The rhythmic strike of the hammer from the forge echoed across the estate, becoming a sort of metronome for the new life at Hellsworth. Servants moved through the corridors faster than usual, driven by a newfound urgency.
By noon, the family had gathered in the dining hall. Lunch was held in an oppressive silence, broken only by the steady ticking of the grandfather clock and the clatter of silver against porcelain. Victor sat at the head of the table, cutting his meat into perfectly even pieces.
Kyle sat to his right, Evelyna to his left. Little Leon had huddled into his chair, trying to make himself invisible, casting terrified glances at the perfectly fastened buttons on his shirt. Yesterday's reprimand had not been in vain; the child looked at his own buttons with such horror, as if they were about to swallow him alive.
Kyle was the first to set down his fork.
"The whole house is on edge. Ludwik dragged Bard and Morn to the warehouse this morning. They say you were there."
"Quite right," Victor replied. "It turns out our blacksmith was confusing his pockets with mine, and the steward thought the grain was better off rotting at the market than sitting in our granaries."
News from the warehouse had spread through the estate like wildfire. By the time Victor came down for lunch, there wasn't a soul in the house who didn't know the details of the morning inspection. The crackdown on the steward and the blacksmith had stripped the servants of their usual laxity.
This tension had reached the children as well. They couldn't tell if this was a fleeting whim or if a new era had truly dawned in the house, so they took great care not to draw any unnecessary attention to themselves.
Evelyna, who until then had been indifferently picking at her plate, snapped her head up. A poisonous smirk played on her lips.
"And? You've decided to play at being the master? Before, you didn't give a damn as long as the wine in the cellar didn't run out."
Victor calmly took a sip of water from his glass.
"Now I do. We are nearly out of money, and those twelve men Kyle calls 'guards' are armed with garbage. Bard is locked in the forge and will stay there until he produces proper swords. Morn will return everything he hid."
"You didn't beat them?" Leon asked, his eyes wide.
Victor looked at his youngest son. The boy immediately pulled his head into his shoulders.
"No. Beaten workers are of little use. It's better they work and repay their debts. Leon, eat your vegetables."
Kyle frowned, searching his father's voice for the usual notes of mockery or a looming flash of rage, but he found none.
"People are scared. They don't know what to expect. You've been sober for days now. It's... strange."
"Let them get used to it."
Victor pushed his plate away.
"I need everything in this house to function as it should. Kyle, after lunch, go to the forge. Check what kind of steel Bard is using for the first batch. If he tries to palm off rusted scrap again, tell me."
"I'll go," his son replied shortly.
Evelyna stood up from the table, leaving her meal unfinished.
"I don't know what game you're playing, but don't hope that catching a couple of thieves will make us forget everything else."
She turned and marched out of the dining room, her heels clicking loudly. Watching her dramatic exit, Victor said nothing. However, the Woo Jin inside him could feel his back aching from the tension. Every word felt like a struggle; he had to constantly monitor his facial expressions to ensure he didn't betray his own confusion.
In that moment, he froze, noticing that Ethan was absent.
"Where is Ethan?"
Kyle, already standing in the doorway, turned around. A strange expression flickered across his face—a mix of irritation and something resembling a defensive reflex.
"In the library," Kyle said. "He's been locked in there with books since morning. Said he had a headache and wouldn't be coming to lunch."
Victor remained silent, staring at the empty chair.
In the original story, Ethan often used "illness" as a pretext to avoid Victor. While the father drank, the boy studied more than just history in the library; he delved into alchemy and botany.
"I see," Victor nodded. "Leon, when you finish, take a tray to your brother. Let him eat if his headache passes."
Leon nodded fearfully, nearly dropping his spoon. Kyle and Leon exchanged a look. Concern for a "sick" son was the last thing they expected from a man who, only a week ago, might have thrown a child out into the frost for flipping pages too loudly.
When the children dispersed, Victor stood and headed for the exit—not toward his office, but toward the west wing where the library was located.
He pushed the door open; it swung wide with a barely audible creak.
