A Mage Reborn: Legacy of the Fallen Emperor

"It was an honor to meet you today, Ian."

Lord Moline's carriage awaited him at the main gate. As the old man doffed his hat, a servant retrieved his cane. Ian mirrored the gesture, placing a hand over his heart.

"My father will be pleased to hear you say so, despite the unfortunate circumstances."

His movements were formal and graceful, impeccably poised like a royal etiquette instructor. Moline smiled, his gaze fixed on the boy. Ian's emerald green eyes shone with a glassy clarity.

"You are truly devoted to your father, Ian."

Was it genuine praise? No.

It was a veiled question, laced with an ambiguous intent – a subtle jab, perhaps. Moline clearly expected a response, but Ian had no intention of satisfying the old man's probing.

"Safe travels."

He offered a noncommittal smile, maintaining the bare minimum of courtesy. An ambiguous question deserved an equally ambiguous answer. Moline seemed only more intrigued by Ian's evasiveness.

"Then I shall see you next week."

The adoption process wasn't a one-day affair.

It required four meetings with Moline, spaced a week apart. Only then would the report be sent to the capital, and a royal messenger would return with the decree after another fortnight.

All in all, Ian had at least two months, assuming no unforeseen complications. He breathed a sigh of relief, confirming the time he had bought himself. His mind, honed by years of calculated maneuvering, was already racing.

"Farewell."

With a creak, the coachman opened the door for Moline. The old lord maintained eye contact with Ian through the small window until the carriage finally disappeared from view.

Only then did the full grandeur of the Count Bratz's estate truly register.

'Rather antiquated for a margrave.'

"Ian, shall I escort you to your room?"

"No. I believe I'll return to the drawing-room."

Ian shook his head at the servant's cautious inquiry. He needed to assess the aftermath of Ciel's outburst.

He was still unfamiliar with the full extent of his current power in this new body, and its potential consequences.

He needed to see for himself.

He needed to see and hear with his own eyes and ears.

"Go ahead."

"Yes, of course. But, Ian!"

Ian turned at the servant's call. The hesitant face was vaguely familiar. It was the boy who had borne the brunt of Ciel's tantrum in the drawing-room.

"Is your hand alright?"

The servant cradled his slightly swollen hand and bowed deeply. It hadn't been properly treated, but the inflammation seemed to have subsided.

"…Thank you."

"It was nothing."

It hardly warranted such gratitude.

As the servant disappeared around the corner, Ian glanced down at his own hand. There was something he needed to confirm.

'I can sense mana.'

They said mana resonated with the soul, not the body. Even in this unfamiliar vessel, he could still call upon its power. He was unfamiliar with such a phenomenon, but…

'It's fortunate, nonetheless.'

It wasn't comparable to his original strength, but with training, he could wield it with far greater ease. Even in the worst-case scenario, as long as he had mana, he could avoid that fate.

Knock, knock.

Ian reached the drawing-room and was about to enter when he paused, his hand hovering over the door.

Instead of his family, he heard the chatter of unfamiliar servants. They were clearly cleaning the mess Ciel had made.

"Honestly, what a disaster."

"I know, right? Seventeen years old, and acting like that."

"Shh! Be quiet. The Lady specifically warned us not to speak of it. She threatened to punish anyone who gossips."

"I'd sooner believe Ian was the one who made the mess. Last time, the Young Master ripped out his hair and he fainted. When I heard about the… incident, I thought he'd fainted again and wet himself!"

The servants' laughter echoed through the room. Ian pressed his ear against the door, listening intently. It seemed Ciel had been ruling the roost with an iron fist. Tsk, tsk.

"But when he walked out into the garden earlier, it was truly astonishing. His demeanor was so composed, even more elegant than the Lady."

"He was just putting on a show for the guest. Do you think the Count would have tolerated it otherwise? The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. He's just as slippery as his mother. You see it in his eyes."

"But I heard his mother wasn't a courtesan. Why do you call him that?"

"Right. If anything, it's the Count's fault. Why did he have to go and meddle with a woman who was doing well for herself?"

"Doing well? Living hand-to-mouth is doing well?"

Creak.

Knowing he had heard enough, Ian pushed the door open. The gossiping servants froze.

"…Uh, Ian?"

"Where are my parents and brother?"

Should he demand an explanation, or let it slide?

While the servants maintained a veneer of respect, everyone knew of his illegitimate birth and his impending sale to the Thousand-Year Clan.

"Must I ask again?"

"Ah! I apologize! The Lady and Young Master Ciel have returned to their rooms, and the Count went to the main gate with the steward."

If the Count had gone to the main gate, it was likely a belated attempt to see Moline off. He must have been too flustered earlier. Sending only Ian and Moline, after his eldest son's embarrassing display…

He was undoubtedly worried about what leverage the wily old man might have gained.

'Our paths have diverged.'

"I see."

As Ian closed the door behind him, the servants breathed a collective sigh of relief before turning on one of their own.

"Bella! Your loose lips will get us all in trouble!"

"Tch. What does it matter? He'll be sold off in a couple of months anyway."

"Watch your mouth! Do you want to be punished?"

The Count was particularly sensitive about this matter. He was orchestrating a grand charade to sanitize Ian's background for the sake of the peace treaty.

