Phield forced a radiant smile onto his face, waiting for the verdict from his father, Count Kote.
His original name was Luca. He had come from Earth and had only been in this world for three short days.
The good news: he was the count's legitimate offspring.
The bad news: he was deeply unpopular.
"Phield, you've come of age," the richly dressed middle-aged man said, his words laced with supposedly inspiring rhetoric. Yet the old count spoke listlessly, his expression wilted; the speech sounded more like a cruel joke.
Everyone present watched with eyes full of mockery.
Count Kote paused, his attention drifting. When he snapped back, he had already forgotten where he'd left off.
Before Luca's transmigration, the original Phield had been an exceptionally kind soul. He had yielded the magic-awakening potion to his younger brother, given the chance to study at the mage academy to his sister, and treated every servant with genuine friendliness.
In a normal world, such a person would have earned respect. Unfortunately, he was a noble. From the aristocratic perspective, the original Phield was nothing but a weak, incompetent fool.
The mature woman seated beside the old count was Phield's stepmother.
The voluptuous, strikingly beautiful woman sat gracefully in the lady's chair beside the lord's seat. She lifted her teacup with poise, took a delicate sip, then set it down. Glancing at Phield, her eyes carried a casual, almost absent disdain. Sunlight traced deep ochre shadows along her profile, accentuating the proud bridge of her nose. She lifted her head haughtily, practically looking down her chin at him.
"The vast northern frontier—the Nightfall Domain—shall be your barony," she declared. "Plenty of room there for you to make your mark."
"As expected," Phield thought. "No matter how hard you try to please everyone, exile is still your fate."
A slight dizziness washed over him. The original owner had been bullied until he fell ill and died, leaving this mess for him to inherit. Phield bit his lip hard, forcing himself to regain composure.
Then he let out a cold sneer. The original Phield really had been an idiot—thinking kindness alone could let him survive among nobles.
His stepmother's eyes flicked downward in lazy indifference, gazing at him from on high. "Do you have any objections?"
Phield exhaled sharply, pushing down the frustration in his chest. He dropped the forced smile and answered in a flat, even tone: "As you wish, Father."
His father was already under the woman's complete control—everything now followed her script, her arrangements.
"Pfft—idiot!"
Someone among the relatives snickered, followed by a sharp, venomous insult.
The northern frontier was home to both humans and orcs—a land soaked in blood, violence, and savagery. Ten years ago, the Sacred Griffin Empire had used corrupting mists to slaughter three hundred thousand orc warriors. The region was now likely overrun with filthy goblins and trolls.
And conditions in the north had only grown worse.
Those three hundred thousand orc troops, along with every human and animal in the north, had been transformed into corrupted creatures. For years they had lurked within the death-fog, turning the place into a living hell on earth. The imperial family had launched three campaigns to reclaim the lost territory, each ending in total annihilation.
The various domains of the north existed only on paper—lands not even a dog would claim.
Most of the time, no one even mentioned them.
It was a cursed place, worse than cursed. Even runaway serfs or desperate criminals would never flee toward the Nightfall Domain.
It's fine, Phield told himself silently. I still have my cheat.
With a thought, a translucent map appeared in his vision, marked by a single slowly moving green dot.
"Go make your preparations," Count Kote said, looking utterly exhausted, his face ashen.
His stepmother helped the count to his feet. The nearly transparent silk of her nightgown pressed against his withered frame, seeming to lend the old man a faint spark of energy.
Phield pressed his lips together. His siblings had all received rich, fertile fiefs. This old man thought a few empty words would be enough to send him off? Phield wasn't about to accept that. He spoke up at once: "Father, I'll need your support. Reclaiming and developing the Nightfall Domain will not be easy."
His stepmother's ample bosom pressed deliberately against the count's arm as she narrowed her eyes with a seductive glint.
"Greed is not a noble virtue, Phield," Count Kote replied without hesitation. "You have already been given more than enough."
The other family members shot him looks of open contempt.
"Going out there with black hair and black eyes—nothing but a disgrace to the Ross family."
"Just a bastard, after all."
Black hair and black eyes had once symbolized ancient nobility, but after waves of eastern nomadic invasions and the fall of the ancient kingdom of Taloria, they had become something else entirely.
Phield's anger flared in his eyes.
The original's birth had been the count's own doing—his own scandal—yet why take it out on him?
His mother had been a castle maidservant, brought from the distant east and sold as an exotic slave by nomadic merchants. One drunken night with the count had produced the original Phield.
Lowborn, bearing traces of his mother's eastern features, and backed by no powerful faction—that was the other major reason Phield had always been ostracized and despised.
"Five hundred gold coins," Count Kote declared. "And you may take your personal servants with you. I treat every one of my children equally."
With those parting words, he allowed his stepmother to support him as they hurried back toward the bedchamber.
Phield's mood sank to a new low. Five hundred gold coins sounded like a fortune, but tossed into the bottomless pit of a territory like his, it would barely cause a ripple on the surface—let alone stir the depths.
Still, it was better than nothing.
"Hey, Phield!" His half-brother—the one born of the same father but a different mother—sidled up with a wide, mocking grin. "The Nightfall Domain is a wonderful place for you. Perpetual darkness, no sun ever breaks through, just a stinking black wasteland. It matches those demonic eyes of yours perfectly."
He spoke in an exaggerated, theatrical tone. "My own fief isn't nearly so grand—just Wind Orchid City, famous only for its beer and goats."
Rage ignited in Phield's chest, hot enough to sear his heart. A ruined territory he could endure; as a transmigrator, he would find a way to turn it around eventually.
But outright mockery of his appearance? It made him want to dig up the little bastard's ancestral graves.
And this same brother owed his magical aptitude entirely to Phield's kindness. Back then, the boy's talent had been pitifully low; he had hidden in a corner sobbing while others ridiculed him. It was Phield who had quietly helped him, even yielding his own awakening potion so the boy could manifest magic.
"Get lost," Phield snapped, offering no pretense of civility.
His brother ignored the hostility, leaning in close with a twisted smile. "Remember that little flaxen-haired girl?"
Phield's eyes narrowed. A gentle, smiling face surfaced in his memory—the girl the original owner had loved. Later, her nearly naked body had been found in an alley behind a tavern. The original Phield, consumed by grief and fury, had fallen gravely ill and died, paving the way for Luca's soul to take over.
His brother licked his lips, voice dropping to a whisper. "I did it. The way she struggled… you wouldn't believe how thrilling it was."
Phield's pupils contracted sharply. Shock gripped his heart like an icy claw.
This brother, barely come of age himself, had committed such a depraved atrocity. True, as a transmigrator the girl was a stranger to him personally—but the casual destruction of an innocent life filled Phield with a revulsion he had never known before.
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