Inside, it was cool. High shelves, crammed with yellowed volumes, stretched to the very ceiling. In the far corner by a window cluttered with stacks of books sat Ethan. The boy was so thin and pale that he seemed almost translucent in the daylight. His black hair fell in messy strands over his forehead. Against this backdrop, his dark blue eyes appeared unnaturally large and deep, like two pools of ink.
He didn't even lift his head when his father entered. His fingers, stained with ink, turned the page of a massive book.
Victor walked up close. The shadow of his tall frame covered the table and the boy himself. He glanced over his son's shoulder. On the table lay no knightly romances or royal chronicles. Before Ethan lay "A Treatise on the Properties of Marsh Herbs and Roots," and next to it was an open notebook filled with cramped handwriting.
"Ethan."
The boy's head snapped up. Ethan slammed the notebook shut instantly, hiding it under a heavy book, and pressed himself into the back of his chair, bracing for a blow or a shout.
"Father... I... I was just reading," the boy's voice broke into a whisper. "Kyle said I could... I'll leave right now, I'm sorry..."
He began feverishly gathering his papers, dropping quills and staining his fingers further with ink.
"Your head hurts because you're sitting in this dust like a mole," Victor interrupted him.
He unceremoniously grabbed one of the books from the table and flipped through the yellowed pages with a look of distaste.
"What is this? Recipes from a hundred years ago? Foolishness."
Ethan opened one eye, looking at his father with undisguised terror. He expected a strike, but Victor only tossed the book back onto the table, kicking up a cloud of dust.
"Sit up straight," Victor commanded. "You're slouching as if your spine is made of straw. If you go blind by thirteen, I don't intend to pay for your upkeep as an invalid. Move to the other end of the table; the light falls from the left there."
Holding his breath, Ethan quickly moved his notes to the indicated spot.
"And if Leon brings you food, you will eat every last crumb."
Victor loomed over him.
"I don't need another skeleton in this house. If I find out you've poured your soup out the window, I'll make you transcribe every one of these dusty books. Do you understand me?"
"Y-yes, Father..." Ethan exhaled, still unable to believe he hadn't been hit.
"Carry on," Victor said, turning toward the exit. "But if I see you ruining your eyesight in the dark again, I'll throw all these books into the fireplace."
He left, closing the door loudly behind him. Once in the empty corridor, Victor leaned against the wall and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
The library was the one place in Hellsworth the old Victor almost never entered. The smell of dust and old paper had brought him nothing but boredom and irritation. By leaving Ethan there, Woo Jin had effectively laid the first brick in the foundation of his own safety. He understood that in the future, this pale boy with ink-stained fingers would become his sharpest and most invisible blade.
Victor was still standing by the wall, catching his breath, when hurried footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor. Ludwik practically flew around the corner. He was breathing heavily, clutching his hand to his chest as if his heart were ready to leap from his ribs.
"Lord... Lord Victor!" he gasped, lunging for air. "Downstairs... at the gates..."
Ludwik swallowed hard, wiping his forehead with a trembling hand. He had clearly run across the entire estate.
"Who is it?"
"Mr. Robert. The owner of the city bank. He... he is not alone; he has two guards with him. He says the deadline for the debts passed last Thursday and he is no longer willing to listen to your explanations."
In this kingdom, banking law was ruthless toward fading aristocracy. According to the law of collateral, once the final date in a contract was overdue, the debt holder gained the right of "total seizure." This meant Mr. Robert hadn't come to negotiate partial payments; he had come to officially transition Hellsworth into bank-owned property.
For Victor, this meant a total loss of status. If Robert placed his seal on the act of seizure today, the family would be on the street by evening, without even the right to take their personal belongings.
"Show him to the small drawing room. And have tea served. The best we have left."
"But... Lord, we don't have..."
Ludwik began, but he caught Victor's gaze and cut himself off.
"Find it, Ludwik. And pull yourself together."
Victor waited until the servant hurried off, stumbling, to carry out the order. He needed a few seconds to prepare himself.
Mr. Robert was not just a banker; he was a vulture who had fed for years on the decay of noble houses. In an era where the aristocracy preferred putting a bullet in their heads over counting pennies, people like him became the true masters of the land.