The night’s moon faded as the first burst of sunlight pierced the darkness, signaling the beginning of a new day.

  Below, the townsfolk stirred awake one by one. The distant sounds of carts creaking and roosters crowing drifted up toward the mansion.

  Inside the Ashborn estate, the halls bustled with more activity than usual. The Young Master had finally awakened, and the gloom that had hung over the house for a week had lifted.

  On the second floor, Arthur’s eyes fluttered open.

  His mind was still foggy. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up in bed. The same dark oak ceiling loomed above him. Yesterday’s events had not been a dream.

  Arthur exhaled a long sigh. His body remained weak from the poison’s aftereffects. He spotted a pair of wooden crutches leaning against the nightstand—likely left by the physician while he slept—and used them to hoist himself up.

  He was used to taking care of himself. Calling Layla for help didn’t even cross his mind, though he was supposed to be acting like a “spoiled Young Master.”

  Arthur dragged his body into the small washroom attached to his chambers. It was simple, tiled in grey stone. No automatic water heater—just a single copper pipe linked to a modestly decorated faucet.

  But something caught his eye.

  A faint bluish aura enveloped the base of the pipe. It pulsed rhythmically, like a heartbeat. He couldn’t feel heat, but the glow was unmistakable.

  “Hm. Does this world use magic?” Arthur muttered, intrigued. Is that a water-enchantment or a pressure-pump spell?

  He washed his face with the surprisingly warm water and brushed his teeth. To his relief, this world had something resembling a toothbrush—a wooden stick with stiff bristles, likely boar hair. Primitive, but hygiene was universal, he thought.

  After freshening up, Arthur hobbled to the tall window.

  His room overlooked most of the town. From here, he could see the layout clearly—the struggling market, the muddy roads, and the smoking chimneys.

  As he analyzed the structural failures he had noted on the map last night, a soft knock sounded at the door.

  “Young Master? It’s Layla. May I come in…?”

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  “Yes, you may,” Arthur replied, still leaning against the window.

  Layla entered and gasped. Her Young Master was already awake, washed, and standing with crutches.

  “Young Master! Did I come too late to help you up?!”

  Arthur cursed inwardly. Crap. I forgot the act.

  “I… I just wanted to see the sun. Help me get dressed quickly!” he said, forcing the most innocent smile he could muster.

  Layla looked relieved. “Of course, Young Master. Right away.”

  She dressed him in a loose linen tunic and trousers, finishing just in time.

  Moments later, the heavy doors opened again. Viscount and Viscountess Ashborn arrived, accompanied by the physician—an elderly man carrying a leather satchel that clinked with glass vials.

  They waited anxiously while the physician examined Arthur, pressing a glowing green stone against his chest and checking his pupils.

  Arthur watched, impressed. Some kind of magical scanner, he thought.

  Finally, the physician stepped back and bowed. “I assure you, Sir and Madame, Young Master Oliver is recovering remarkably well. The poison has been completely purged. With a few days of rest and balanced meals, he will return to full health.”

  Viscount Ashborn exhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging with relief. He accompanied the physician to the door to thank him.

  Meanwhile, Cecilia rushed to her son’s side, tears of joy in her eyes. She embraced him tightly, as if afraid he might vanish if she let go.

  Arthur played along, patting her back awkwardly. “I’m okay, Mother.”

  Layla returned with a silver tray laden with porridge, bread, and fruit. She sat on the edge of the bed, spoon in hand, ready to feed him like an invalid.

  Arthur recoiled slightly. Hell no. The thirty-year-old engineer in him couldn’t stomach the indignity.

  “I can eat by myself,” he said, taking the spoon from her hand a bit too firmly.

  “But Oliver…” his mother began.

  “I’m not a baby anymore, Mother,” Arthur said, adding a childish pout to sell the act. “My hands work fine. See?”

  He took a large bite of porridge to prove his point.

  Cecilia blinked, then smiled warmly. “Stubborn as your father,” she chuckled, ruffling his hair. “Very well. Eat up, my strong boy.”

  She turned to the maid. “Let him be for now. We have preparations to make for my sister’s arrival. Follow me, Layla.”

  The two women left, the door clicking shut behind them.

  Arthur lowered the spoon. The childish pout vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, calculating gaze.

  Now came the hard part.

  To fix the territory, he needed knowledge. To gain knowledge, he needed access to the library. And to gain access to the library, he had to convince his father—a man who knew Oliver hated books—that his son had suddenly had a change of heart.

  Arthur finished his plate, pushed the tray aside, and grabbed his crutches.

  “Time to put those acting skills to the test,” he whispered.

  (To be continued …)

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