John leaned back in the chair, the soft leather creaking under his weight as the last echoes of his laughter faded into the quiet hum of the office.
The monitors still glowed with the feed from Eliersia, showing Elrin sprawled out like a discarded doll while his three girls whispered and giggled around him. But the amusement didn't last. It curdled fast, twisting back into something sharper, hotter, lingering like a bad taste at the back of his throat.
That smug little prick had humiliated him, kicked him when he was down, treated him like garbage, and now John was supposed to just let it slide because the guy turned out to be a pathetic cuck in private? No. Punishment was still coming. The plan just needed refining.
He moved the mouse across the desk, the cursor gliding smoothly until it hovered over Elrin's name in the live window. One click and the entire screen shifted, pulling up a formatted page that looked exactly like one of those old online encyclopedias he used to waste hours on back in Japan. Clean white background, blue hyperlinks scattered throughout, sections neatly divided with bold headers. It even had that faint digital paper texture in the margins. John scrolled slowly, eyes narrowing as he took in the layout. The top read "Elrin Snooven Hound" in crisp letters, with a small portrait thumbnail showing the blond noble's delicate face. Below it, the usual categories: Early Life, Role in Court, Military Service. He skipped the history section entirely, too much fluff about childhood tutors and noble upbringing—and dragged the scroll bar straight down to the politicians subsection.
The page refreshed with a soft click sound. A new header appeared: "Ashford Snooven Hound – Duke of Greystone." John leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and started reading. The article unfolded in careful, formal prose, the kind written by someone who wanted to sound important without saying too much.
Ashford Snooven Hound (born 1427) is the current Duke of Greystone and the primary ruler of the capital city within the Kingdom of Thornheim. At age 52, he stands as one of the longest-serving noble administrators in the eastern provinces, having inherited the title from his father (Luushus Snooven Hound) at the unusually young age of 19 following a sudden hunting accident that claimed the previous duke. Greystone itself serves as the administrative heart of Thornheim, overseeing tax collection, military levies, and diplomatic relations with the neighboring realms of Valthor and the Free Cities of the Silver Coast. Ashford's governance has been marked by a careful balance of tradition and calculated expansion, though critics within the royal court have occasionally whispered about his reluctance to commit fully to larger kingdom-wide crusades.
His early years were shaped by the War of East Ridge in 1445, a brutal border conflict sparked by disputed mining rights along the Crimson Mountains. Ashford, then a fresh-faced young lord still learning the weight of his title, personally led a detachment of Greystone knights into the fray after the initial royal forces suffered heavy losses. The battle at Ridge Pass became legendary in local lore for his decision to hold the narrow gorge against three times his number of Valthorian raiders. He refused to retreat even when his standard-bearer fell, rallying his men with a speech that emphasized duty over survival. By the end of the three-day siege, Ashford had lost nearly half his company but secured the pass long enough for reinforcements to arrive. The victory earned him a scar across his left shoulder that he still carries today and the undying loyalty of several veteran captains who now serve in his personal guard. Historians note that this campaign marked the beginning of Ashford's reputation as a man who valued strategic patience over reckless glory.
The Famine War of 1458 tested him further. When drought struck the southern grain belts and food riots threatened to spill into the capital, Ashford implemented a series of harsh but effective measures. He redirected Greystone's winter stores to the most loyal noble houses first, ensuring their support while the common folk scraped by on thinned rations. Public executions of hoarders and black-market traders became weekly spectacles in the central square, a grim reminder of order. Ashford himself oversaw three such proceedings, standing on the raised platform in his ceremonial armor while the crowds jeered below. The war ended not through battlefield triumph but through calculated starvation and negotiation; Thornheim secured new trade routes with the coastal merchants by offering mining concessions in exchange for emergency grain shipments. Ashford's role in those talks is often credited with preventing total collapse, though some surviving records from the lower classes describe him as cold and detached, more concerned with preserving the nobility's power than feeding the hungry.
In personality, Ashford is widely regarded as pragmatic to a fault. He maintains a strict daily routine, rising before dawn for private sword practice and retiring late after reviewing ledgers by candlelight. Those who have dined with him describe a man of few words but sharp observation, capable of remembering the names and family connections of every minor lord in attendance. He rarely raises his voice, preferring quiet commands that carry the weight of inevitability. His only acknowledged weakness is his devotion to his sole heir, Elrin, whom he has shielded from the harshest realities of court life. Ashford has refused multiple offers of marriage alliances for his son, stating privately that the boy requires more time to mature before being burdened with political unions. This protective streak has drawn quiet criticism from other houses, who view Elrin as spoiled and untested.
The article continued with smaller sections on Ashford's hunting trophies, his collection of antique maps, and a brief note on his health, rumors of occasional chest pains that he dismisses as the price of long service. John read every line twice, absorbing the portrait of a calculated, cold, and fiercely protective father who had built his power through patience and quiet ruthlessness. No current advisors listed. The line sat there plain and unadorned, a blank space where names should have been. John's cursor hovered over it. Then he noticed the small edit icon in the corner, a tiny pencil symbol glowing faintly blue.
He clicked it.
A new window popped up, simple text box with a single line of warning at the top: "One edit permitted per article. Changes must remain minimal and consistent with existing tone. Reality adjustment will propagate accordingly."
John stared at the box for a long moment. His fingers hovered over the keys. Then he typed.
"Current advisors include Nohj, a respected political consultant recently elevated to the inner circle for his strategic insights and unwavering loyalty to the Greystone line."
He hit save.
The page refreshed instantly. The line updated without fanfare, sliding Nohj into place as if the man had always existed. John felt the shift ripple outward—not dramatic, no thunder or flashing lights, just a quiet adjustment in the fabric of things. Somewhere far away in Eliersia, records were rewriting themselves, memories adjusting, doors opening that had been closed a moment ago. Nohj now carried political power and respect. No one would question his presence. No one would suspect the alias belonged to the same person who had once been dragged through their streets in chains.
John leaned back, a slow grin spreading across his face. The plan clicked into place with evil simplicity. Become Nohj, slide into the court as this new advisor no one would look at twice. Get close enough to Elrin to kidnap him quietly, drag him back here through a portal or a summon, and hand him over to Marrianetta for whatever creative hell she wanted to unleash. Once Elrin was broken and used up, manipulate Ashford through the same advisory role. Whisper suggestions, plant ideas, steer the old duke toward naming his "loyal consultant" as successor. Then remove Ashford—quietly, cleanly—and step into the title of Duke of Eliersia. The whole kingdom would fall into his lap without a single open battle.
It was so straightforward it almost felt ridiculous. Infiltration wrapped in bureaucracy. No grand armies, no flashy magic duels. Just a few typed words and a fake name that reality itself now accepted as truth. John stared at the updated article, the name "Nohj" sitting there innocently among the other advisors, and felt the anger at Elrin sharpen into something colder and more focused. Punishment was coming. The girls could wait. The duke could wait. First he would take the son, twist him, and then take everything else.
A plan so evilly simple. It just might work…