The Count's study was adorned with bookshelves filled with various volumes, both old and new, all kept in well-maintained condition. The room itself was neither too large nor too small, but it felt compact due to the many adornments, such as the luxurious chandelier, candle stands, paintings, and vases. It was quite a contrast to the rest of the castle.
Inside the study, Count Hainar was carefully going through the financial ledgers, making notes in the margins from time to time. In front of him, a young man stood attentively.
The young man, in his early twenties, shared similar features with the Count. To the side, at a smaller table, a clerk wearing glasses was also busy with paperwork.
The young man stood solemnly, though his hands fidgeted with nervousness. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Count stretched his arms and looked up, his expression stoic.
"Alaric, good work. The books are fine. There are some minor inconsistencies, but it's nothing serious," the Count said.
Just as Alaric was about to heave a sigh of relief and thank his father, the Count's gaze suddenly sharpened, and he froze. The Count picked up a document and turned it toward Alaric, his fingers resting on a particular set of entries.
"This right here… what is this?" he asked quietly.
Alaric snapped out of his daze and immediately took a closer look. After reading, he wiped the sweat from his brow and replied as calmly as he could, "Father, due to the recent bad weather, we were forced to change the shipment route. That's why the margins have decreased."
Count Hainar shook his head in disapproval. "This is not the first time we've faced bad weather. Route changes are already accounted for. The loss is far too much. Tell me clearly—what is the issue?" he said sternly, his voice rising.
Alaric hesitated. "Father… it's—"
"Speak!"
"Yes! The truth is, our land shipments have been attacked by bandits. Fortunately, due to Imperial favor, we're better able to protect the salt. However, the attacks have been frequent and troublesome, so we had to find a way around the troublemakers," he blurted out quickly, guilt evident in his tone.
The Count knitted his brows. After a moment, he calmed himself. Then, looking at his son, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me this sooner?"
Alaric gulped in panic, unable to find the words to apologize. Sweat trickled down his face as his anxiety worsened. Finally, he lowered his head in shame and answered softly, "Father… I'm sorry. I wanted to resolve it on my own."
A heavy silence fell over the study. Just as Alaric felt he might suffocate from the oppressive quiet, he heard the Count speak again.
"Alaric, look at me."
Alaric did not dare disobey. Though reluctant to meet his father's gaze, he slowly raised his head, his eyes darting left and right, unable to maintain eye contact.
When he finally looked up, there was no disappointment in the Count's eyes. Instead, a faint, bitter smile rested on his face. "Silly boy. I'm not going to eat you alive," he said with a quiet laugh.
"We must not make any mistakes at this time, do you understand? I will handle this matter. If something like this happens again, do not take matters into your own hands. At least, not yet," he explained patiently.
"Do you understand?"
Relief washed over Alaric. A small smile appeared on his face as he lowered his head apologetically. "Yes, Father. I was wrong."
"Good," the Count said, smiling.
Taking a sip of his tea, the Count opened another document and reviewed it thoroughly, missing not a single detail. After instructing his son on several matters and correcting others, he sighed in satisfaction and finally stamped the House's seal.
Footsteps sounded outside as Alaric turned toward the door. A knock followed soon after.
"My Lord, may I come in?" Steward Bartley asked, his tone as polished as ever.
Count Hainar sighed. "Yes, yes…"
Steward Bartley entered, holding a letter in his hand.
"Dispense with the formalities, Sir Ron," the Count said, spreading his arms.
The steward shook his head firmly as he approached. "That won't do, My Lord. There must be a distinction between master and servant. Manners must be kept."
The Count let out a helpless chuckle and reached out, taking the letter from Steward Bartley's hands. He broke the wax seal with a knife and began reading, his expression growing increasingly serious.
Meanwhile, Alaric and Steward Bartley exchanged quick greetings and fixed their gazes on the Count, trying to read his expression.
They soon realized something was wrong. It was rare to see the Count so serious, and a sense of unease crept in as they waited for him to finish reading.
The Count folded the letter carefully, placed it back into its envelope, and set it on the table. He tapped the envelope lightly, lost in thought, while Alaric's anxiety spiraled, countless troubling possibilities racing through his mind.
Finally, the Count looked at his son and said gravely, "It's from the capital."
