For Arthur, the morning routine had become a ritual: wake up, check limbs for stiffness, curse the lack of modern technology, brush teeth with the hog-bristle stick, and get dressed.
The only part that felt real—the only thing grounding him—was the moment he spent gazing at the horizon through the window, thinking of Elena and his parents. That memory was the fuel driving him forward in this strange new world.
He looked in the mirror, adjusting his collar. The reflection showed a cute, thirteen-year-old noble boy. Inside, a thirty-year-old engineer was screaming for a double-shot espresso.
“Time to put on the Oliver mask,” he muttered, slapping his cheeks to get the blood flowing.
His body was recovering well; though the stiffness still remained, he still relied heavily on a wooden cane for support.
As he and Layla descended the stairs, the long dining table came into view. It was set with silver platters, though the food itself was modest.
Arthur’s eyes, however, fixed on one thing: the white porcelain cup beside his plate. The coffee was waiting.
He gave Layla a mental thumbs-up and flashed her a bright smile. Layla blushed slightly and averted her eyes, clearly confused by the Young Master’s sudden cheerfulness.
Breakfast, however, was a battlefield of manners.
“Oliver, stop slouching,” his mother chided gently, reaching over to wipe a speck of oatmeal from his cheek with a napkin.
Arthur froze, his dignity taking a massive hit. I am a grown man. I designed a hydroelectric dam. I do not need my face wiped!
“Thanks, Mother,” Arthur chirped, forcing a bright smile.
Viscount Roderick lowered his newspaper—or rather, the handwritten gazette from the capital. He looked tired but pleased.
“Old Marcus tells me you spent eight hours in the archive yesterday,” Roderick said, eyeing his son. “He said you were reading the trade ledgers. I didn’t know you had an interest in economics.”
Arthur paused, his spoon hovering halfway to his mouth. Father is too sharp, he thought.
“I… uh…” Arthur blinked innocently, leaning into the act. “I was mostly looking at the maps, Father. The drawings of the mountains are cool. And the numbers… they make patterns. It’s like a puzzle!”
Roderick chuckled, clearly buying the childish curiosity excuse. “A puzzle, indeed. One that I have been trying to solve for twenty years.”
He sighed, folding the paper. “Your Aunt Sylvia arrives this afternoon. Please, Oliver, try to be… presentable. She is… very particular.”
“Critical is a polite word, dear,” Cecilia muttered.
This aunt of mine will surely be a pain, Arthur noted mentally.
Ten minutes later, Arthur stood with Layla before the ironwood doors of the library.
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“You’re back.” Old Marcus didn’t even look up from his desk. “I thought a day of reading dusty ledgers would cure your sudden thirst for knowledge.”
“Good morning to you too, Old Marcus,” Arthur said cheerfully, leaning on his cane. “Actually, I find the dust quite charming. It adds flavor to the cold air.”
Marcus looked up, a flicker of amusement in his grey eyes. “Flavor. Right. Just don’t sneeze on the manuscripts, or you’ll be cleaning them yourself.”
“I brought a peace offering,” Arthur said, pulling a green apple from his pocket—snatched from the breakfast table. He placed it on the desk.
Marcus stared at the apple, then at the boy. He picked it up and polished it on his sleeve. “Bribery, eh? You learn fast, Young Master. Go on in—and ring the bell if you need me.”
Inside, silence wrapped around Arthur like a warm blanket.
He went straight to his table, which Layla had cleaned perfectly the night before. He opened the Ashborn Territory Map (Detailed Topography) and the Ledger of 975–980 Third Epoch (the current year being 980).
“Alright,” he whispered, switching to English. “Let’s debug this economy.”
He adjusted his imaginary glasses—a habit from his university days he still couldn’t shake.
Arthur spent the next four hours cross-referencing the map with profit margins.
The Problem: The territory produced high-quality iron ore.
The Revenue: Low.
The Cost: Massive logistics fees.
Arthur traced the trade route with his finger. The Ashborn territory was boxed in by the Ironwall Mountains to the east and north, leaving only a narrow southern passage to the neighboring Kingdom of Alvaris. To the west lay the ocean—a sheer cliffside with no port.
To sell the iron, wagons had to cross the mountain pass. The Serpent’s Pass. Elevation: 2,500 meters. Steep grade. Mudslides in winter.
He did the math. Wagons could only carry light loads due to the incline. Travel time: two weeks to the nearest trade city. Double the horses, double the food.
“This is absurdly inefficient,” Arthur murmured, his expression darkening. “They’re spending seventy percent of the iron’s value just to move it out.”
He looked up at the ceiling, frustrated. Old Marcus, shelving books nearby, noticed the boy’s distress.
Arthur looked back at the date of the Drop (sixty years ago, Year 920 Third Epoch). Before that, profits were high.
“What changed?” Arthur tapped the map. “The mountains didn’t grow overnight. The road didn’t vanish.”
Old Marcus approached and silently placed a thin, worn book on the table labeled Infrastructure Maintenance.
“Here, Young Master. Open this one. It might help.”
Arthur snapped out of his daze. “Ah… thanks, Old Marcus.”
He flipped to the first section.
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Year 918 (62 years ago): Expense: Levitation Gate Maintenance → –5,000 Amethyst Coins.
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Year 920 (60 years ago): Expense: Levitation Gate → DESTROYED.
Arthur’s eyes widened. “Levitation Gate?”
He realized it instantly. They hadn’t used wagons back then. They had used a magical transportation device—likely a gravity lift or floating platform. And sixty years ago, it was destroyed.
“So that’s it,” Arthur whispered, leaning back. “The family didn’t lose their way. They lost their technology.”
But before he could wrap his mind around this revelation, the sound of the library doors slamming open shattered his concentration.
“Young Master!”
Layla stood at the entrance, breathless. “Viscountess Lunalar has arrived!”
Arthur closed the ledger with a snap. “See you tomorrow, Old Marcus,” he said, following Layla out, grabbing his cane on the way.
“Don’t come back tomorrow, boy,” the old guard grumbled after him.
Grumpy as always, Arthur thought, redirecting his focus to the formidable guest waiting upstairs.
(To be continued …)