The Dining Hall of Iron Hearth Castle. The Same Night.
BAM! The sound of the heavy oak doors slamming shut under Riven's hand echoed through the hall like the locking of a massive stone tomb. Baron Gorm flinched, his shoulders jerking so violently that his silk robes bunched up around his neck. Behind him, his two guards instinctively reached for their hilts, the sharp shring of drawing steel cutting through the tension.
"Easy, soldiers."
Lucian's voice sliced through the air. It wasn't loud, but it carried a low, gravelly weight—an authority that froze the guards in their tracks. "If my son wanted you dead, you would have been corpses before that door even touched the frame."
Gulp. Gorm swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with visible effort. He had arrived expecting to find a broken noble family—begging, weeping, and kissing his boots for a shred of mercy. But the atmosphere in this room was… wrong. The lion he thought was dying was merely coiled, waiting for the perfect moment to tear his throat out. And that scrawny advisor—why was he staring at Gorm as if he were dissecting a laboratory rat?
Roland allowed a faint, practiced smile to touch his lips—the same disarming grin he used to win inter-varsity debates back in Jakarta. He sauntered toward a side table and picked up an empty silver chalice. Ting. He flicked the rim with a finger.
"Lord Gorm," Roland began, pouring dark red wine into the cup. The liquid flowed smoothly, releasing a pungent, fermented aroma. "You look tense. Thirsty?"
Roland offered the chalice with an elegant flourish. Gorm shoved it away, his face contorting. Crash! The wine splashed across the floor, seeping into the cracks of the weathered stone tiles.
"Don't play games with me, boy!" Gorm barked, cold sweat beading on his balding pate. "I don't care for your hollow pleasantries. Pay the debt, or I take this girl right now!" He jabbed a stubby finger toward Rhea.
Rhea didn't flinch. Instead, she began twirling her steak knife between her fingers. Whirr, whirr, whirr. The speed was unnatural, a blur of silver. Her gaze was vacant yet locked onto the pulsing vein in Gorm's neck, as if she were mentally marking the softest spot to rip open.
"Hmm, about that debt…" Rianor finally spoke. He remained seated, holding the parchment scroll by its edge as if it were a piece of soiled parchment he was reluctant to touch.
Rianor adjusted his collar. Without his glasses, the world was a bit of a blur, but the memories of the original Lord Rianor provided a visual clarity that was more than sufficient.
"Lord Gorm, are you a graduate of the Royal Academy of Mathematics? Or at the very least… did you ever learn to count?" Rianor asked tonelessly.
"What? What does that have to do with anything, you fool!"
"Because whoever drafted this contract," Rianor tapped the paper with a fingernail, tap, tap, "is clearly trying to defraud the Crown. Either that, or they are functionally illiterate."
Gorm's eyes bulged. Defrauding the Crown was a death sentence. "Watch your tongue! That was written by Duke Varkas's personal accountant!"
Rianor stood up slowly. He approached Gorm with a languid stride, his eyes locking onto the Baron with an intensity Gorm had never seen from the "Bookworm" who usually trembled in his presence.
"Clause one: A principal debt of twenty-thousand gold coins. Interest set at fifteen percent per annum. Total after ten years: fifty-thousand gold coins." Rianor let out a long, weary sigh. "In my homeland—I mean, at the Academy—we call this Compound Interest. Interest upon interest."
Rianor stopped inches from Gorm's nose. The Baron's cheap, musk-heavy perfume assaulted his senses.
"But unfortunately, King Aethelgard's Decree Number 44 regarding Inter-Noble Loans strictly forbids such practices. The legal cap is Simple Interest. Fixed rate."
Rip! Rianor tore the bottom half of the parchment without hesitation.
"Based on the Kingdom's legal calculations, our debt is only thirty-five thousand gold coins. Not fifty thousand." Rianor flicked the torn scrap of paper into Gorm's face. "You're trying to extort fifteen thousand extra coins. If I were to report this to the Ministry of Finance… Duke Varkas could be charged with economic treason. You know the penalty for that, don't you? Your heads would look quite decorative on the capital's gates."
Gorm recoiled, his face flushing a deep, angry crimson. He didn't understand the strange terms this boy used, but he knew the interest laws. Varkas had inflated the numbers on purpose, betting that House Sudrath was too desperate and stupid to check the details. But this boy… he had dismantled the lie in seconds.
"That… that must be a clerical error!" Gorm stammered, panic rising in his chest. "Regardless! Thirty-five thousand gold coins! Do you even have the money? Hah?! I know your vaults contain nothing but dust and rats!"
Now it was Roland's turn to step in. He draped an arm over Gorm's pudgy shoulders—a gesture far too intimate, bordering on a mockery.
