Chapter 29: Shadows in the Castle and a Sly Counterattack

After exchanging formal pleasantries, the two men settled onto the plush velvet sofas. Positioned on the main settee of honor, Girion sat at an angle directly across from his guest. The intimacy of the spatial arrangement left Simon exuding a palpable wave of awkwardness.

“Did you travel here entirely unaccompanied? Where is the detective who assisted you?”

“Ah… Mr. Sebaldo unfortunately contracted an infectious fever and was utterly unable to make the journey. He explicitly requested that I convey his deepest apologies for failing to honor Your Excellency’s gracious invitation.”

“Is that so? Well, I suppose the detective merely acted as an extension of your own directives…”

Girion dismissed Clint’s absence with a cool, nonchalant air, demonstrating almost zero genuine interest in the man’s person. Witnessing the exact scenario Clint had predicted unfold before his eyes, Simon marveled internally at the detective’s uncanny foresight.

“I must admit, the formal reports of the incident left me profoundly astonished. To think such a malevolent entity was operating undetected within our territory…”

“A-Ah, yes. I was equally shaken by the revelation.”

“Indeed. I would hear the narrative directly from your lips. How precisely did you pierce his psychological disguise, and by what means did you engineer his capture?”

Girion maintained a warm smile while fixing his gaze intently onto Simon. The relentless, razor-sharp eye contact was profoundly suffocating. Why does he stare through me with such terrifying intensity? The approachable smile that had initially eased Simon’s nerves was rapidly souring into a source of intense discomfort. Yet, abandoning the audience was a physical impossibility.

“The… the entire affair began with a simple contractual request to locate a missing house cat,” Simon began awkwardly, piecing together the sequence of events to the best of his ability.

When the narrative reached its conclusion, Girion let out a soft, amused chuckle.

“Fascinating. So the entire chain of catastrophic events was set in motion by sheer, cascading coincidences.”

The Lord Regent sounded almost incredulous—a perspective Simon completely empathized with. It was the exact, hollow bewilderment he had experienced the moment Nora casually trotted back into her owner’s courtyard completely unscratched.

“A thoroughly entertaining account. I held a lingering curiosity regarding the mechanics of the case, and your detailed recollection has satisfied it completely.”

“You are far too kind, Your Excellency,” Simon offered a stiff, nervous smile. Had Clint been present, the detective would undoubtedly have navigated the dialogue with smooth, breathtaking diplomacy; Simon, however, could manage nothing more than basic, polite agreement.

“Having been entertained by such a magnificent narrative, I am duty-bound to offer a proper reward. I have arranged a modest token of my appreciation.”

At Girion’s subtle hand gesture, a senior retainer stepped forward bearing a tray of carefully selected items.

“An official commendation plaque alongside a small personal gift.”

Engraved across the metallic surface of the plaque were standard, high-sounding phrases honoring acts of supreme civic courage—a prestigious recognition typically bestowed upon exceptional citizens of the territory. The realization that he was holding such an elite artifact caused a sudden swell of quiet emotion in his chest. Nestled beside the plaque was a book: a rare, signed first-edition copy of Detective Sebaldo: Volume I. It was a mythical literary artifact that money alone could never purchase, regardless of one’s fortune.

“This is…!”

Simon’s eyes widened to the size of saucers as he stared at Girion in sheer disbelief. He had assumed his reward would consist of a standard monetary bounty at best.

“What purpose would there be in offering monetary compensation to a member of the Grayan estate? Upon learning of your personal fondness for the detective series, I took the liberty of sourcing a copy.”

“I… I am deeply honored, Your Excellency. Thank you…”

Simon received the volume with trembling hands, carefully resting the priceless artifact upon his lap. Yet, strangely enough, the surge of joy he experienced upon receiving the book paled in comparison to the quiet pride of the commendation plaque. Instead, a prickle of cold discomfort settled deep within his mind. How on earth did he uncover my private reading preferences?

“Kindly view it as a reflection of the deep, personal interest I harbor for your person,” Girion added smoothly, as if casually reading the anxious thoughts swirling behind Simon’s eyes.

Simon bowed his head once more, offering another timid, polite expression of gratitude.

“You may take your leave now, young Grayan. I have pressing administrative duties that require my immediate focus.”

“Ah! My deepest apologies for taking up your valuable time.”

Seizing the explicit dismissal, Simon bolted upright and delivered a hurried bow. He retreated toward the doors with such flustered, unnatural movements that he didn’t even register that his arms and legs were swinging forward in simultaneous, awkward synchronicity.

Click.

The heavy timber doors of the private study smoothly clicked shut, and only then did Simon allow a deep, ragged breath to escape his lungs. Phew. The Lord Regent possessed a suffocating, almost crushing psychological weight. Do all individuals residing at the apex of society project such an overwhelming aura? The intense strain had left the muscles along the back of his neck throbbing with a dull ache. It was an encounter he had absolutely zero desire to repeat.

