tongue. The words rolled across the page, strange and intricate, the syntax unlike anything he had encountered in his former life. Yet he understood them, as though the world had bent itself to allow him comprehension.

  Adrian closed the book carefully, the weight of it in his hands heavier than its size, heavier still with the knowledge of what this task implied.

  Archer's expression sobered, though the faint trace of amusement remained in his eyes.

  "You work for me now," he said. "Which means there are things you must learn."

  He gestured toward the book in Adrian's hands.

  "On your way to deliver the taxes, you will read that book—thoroughly. Inside and out."

  His tone sharpened, just enough to matter.

  "You are of common birth. Any noble you encounter will not afford you the leniency I do. Speak to them as you speak to me—casually, as though rank does not exist between you—and they will kill you on the spot."

  Archer's gaze held firm.

  "That book will teach you proper etiquette. This is not a suggestion. You will read it."

  Adrian absorbed the words in silence. A realization formed naturally, aligning itself with instincts he had not known he carried. This world followed the logic of a medieval fantasy—one where nobility stood above consequence, where commoners were expendable, and disrespect was answered with death.

  Images surfaced unbidden: stories, shows, light novels from his former world—tales where nobles sughtered peasants for little more than a gnce held too long. This world, he understood now, was no different.

  Adrian closed the book carefully, accepting not just the task, but the rules that governed survival within it.

  Archer spoke again, his tone measured, eyes unwavering.

  "Knowing you, Adrian… and considering all the information I have, even though I have not known you your entire life, I understand one thing."

  He paused, letting the weight of the statement settle.

  "You cim you do not kill humans. But I do not believe you will take kindly to anyone attempting to kill you. You will not fight without reason, and you will bow your knees if a noble requests it. But understand this: because of my rank, I cannot protect you from anyone higher than myself."

  The words hung in the air, heavy, unyielding. Adrian listened in silence, comprehension dawning with quiet crity. This world operated on rules far harsher than the one he had left behind—where rank dictated life and death, and even his allegiance to Archer could not shield him from those above.

  He nodded subtly, taking in the unspoken implications: survival here required precision, caution, and respect—an equation far more complex than any fight he had yet faced.

  Adrian's lips curved just enough to betray the faintest hint of amusement. His voice was calm, measured, almost teasing.

  "With your rank," he said softly, "I take it you cannot protect me from anyone above you, correct?"

  There was no challenge in his words, only quiet observation—a small smile flickering in his eyes as he gauged Archer's reaction.

  Archer's voice was steady, carrying the weight of command.

  "Six soldiers are waiting downstairs," he said. "The carriage is ready, and the taxes have already been loaded."

  The words left no room for hesitation—everything had been prepared, and the task was ready for Adrian to undertake.