After more than ten days of constant activity, the castle finally fell quiet again.
Raymond's top-floor bedroom had been thoroughly cleaned—no trace left of that musty odor. And the young maid who used to tend the basement had been promoted. She was now his personal attendant.
The room was silent except for the rustle of pages turning. Raymond sat motionless, expression blank, occasionally reaching for a piece of fruit and eating it in a single bite.
The maid beside him, carefully peeling fruit, was named Omily. She still wore the same black-and-white maid's uniform—because Raymond had mentioned, just once, that he liked her in it.
The fruit bowl sat empty. She wanted to ask if he needed anything else, but her voice came out as barely a whisper, more breath than words. It only made her blush harder.
Omily was born into the Torrie household—her family had served them for generations. She knew her place. Knew the line between servant and master. No matter how the young lord favored her, she couldn't forget who she was.
The other maids had congratulated her after that night they'd spent together. But she knew the truth: nothing happened. He'd held her, yes. His hand had... wandered. But they'd both stayed fully clothed the entire time.
Just thinking about it made her flush again. Her face had to be bright red.
The young lord was strange. Quiet. Distant. His hobby was even stranger.
For ten straight days, voices had echoed through the castle—reading, always reading. And he would just lie there with his eyes closed, listening. Sometimes it looked like he was sleeping.
History. Geography. Random trivia. Even scandalous court rumors. He absorbed it all.
Lost in thought, Omily's lips pouted without her noticing. Her brow furrowed. Two small dimples appeared on her cheeks.
"What are you thinking about? You look funny."
The voice came out of nowhere. She jumped. The young lord had left his chair without her noticing and was now studying her with narrowed eyes.
Raymond had just finished checking the chip's progress when he noticed his maid's strange expression. One moment she was flushed, the next pale. But that little pout, paired with her dimples—it made her look playful. Cute.
His question had startled her. Her rosy cheeks went white. Her dark eyes went wide with panic.
It was adorable.
"I—I..." Her voice cracked, but she caught herself. "Does my lord need anything?"
On impulse, Raymond reached out and pinched her cheek. Gently. Then, frowning slightly, he said, "Prepare the carriage. I need to visit the city lord."
The sudden intimacy made her face burn. With a soft sound—half gasp, half squeak—she fled to make the arrangements.
Her skin is so smooth, Raymond thought, still feeling the warmth on his fingertips even after he'd settled into the carriage.
The wheels rumbled beneath him as he rode toward the Torrie castle. He took a deep breath, energized. Ten days of work had finally paid off.
No one else understood what he'd been doing. How could they?
Two pretty young students had read to him for hours—common tongue and Spadon script, all recorded directly into the chip's memory. A white-haired old scholar had plowed through three massive volumes in Ancient Torrise script, the language wizards supposedly used among themselves. Difficult, obscure, nearly extinct.
The chip had already translated most of it. Those weird words, those strange grammar rules, those bizarre pronunciations—all being decoded. The old scholar had even shared stories about the wizard he'd once served, giving Raymond more pieces of the puzzle.
The other four scripts remained a mystery. The chip had recorded every character, analyzed every root, but without pronunciation or translation, they were useless. Maybe someday.
Raymond smiled to himself.
"Pronunciation conversion status?" he asked silently.
"Task initiated. Analyzing..."
"Spadon script: full conversion estimated 16 hours. Ancient Torrise script: full conversion estimated 78 hours."
The chip was faster now. Noticeably faster. Translating the Blackmane Bear language had taken over ten days. Now, in less than two weeks, it had nearly finished three completely different language systems.
Once the conversions were complete, the chip would just... install them. Directly into his memory. He'd be able to speak and understand like a native.
He didn't know why the chip's processing speed had improved. But he wasn't going to complain.
The carriage slowed. Wheels creaked less as they rolled onto smoother stone.
"My lord," Mygaugh's voice came from outside, "we've arrived at the city lord's castle."
Raymond composed himself. Wiped the smile off his face. Adjusted his robes. Then stepped out.
The old steward waited at the entrance, bowing deeply as he led Raymond toward Havinsson's study. Along the way, he mentioned—casually, as if it were nothing—that Havinsson was currently receiving an old friend.
Raymond stopped walking. Turned. Studied the steward with narrowed eyes.
He understood the message. And he rejected it.
The man who had come from Black River Valley. That's who Havinsson was meeting.
Raymond's sharp gaze made the steward shrink back. He dismissed the man with a wave—no point in punishing a messenger—and continued alone toward the study.
He hadn't even reached the corridor when laughter boomed from the open doorway.
"Havinsson! You actually believe some brat is a third-level apprentice? A kid with a weird hobby, hiring girls to read to him all day?"
Havinsson's embarrassed murmur followed.
Raymond's eyes narrowed further. He strode forward.