Alaric narrowed his eyes. "From Uncle Cedran?"
The Count nodded. "There has been no progress on renewing our salt permit. It seems there are certain obstructions within the court."
Alaric frowned. "Then… what can be done?"
The Count turned to the steward. "Sir Ron, what do you think?"
Steward Bartley paused. "My Lord, something feels amiss. We must tread carefully."
"Cedran says much the same," the Count replied, his brow creasing as he gestured toward the letter.
A heavy tension filled the study as silence settled in. The Count's thoughts drifted to Serin, his expression unreadable. He broke the silence abruptly.
"How is Serin?" he asked. "It's been a week since he woke. I've been busy."
Steward Bartley hesitated, a rare sight that immediately caught Alaric's attention.
The Count frowned. "What is it? We cannot allow the Prince to be harmed again. Is something wrong, Ron?"
The steward sighed bitterly, clasping his hands behind his back. "The Prince is physically fine. His body is recovering well. However… he is too quiet. He hasn't left his room, let alone the castle. I intended to bring this to your attention, My Lord."
A dull ache throbbed in the Count's head as exhaustion washed over him. He leaned back in his chair, took another sip of tea, and after a long silence, waved his hand. "Everyone, leave. I will handle it. Everything."
Without question, they took their leave. Soon, only the Count remained, his silhouette heavy with fatigue.
Later that evening, the Count went to Serin's room to see for himself. The sight before him made his heart sink.
Serin's face was paler than before, and though his body had gained some weight and no longer looked famished, his eyes were sunken deep in their sockets, as if he hadn't slept for days.
"Dear nephew, what is the matter with you?" Count Hainar demanded.
Serin lifted his head absentmindedly, his eyes vacant, almost lifeless. The Count clenched his fist as anger flared in his gaze. He grabbed the young boy by the collar.
"Your mother endured shame and hardship to give birth to you… for this? She died trying to protect your life… for this? For you to waste away like this? Answer me!"
Clarity flickered in Serin's eyes as fear surged through his heart. He could feel the bloodlust radiating from the Count.
Serin felt sorrow for what had happened to Lysa, but he had never known the woman who was supposed to be his mother. He could not force deep feelings for someone he had never met, especially when his own despair consumed him.
"I… I'm sorry…" he muttered weakly, coughing.
The Count's hands trembled as he forced himself to calm down. His breathing steadied as he released Serin and said flatly, "Prince Hainar, news of your recovery cannot remain hidden forever. Sooner or later, His Majesty will summon you. If the Emperor sees you like this… you will not survive."
Serin's eyes widened. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made, sending a chill down his spine.
"The Emperor is not a kind man," the Count continued, stepping back, his voice weary. "Remember that, for your own good."
"I… I understand," Serin replied quietly.
"Enough time has been wasted. You cannot afford to waste any more. From tomorrow onward, you will train in noble and royal etiquette, warfare, history, culture, economics, languages, martial arts—everything there is to learn. This is not negotiable. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Serin replied mechanically, like a puppet on strings.
The Count stared at him for a long moment, then sighed heavily and turned to leave, leaving Serin standing there like stone.
Night fell swiftly. The full moon illuminated the sky, stars shining brightly before being swallowed by the moon's pale glow.
Serin stood at the window, gazing mindlessly toward the boundless sea. Moonlight shimmered across the waves as fish leapt and vanished beneath the surface, larger ones devouring the smaller. Such was the way of nature.
His vision slowly darkened as he stumbled back into the room. For a fleeting moment, it felt like he was back on Earth, in the hotel room. But there was no pain—only sleepiness.
His eyelids grew heavy, as though weighted by stone. Serin collapsed onto the bed, the pull of slumber irresistible.
Then, a clear, monotone voice echoed in his mind.
"Congratulations. You have been selected for the Divine Arena. You have thirty minutes before commencement."
"Imprinting knowledge of the Divine Arena in three… two… one," the emotionless voice announced.
Pain exploded in Serin's mind as his vision turned white and knowledge poured in endlessly.
As information flooded his consciousness, Serin was left utterly stunned. He could scarcely believe what the Divine Arena was. Amid the shock, a strange anticipation and excitement began to stir within his heart.