The days that followed passed with a fairly steady rhythm. Not the kind of perfect stillness one might call peaceful—rather, the familiar repetition of life in a small agricultural territory.

  Philip began waking earlier than before.

  At first it was only about ten minutes earlier than the servant who brought the morning water. After a few weeks, that gap stretched to half an hour, then nearly an hour. No one had ordered him to do it, and no one truly tried to stop him either.

  A child changing habits after recovering from a fever… from the perspective of the adults in the estate, it was probably not something worth discussing for very long.

  Servants occasionally spotted him in the back courtyard.

  The wooden sword would rise, pause, then repeat.

  Not fast. Not impressive. Just steady.

  One of the guards once muttered to his companion—Philip happened to overhear—that the third young master was “more stubborn than he looked.”

  It was not exactly a compliment.

  But Philip saw no reason to object. To be honest, he did not believe he possessed any particular talent. The only thing he could rely on right now… was perhaps the patience to repeat things that others might easily abandon.

  The afternoons were usually quieter.

  Philip spent quite a bit of time in the family’s study.

  If described honestly, the room did not resemble the “noble study” many people imagined. It was small, the ceiling low, and the two bookshelves had begun to bend slightly with age.

  There were not many books either.

  A few local chronicles.

  Tax ledgers of the territory, recording details down to individual sacks of grain and minor sources of revenue.

  Two books on the history of the kingdom—abridged versions, not the complete editions scholars in the capital used.

  Beyond that, there were several books on noble etiquette, a handwritten copy of land law, and a rather old volume about basic tactics for knights.

  All of it fit neatly on two shelves.

  Compared with the library of a count, this place would probably amount to… a corner of a room.

  Philip had been somewhat surprised at first.

  But thinking about it carefully, it made sense.

  Montserrat was only the territory of a minor baron. The family was not wealthy enough to accumulate many books, and truthfully, many nobles did not particularly care to do so.

  Knowledge—especially knowledge related to politics, war, and land management—was often kept rather restricted.

  Perhaps it was not that books were too rare, but that people preferred not to have too many readers.

  When such knowledge spread too widely, those in lower positions tended to start asking questions. And nobles, generally speaking, were not always fond of being questioned too much.

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  As a result, the Montserrat study contained things that were fairly practical. Things Philip had never touched even once in his previous life. Knowledge just sufficient for someone to manage their own lands and understand the kingdom’s laws.

  And… just enough for a curious person to sit for hours and still find something worth thinking about.

  Philip read slowly.

  Partly because the eyes of a child tired quickly. Partly because many of the books were genuinely dry.

  Three consecutive years of tax records rarely inspired excitement.

  But sometimes, among those repeating numbers, a few details stood out.

  The population of the territory, for example.

  Or the wheat harvest of each season.

  Or—something that made Philip pause longer—the number of men who could be mobilized in times of war.

  According to the records, the Montserrat family could summon at most around fifty farmers in an emergency.

  Fifty men.

  Not fifty professional soldiers. Just farmers handed spears, wooden shields, and the hope that they would stand long enough when needed.

  Philip stared at that number for quite some time.

  Compared to the armies of larger territories, such a force was almost insignificant.

  But in the context of a minor barony, it was hardly unusual.

  Fifty men, plus a few permanent guards… that was nearly the entire military strength of Montserrat.

  Philip closed the ledger.

  The truth was not particularly frightening.

  Just… very clear.

  The Montserrat family was not a great power. And if a truly serious crisis occurred, fifty farmers would probably not change much.

  Eventually, Philip’s small changes reached the ears of Baron Montserrat.

  One early autumn evening, after dinner, the baron asked Philip to remain in the dining hall.

  His two older brothers had already left the table. The room became noticeably quieter. The servants stepped farther away, leaving only the oil lamps and the faint scent of wine in the air.

  Baron Montserrat sat at the head of the table, holding a glass of wine.

  He looked at Philip for quite some time before speaking.

  “…I hear you have been waking up very early lately.”

  His tone was not heavy—just a simple observation.

  Philip replied,

  “I wanted to practice a little more.”

  The baron nodded slightly.

  “Not bad.”

  He took a sip of wine before continuing.

  “And I also hear you’ve been spending time in the study.”

  Philip did not deny it.

  “I’ve been reading a few things about the territory.”

  The baron set his glass down on the table.

  The sound was soft, but it made the conversation feel more serious.

  “Understanding the territory is the heir’s responsibility.”

  He said.

  “Not yours.”

  Philip remained silent for a moment.

  “I know.”

  The baron raised an eyebrow.

  “Then why read it?”

  Philip thought for a few seconds before answering.

  “Because… if one day the family runs into trouble, knowing a little more probably won’t hurt.”

  The answer, if judged honestly, sounded somewhat mature for a child.

  The baron watched him for a long time.

  Eventually, he chuckled softly.

  “You speak more like an adult than someone your age.”

  Philip did not argue.

  The baron leaned back in his chair.

  “Nobles have two kinds of rules.”

  He said.

  “One kind is written—the laws of the kingdom, duties to the king, the right to collect taxes, the responsibility to defend the land.”

  He paused, gently turning the wine in his glass.

  “The other kind… no one writes down.”

  Philip looked at him.

  The baron continued.

  “Relationships between families. Debts of gratitude. Agreements that, if brought into the light… few would wish to acknowledge.”

  He took another sip of wine.

  “Books can teach you the first part.”

  His gaze darkened slightly.

  “The second… you must learn on your own.”

  Philip nodded.

  “I understand.”

  To be honest, he only understood part of it.

  But for now, that was probably enough.

  Baron Montserrat watched him for a few seconds longer.

  His gaze was no longer completely indifferent.

  Not the gaze reserved for an heir.

  But no longer the gaze reserved for a useless child either.

  Simply… someone worth observing.

  The years that followed passed faster than Philip expected.

  Summer and then winter.

  Harvest seasons following one after another.

  The wooden sword was gradually replaced by a real blade.

  Morning exercises grew slightly longer each year.

  And little by little, everyone in the estate seemed to grow accustomed to the sight of the third young master waking before dawn.

  Philip sometimes thought about this.

  Trust, when examined closely, rarely came from a single grand action.

  More often, it formed through very small things—repeated long enough.

  Until one day, when looking back, people realized that something had changed.