Seo-jun handed over the design he had created, his posture confident. Edmund immediately traced every line and note carefully laid out across the paper. The secretary's uncle standing beside him was visibly startled—casting several glances at Seo-jun, as if trying to confirm that the young man before him was truly the same troublemaking noble son he had always known.
"Your design is remarkably detailed,"
Edmund said quietly, his eyes never leaving the page.
"The materials, the function, even the manufacturing process are clearly illustrated. Where did you learn all this?"
The question caught Seo-jun off guard. He fell silent for a few seconds before answering, his tone hesitant yet deliberately casual.
"Hmm… I sometimes watch Lucien paint and try to develop his ideas into product designs,"
he said.
"His paintings are far more beautiful, of course—but this design is clear and easy to understand, isn't it… Father?"
Edmund paused—then burst into hearty laughter. He clapped the secretary's uncle on the shoulder, who now wore a proud smile of his own.
"Very well,"
Edmund said at last.
"Seeing how serious and meticulous this design is, I've grown even more curious about the product you intend to develop. Therefore—I will personally cover all initial production costs."
Seo-jun froze.
"All of it…? Father, are you serious?"
he asked, making sure he had heard correctly.
"Of course,"
Edmund replied firmly.
"But every expense must be documented in detail. If even a single coin is used for gambling or anything unrelated to this business, I will withdraw all funding without exception."
Seo-jun nodded decisively. Without hesitation, he wrote and signed the agreement contract with his father.
Seeing the change in his son, Edmund looked genuinely relieved. Without realizing it, he reached out and gently rested his hand on Seo-jun's head—a gesture he rarely ever made.
When Seo-jun left the room, he could no longer contain his excitement. He let out a quiet cheer, spinning down the hallway with a triumphant grin—until he accidentally bumped into someone.
A maid.
Her hair was a deep crimson, dark yet gleaming as it reflected the torchlight. As Seo-jun instinctively helped her back to her feet, her full chest nearly brushed against his arm.
"I'm sorry,"
Seo-jun said quickly, his eyes unintentionally locking onto her face.
The dim corridor was lit only by candles and torches, but faint moonlight fell perfectly across the maid's features. Her smile was gentle—too gentle—with a dimple on her right cheek that made Seo-jun's heart pound.
"No, Young Master,"
the woman replied softly.
"I should be the one apologizing. I was walking too slowly… I was admiring the moon tonight. Its light is so beautiful."
Seo-jun nodded faintly—though what he was admiring was clearly not the moon.
"Yes,"
he murmured.
"So beautiful… it's hard to look away."
Suddenly, a hand tapped his right shoulder.
"Brother?"
Lucien's cheerful voice rang out.
"Who are you talking to?"
Seo-jun reflexively turned toward his younger brother. But when he looked forward again—the corridor was empty.
"Huh?"
he froze.
"The maid… she was just here."
Lucien frowned slightly.
"A maid? What did she look like, Brother?"
Seo-jun tried to recall her features, then answered enthusiastically.
"She had dark red hair that shimmered beautifully under the moonlight. A sweet smile, with a dimple on her right cheek. Beautiful… truly beautiful."
Lucien fell silent for quite some time.
"But, Brother…"
he said quietly.
"There are no maids with red hair in this residence. In fact… there isn't a single noble family in this entire country with red hair."
Seo-jun slowly turned toward him. He narrowed his eyes, then curled his lips into a crooked smile—a smile that clearly signaled disbelief.
"You're not being serious, are you?"
he said lightly.
"You're just trying to scare me."
"I'm serious,"
Lucien replied without hesitation.
"There isn't any. And there never has been. You of all people should know, Brother. You've brought plenty of women into this residence before."
The words struck like an icy needle.
A chill crawled up Seo-jun's spine. Cold sweat slowly gathered at his temples. But he couldn't show it—not to Lucien.
He let out a small laugh, forcing a casual tone.
"Hah… I guess my jokes are getting more elaborate,"
he said.
"Truly an unmatched Casanova."
Lucien sighed, then gave a small smile.
Seo-jun laughed along and clapped both hands on his brother's shoulders.
"Go back to your room,"
he threatened jokingly.
"Before I tear apart that paint-filled cave of yours."
Lucien didn't need to be told twice. He immediately ran up the stairs to the upper floor.
Once his brother's footsteps faded, Seo-jun's smile slowly disappeared.
He stood alone in the corridor, which now felt far darker than before.
Though fear still pressed heavily against his chest, the image of the red-haired woman's smile resurfaced in his mind. For some reason, the corner of his lips lifted ever so slightly.
"…If she isn't human,"
he murmured softly,
"then it seems I didn't lose out entirely."
Upon returning to his room, Seo-jun went straight to his desk. He sat down, took a deep breath, and began reorganizing his thoughts.
Rubber tires.
A simple concept—yet nearly impossible in this era.
He began writing carefully, not as definitive formulas, but as guiding directions.
Preliminary Notes – Soft Wheels
The primary material must be flexible, resistant to cracking, and capable of bearing heavy pressure.
In my previous world, such material came from the sap of a specific tree.
Seo-jun paused his writing.
Natural rubber.
Tree sap that could be coagulated, dried, and then processed again.
The problem was—he had never seen such a tree explicitly mentioned in any historical records of this world.
He continued writing, now more speculative.
Reinforcement is required to prevent tearing.
Black ash from certain combustion processes may be usable.
Internal structure…
Strong thread? Woven fibers? Or thin metal wire?
Seo-jun let out a long sigh and leaned back against his chair.
"The materials…"
he muttered.
"Some of them aren't even known in this century."
That meant only one thing.
He wouldn't just be creating a product.
He would have to carve a path for the knowledge itself—and record it so it wouldn't vanish, even if he failed.
He slowly closed his notebook.
"The core problem remains the same,"
he said quietly.
"Where can I find a naturally flexible material?"
His gaze hardened.
"It's time I contacted that person."
Seo-jun picked up his pen once more—
and began writing a letter.ange expression—not surprise, but uncertainty.