The water that was carried in was hot water that had been heated beforehand in large cauldrons in the kitchen on the first floor. Nearly five female servants went back and forth carrying it, until almost two hours passed before the bathtub was finally ready for use.
Even then, the servants had to bathe their master directly, so that the used water would not go to waste and could still be reused by them. It was a custom that felt strange to Seo-jun, yet perfectly aligned with what he had once read in history books.
In this century, bathing was a luxury. The process required time, labor, and great expense. Its frequency was highly dependent on social status and access to resources.
Because of that, it was not surprising that people bathed only when there were important events or major gatherings. It was far too troublesome to cleanse one's body every day—and that was precisely why perfume became such a highly sought-after commodity.
After Seo-jun finished preparing himself, the servants carried the remaining hot water back to the workers' communal bathhouse. They used it in turns until the once-clear water became murky, nearly resembling gutter water.
Once preparations were complete, Seo-jun was guided to the dining room by the head servant. Afterward, the head servant returned to fetch the other young masters who were still getting ready.
The moment Seo-jun entered the dining room, he immediately sensed the tense atmosphere.
An elderly man who looked utterly exhausted—yet still radiated authority—was scolding his third child, who merely sat in silence, spending his time painting.
Just as Seo-jun pulled out his chair, the old man
redirected his anger toward him.
"And you!"
he barked.
"Your life consists of nothing but indulgence, gambling, and wasting your time with women of questionable origins. You disgrace this family! Everyone talks about you—even the extended family once urged me to exile you far from the capital!"
Seo-jun fell silent. His mind went blank.
He could only glance toward an elderly woman who now rose from her
seat, her eyes brimming with tears.
"Please… please do not wound my child with such harsh words,"
she sobbed as she approached Seo-jun.
"He is still our child."
The old man let out a long sigh, then slammed both palms onto the table.
"You always defend him!"
he snapped.
"A child like him will one day become the greatest reason for this family's downfall!"
As the tension continued to rise, Alaric finally entered the dining room.
His gaze immediately settled on Seo-jun—a look that sent a chill down his spine, as though the man were weighing which scripture he had yet to recite from the day before.
Feeling uneasy, Seo-jun stood up and shifted his seat to the side of the elderly woman—Margaret Hanwick, the mother of the body he now inhabited.
"Hello, Mother,"
he greeted softly.
Margaret immediately smiled warmly, as though the wounds inflicted moments earlier had been slightly soothed.
Alaric let out a long breath, then looked toward their father, who still appeared deeply agitated.
"For the sake of our beloved father's health,"
he said calmly yet firmly,
"I wish to perform a purification tomorrow morning."
The old man frowned.
"A purification? For whom? For me?"
Alaric shook his head, then pointed directly at Adrian—at Seo-jun—who was unconsciously praising his mother's dress.
"For him, Father."
At once, all eyes turned to Seo-jun.
He froze.
Their father hesitated, then reached for the glass of wine beside him and drank deeply.
"Do it,"
he said at last.
"If it can make Adrian a better man."
Seo-jun stood up at once.
"No!"
he said loudly."Why does it have to be me? I'm already much better now! I even promise I won't go to the casino anymore—I'll stop doing everything Father hates!"
Margaret burst into tears once again—this time not from sorrow, but from being deeply moved. However, Alaric did not believe that promise at all. His expression remained cold, as though the decision had been carved long before this conversation ever began.
"No,"
he said firmly.
"The purification ritual must still be carried out tomorrow morning. Demons are skilled at deception. It is entirely possible that the creature possessing your body is deceiving all of us—pretending to be docile so that you may sink even deeper into the glitter of the mortal world."
He turned his gaze toward his father.
"This refusal is proof that the demon is afraid, Father."
Seo-jun felt his head throb. Without saying another word, he grabbed the glass of wine before him and drained it in one gulp, then sat back down roughly. He continued his dinner as though Alaric did not exist—his gaze fixed on his plate, his jaw set hard.
At the same moment, the head servant approached and handed over a sealed letter.
"A letter from Rowan Hanwick, sir,"
he reported.
"He is not in his room."
Their father frowned.
"Rowan?"
As soon as he read the contents of the letter, the old man's expression changed. He immediately ordered the guards to follow his youngest child. The outside world was far too cruel for a boy who was still unstable and brimming with curiosity—at the very least, he had to be protected, even if he chose to leave.
After that, the father let out a long sigh.
"This is the reason I gathered all of you here,"
he said wearily.
"Even though the youngest has chosen to run away."
He began explaining about the Hanwick family's diamond mines—their rapidly increasing output, the craftsmen struggling to keep up with demand, and the shops that continued to generate enormous profits.
"All of this is growing far too quickly,"
he continued.
"And I am already too old to bear it alone."
His voice trembled.
"You are all grown now, yet one by one, you abandon your responsibilities."
Seo-jun nearly raised his hand, wanting to speak—to step forward and offer himself.
However, their father's attention instead fell upon Alaric.
His eldest son. The designated heir.
"Father,"
Alaric said flatly,
"this world is temporary. Wealth, power, beauty—these are nothing more than the devil's temptations meant to make humans forget the afterlife. Why concern ourselves so deeply with such fleeting matters?"
The old man leaned back in his chair and pressed a hand to his forehead in frustration.
"My son… my son who was once so idealistic,"
he murmured.
"Everything changed after you met that cursed bishop."
Without hesitation, Alaric sprinkled holy water from the small bottle he always carried.
"O Most High, creator of the universe,"
he said devoutly.
"Forgive the sins of my father, who remains bound to the beauty of this world."
Seo-jun could no longer hold himself back.
He laughed—loudly, freely, almost hysterically.
"He's completely lost it,"
he said.
"Religious fanatics really aren't that different from cra—"
Before he could finish the sentence, Alaric splashed the remaining holy water directly onto Seo-jun's face.
The cold liquid ran down his cheeks, his nose, and even into his mouth.
Cold.
Like water just taken out of a refrigerator.
Seo-jun froze for a moment… then swallowed.
"Refreshing,"
he said casually.
"May I have some more?"
At once, the dining room froze.
No one moved.
No one dared to breathe too loudly.
Holy water was a sacred object—rare, expensive, and treated with the utmost reverence. Never, in the history of the Hanwick family, had anyone treated it as though it were drinking water.