While the Imperial Palace might overlook the truth, any hint of scandal reaching the Thousand-Year Clan could jeopardize the agreement. That was why every servant in the mansion was instructed to treat Ian with utmost deference.

"Father."

Ian spotted Count Derga emerging from the far end of the corridor. His face was etched with displeasure as he approached.

"Has Lord Moline departed?"

"Yes. I saw his carriage leave the grounds."

"What did you discuss?"

"Nothing of consequence. He mentioned Ciel's… mishap, but only expressed concern."

At the mention of Ciel, Derga's frown deepened. Ian didn't miss the subtle shift in his expression. Judging by his reaction, Ciel had kept quiet about the golden eyes.

"…Have the carriage prepared."

The Count, feeling the pressure mounting, instructed the steward. He then placed a jade mouthpiece between his lips and exhaled a plume of acrid smoke, seemingly oblivious to the boy's presence.

Then, abruptly:

"How did you know of Baron Füln?"

The question had been nagging at him as he replayed the luncheon in his mind. It was understandable. How could this lowly bastard know of a scholar in the capital that even he was unaware of? Ian offered a casual deflection without hesitation.

"I overheard someone in the household mention him."

"Who?"

"I don't recall their name."

He was a newcomer to the estate.

It was a plausible excuse, playing on the assumption that he wouldn't know everyone in the household yet. Derga seemed to accept the explanation, filling in the blanks himself.

'Ciel's tutor, perhaps? I heard he graduated from Variel University.'

It wasn't a crucial detail, anyway.

Derga deliberately deepened his voice, adopting a stern tone.

"There will be no repeat of today's incident next week. If you spill the finger bowl again, I'll have your head dunked in the slop bucket."

It seemed to be a reference to a past blunder committed by the original Ian before the Emperor's possession. Ian simply nodded in acquiescence. Derga took another drag from his cigarette, his gaze lingering on Ian.

'Hmm.'

He certainly had his mother's looks. When he first arrived, covered in grime and crying incessantly, Derga hadn't bothered to take a proper look. He hadn't had the inclination.

"Is something the matter?"

With the right paperwork, his appearance would certainly be welcomed by the Thousand-Year Clan. And he was only sixteen. He might even be considered for a marriage alliance with a family close to the chieftain. Of course, his fate beyond the border was anyone's guess.

In any case, he could be a valuable asset in solidifying this superficial peace treaty.

"Forget what your brother did today."

"Yes, Father."

It was embarrassing enough for the household staff, but if word reached the Thousand-Year Clan… it would make a mockery of the next margrave's authority. Just as Derga finished his cigarette, the steward returned with his coat.

"The carriage is ready, my lord."

"Let's go."

The Count turned and walked away without a backward glance.

Ian watched from the window as he boarded the carriage. The lack of a send-off from the servants suggested a clandestine outing.

"Tsk."

An insignificant man. Ian dismissed the Count from his thoughts and turned away. He needed to familiarize himself with the layout of the mansion. Or perhaps have a word with Ciel and ensure his continued cooperation.

As he wandered through the sprawling estate, he found himself in the central kitchen. Servants and their families were gathered in the backyard, picking at the leftovers from the midday meal.

"Ian?"

"Is something the matter?"

"Just taking a stroll."

How peculiar. The Count usually acted as if he wouldn't step outside if the house were on fire. Ian frowned slightly as he watched the servants scavenging for scraps.

'They're not livestock. Why are they eating… leftovers?'

Such a sight would be unthinkable in Variel. Outside the poorest slums, who would resort to eating discarded food?

Aside from the generally improved standard of living, sharing food, especially through saliva, had become taboo after the outbreak of contagious diseases. Even in the slums, it was a practice actively discouraged.

But here in Count Bratz's estate, it seemed commonplace, accepted without a second thought.

"Are you hungry? Would you like some?"

"Hey! Don't speak to the Young Master like that!"

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright."

The Thousand-Year Clan's territory lay in the heart of the scorching Great Desert.

The neighboring Bratz territory was also affected by its harsh climate, making it a relatively barren land. Arable land was scarce.

And with the heavy military presence due to its border location, the demand far outweighed the supply. The lower classes were perpetually hungry.

"Then please, eat your fill."

"Yes, of course. Please, go ahead."

Ian stepped aside so they could continue their meal undisturbed. But the more he thought about it, the more something felt amiss. A sense of dissonance, perhaps? The vast temporal gap between his time as Emperor Ian and this era was a factor, but even considering that, something felt… missing.

'What is it? What feels so… empty?'

"Excuse me, Ian."

A voice called out from behind him. It was a girl around his age, with braided black hair. One of the servants' children he had seen earlier.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to the market in an hour…"

…Why was she telling him this? Ian forced a friendly smile as his mind raced.

What was the meaning of this? Was Ian expected to oversee market errands as well? Managing the household's provisions was a daunting task, even for an adult.

"Is there something you'd like me to tell your mother…?"

"Ah."

As the girl fidgeted with her fingers, understanding dawned. She had been relaying messages to Ian's birth mother whenever she went out. His mother was illiterate, so she relied on others to communicate.

'That means I'm confined to the estate.'

He was a valuable pawn in the peace treaty. He likely wouldn't be allowed to leave the Count's estate of his own volition until the Thousand-Year Clan arrived. With a single sentence, the girl had reminded him of the shackles binding his feet.