Arthur picked up his crutches, wedging them under his arms for support. It was time to pay his father a visit. He needed access to the library. If he was going to survive in this world, he needed every scrap of knowledge he could get.

  He walked down the hallway, the rhythmic thud-click, thud-click of the wood against the stone floor echoing in the silence. For the first time, he took a proper look at the internal layout of the mansion. His room was on the second floor, while the estate seemed to be three stories tall.

  Navigating the stairs with his crutches was truly a sweaty, grueling ordeal.

  The Viscount’s office was located at the farthest end of the third floor. It stood out from the other rooms, marked by a massive, heavy brown door adorned with silver carvings and two polished golden handles.

  Arthur steadied his breathing and knocked twice.

  "Father, may I enter?"

  He waited, listening for the voice from inside.

  "Yes, you may. Alan, open the doors."

  The guard stationed outside, a man named Alan, nodded respectfully to the Young Master and pushed the heavy double doors open.

  Arthur hobbled inside and took a moment to look around in awe. The office was beautifully appointed. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, filled to the brim. A massive timber desk dominated the center of the room, a small rectangular table sat between two leather armchairs for guests, and a grand painting showcasing the family crest hung proudly above the mantle.

  It was meticulously organized. Papers were stacked in neat piles; quills were aligned by size. It was exactly the kind of environment Arthur loved in his previous life-he was a sucker for perfect order.

  He quickly composed himself. Luckily, his father was engrossed in a stack of documents and didn't notice his son’s analyzing gaze.

  "Oliver, you may sit. Don’t remain standing like that," Roderick said with a warm chuckle, not looking up from his papers.

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  Then, he paused, his brow furrowing as he scanned the room. "And where is Layla? I don’t see her with you. Isn’t she supposed to be helping you?"

  He looked up, giving Arthur a stern, protective look.

  "Ah... Father, don't worry about that," Arthur said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Mother told her to help with the preparations for Aunt’s arrival, so I slipped out on my own."

  He gestured to the crutches with a confident smile. “Besides, I think I’m able to move around fine now. I need the exercise.”

  Roderick massaged his temple and sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Alright, Son. Just take care of yourself. You gave us quite a scare.”

  He laced his fingers together, resting them on the desk. “Now, what brings you to my office so early? Usually, you avoid this room like the plague.”

  “I…” Arthur hesitated, looking down at his hands to sell the act. “While I was asleep… I felt helpless, Father. I don’t want to be helpless anymore. I want to learn more about the world.”

  Viscount Roderick’s eyes widened in genuine shock. His quill froze mid-air.

  He had expected the boy to ask for a new toy, or to complain about bitter medicine. But this? He never expected such a request from his son—a boy who had once hated reading more than anything.

  For a moment, silence hung in the room.

  Then, a slow, proud smile spread across Roderick’s tired face. To see his thirteen-year-old son showing such maturity so early… it gave him a spark of reassurance about the future of the Ashborn lineage.

  “I see,” Roderick said softly. “You want access to the library.”

  He opened a drawer in his heavy oak desk and pulled out a heavy iron key attached to a silk ribbon.

  “Very well. If you have the will to learn, I will not stop you. Take this key. Show it to Old Marcus at the door, and he will allow you entry into the Archives as well.”

  He slid the key across the desk, but before Arthur could grab it, Roderick held up a finger.

  “However, the restricted area is off-limits,” he added sternly. “And you must take Layla with you. I do not want you fainting between the bookshelves with no one to catch you. Is that understood?”

  “Thank you, Father! Rest assured, I will be careful,” Arthur said, beaming as he snatched the key.

  He bowed clumsily with his crutches and turned to leave.

  Arthur’s fingers tightened around the cold iron, its weight grounding him in this borrowed life. Things had turned out better than expected. He had permission, he had the key to the Archives, and—most importantly—he had his father’s trust.

  Now, he thought, excitement building as he hobbled toward the door, it’s time to dig into that pile of books and figure out how this world really works.

  Inside, though Arthur was grinning, he knew the library held more than just history books. It held the answers he desperately needed to survive this mess and, somehow, find a way back home.

  (To be continued…)