"Of course we don't have that much liquid cash here, Baron," Roland chuckled softly, as if it were the funniest joke of the year. "Only an amateur noble would keep a mountain of gold in a peripheral castle vulnerable to bandits. Right?"
Roland leaned in, whispering directly into Gorm's ear. "Our capital is… currently invested. We are working on a clandestine project with certain parties in the Capital. A project of immense scale. If Duke Varkas seizes this territory now, he would be disrupting His Majesty's business."
Roland pulled back, staring deep into Gorm's eyes. "Tsk. Imagine if the King finds out his project failed simply because Duke Varkas was too impatient to collect a petty debt. I wonder whose head would roll first? The Duke's? Or the… incompetent messenger who failed to deliver the warning?"
Gorm turned deathly pale. The young man's confidence was terrifyingly convincing. No one truly bankrupt could act this composed—unless they held a royal trump card.
"P-prove it!" Gorm croaked.
CRASH!
The dining table shook violently. Duke Lucian stood up so abruptly his chair toppled backward.
As Lucian straightened his spine, the atmosphere in the room felt as though it were being sucked into a vacuum. The air pressure dropped, making Gorm's lungs feel like they were shrinking. A predatory chill radiated from the Duke's eyes—eyes that no longer looked like those of a weary old man, but like an ancient apex predator deciding which limb to chew off first.
A thick, suffocating killing intent—a blend of Sanusi's ruthless corporate charisma and General Lucian's butcher instincts—filled the hall.
Lucian walked slowly around the table. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each footfall sounded like the ticking of an executioner's clock. He stopped in front of Gorm, towering over him like a monolith.
"Proof?" Lucian's voice was a low thunder.
Snatched! He unsheathed a ceremonial dagger from his belt. Gorm shrieked, nearly falling over his own feet.
Thwack! Lucian slammed the dagger into the wooden table, right in the center of the spilled wine. The blade quivered, reflecting the dim candlelight.
"The proof is the fact that I haven't taken your head tonight, Gorm," Lucian growled. His face was inches from Gorm's. The metallic scent of blood and the rugged aroma of a warrior's leather assaulted the Baron's nose. "That is the only mercy House Sudrath has left to give."
Lucian grabbed Gorm's collar, pulling him closer. "Go back. Tell Varkas. I'm giving him one month. I will pay the thirty-five thousand coins in full. Not a single copper less."
"O-one month?" Gorm squeaked. "But—"
"One. Month." Lucian emphasized every syllable. "Or would you like me to send your guard's head in a box as a down payment?"
Near the door, Riven pointedly drew his sword an extra inch. Shring. The metal caught the light with a menacing glint.
Gorm's resolve shattered. Rianor's logic, Roland's silver tongue, and Lucian's terrifying aura had stripped him of his dignity.
"F-fine!" Gorm scrambled backward, tripping over his own cloak and nearly tumbling. "One month! By the next full moon! If the gold isn't there… we will burn this place to the ground!"
Gorm turned and bolted toward the corridor. "Open the doors! Faster!" he screamed at his guards, who were equally ashen.
Riven opened the doors slowly, watching them with a gaze of pure contempt until the sound of galloping horses faded into the snowstorm.
Silence returned to the room. One second, two seconds…
"Phew…" Rianor slumped back into his chair, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Damn. I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest."
"Dad… that acting… that was insane," Roland wiped the sweat from his forehead. His polished diplomat persona vanished, replaced by a young man who had just cheated death. "Honestly, the words just came to me. It felt strange."
Rully let out a breath of relief, quickly pulling the younger children into her arms. "You all were incredible. Truly incredible."
"But Dad… Rian…" Riven locked the doors again, his expression grave. "We only bought time. One month. We still don't have that kind of money. The taxes from this territory wouldn't even cover it in ten years."
All eyes turned to Rianor. The young man straightened his robes, his fear replaced by a familiar, cunning spark. He picked up the cracked wine glass from the table, lifting it toward the flickering candlelight.
"Rumi," Rianor called out to Rumaisha.
"Y-yes, Brother?"
"In your memories… does this world possess glass that is truly clear? Perfectly transparent?"
Rumaisha frowned, searching through Lady Rumaisha's memories. "No. The glass here is all murky—cloudy greens or dirty browns. If you want clear glass, you have to use magical crystals that cost enough to buy a whole village."
Rianor grinned. It was a smirk that made Roland shiver.
"Roland, get your marketing skills ready. We're going to make the wealthy nobles of this world fight over garbage."
Rianor set the cracked glass back on the table. Click.
"We're going to sell glass. And we're going to make House Varkas pay our debt with their own money."