‘I desperately want to go home…’

Guided by the senior retainer, Simon retraced his steps through the grand corridors and exited the fortress. Having been denied even a fleeting glimpse of the Lord Regent despite his desperate efforts, Dalton boarded the private carriage with a tightly clamped mouth, his heavy boots pounding violently against the timber steps in sheer frustration. Recognizing that the return journey would inevitably consist of enduring his uncle’s explosive venting, Simon let out a heavy sigh as he prepared to climb inside—only to feel a sudden, strange sensation prickling at the back of his neck.

Spinning around, his eyes drifted toward the grand arched windows of the second floor. Standing behind the glass was a solitary figure watching his departure: an elderly noblewoman possessing snow-white hair, yet exuding an undeniable, majestic grace.

‘Who could that possibly be? A dignified elderly woman residing within the Lord’s castle… Could she be the late Lord’s widow?! Ah!’

Realizing her potential identity, Simon hurriedly pulled off his hat and offered a polite, respectful bow. The noblewoman offered a gentle, serene smile in return.

Boarding the carriage, a flurry of questions raced through his mind. He had just caught a direct glimpse of the late Lord’s widow—a figure so reclusive that local citizens considered her virtually invisible. Why was she watching me so intently? While the encounter was thoroughly puzzling, seeking out the matriarch to demand an explanation was completely out of the question. Deciding she had likely just been mildly curious about a rare visitor, he promptly dismissed the matter from his thoughts.

Clint’s mornings traditionally unfolded at a remarkably leisurely pace.

Rising from his bed, he would execute a long, luxurious stretch, his lean, perfectly defined musculature expanding and relaxing in smooth succession. Following ingrained habit, he meticulously folded his bedsheets with crisp, geometric alignment before navigating toward the washroom. Stripping entirely bare, he completed a rapid, steaming shower, dried off, and threw on a crisp linen shirt alongside a pair of tailored trousers. Possessing an exceptionally minimalist wardrobe, his morning preparations were invariably completed within minutes.

Descending the stairwell, he stepped into the ground-floor café. Because his schedule operated with mathematical consistency, the café owner had already prepared a fresh cup of steaming coffee alongside a warm meat pie. After exchanging pleasant morning greetings and brief, mindless banter regarding the weather, Clint routinely claimed the most isolated table nestled deep in the far corner of the establishment. While the proprietor perpetually badgered him to sit near the broad street windows to help attract passing foot traffic, Clint fundamentally preferred a strategic position where his back was secured against a solid wall while offering an unobstructed view of the entire room.

He devoured the warm pie and drained his coffee within minutes, his sharp eyes idly tracking the flow of pedestrians outside: haughty gentlemen strutting with performative dignity, elegant ladies strolling at a leisurely pace, and frantic laborers rushing toward their shifts. Up to this point, it was a completely ordinary morning.

Suddenly, an unremarkable public carriage ground to a halt along the curb. The door burst open, and a figure entirely swallowed by a voluminous black cloak scrambled out, making a frantic, bumbling dash straight into the café. Clint watched the theatrical spectacle with quiet amusement.

The mysterious individual pressed his back tightly against the interior wall, nervously scanning the street outside like a covert operative executing a high-stakes reconnaissance mission—seemingly completely oblivious to the reality that his bizarre, hyper-vigilant posture was drawing ten times more attention than a normal walk would have.

Interceding before the bewildered café proprietor could approach the strange customer, Clint smoothly crossed the floor. Stepping directly behind the cloaked figure, he leaned in to peer across the person’s shoulder toward the street. The thoroughfare was bustling with local citizens enjoying the late morning sun.

“Did you spot something interesting out there?” Clint inquired, unable to suppress his curiosity.

“Eeeek?!”

The cloaked figure let out a sharp, startle-induced squeak, jumping half a foot into the air. Suppressing a sudden surge of laughter, Clint tipped his head in a polite greeting.

“A very pleasant morning to you, Mr. Grayan.”

The mysterious operative—or rather, Simon Grayan—offered a rapid, silent nod. Without uttering a word, he urgently pointed a gloved finger toward the ceiling. What manner of game are we playing today? Clint thought, finding the young noble exponentially more entertaining with every passing encounter. Offering a theatrical shh gesture, Clint gave a crisp nod and initiated a dramatic, hyper-cautious stealth-walk toward the stairwell, simulating a covert agent navigating a hostile perimeter.

‘What on earth is wrong with those two…?’

The café owner watched the duo retreat up the stairs with an expression of sheer, unadulterated bewilderment.

The absolute second the timber door of the second-floor office clicked shut, Simon violently stripped off the heavy black cloak.

“Phew…”

Given the warm summer weather, donning a thick travelling cloak had turned his inner garments into a furnace, leaving fine beads of perspiration glistening across his forehead.

“What is the meaning of this elaborate disguise?” Clint asked, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

Simon caught himself, gazing at the detective with wide, flustered eyes. “I… I terribly startled you just now, didn’t I?”

If anyone was startled, it was certainly you, Clint thought, though he merely offered a smooth, reassuring smile. Witnessing Clint’s gentle reaction, Simon’s face contorted into an expression of profound, mortified apology. The young noble’s total lack of emotional filter—reacting with absolute, unshielded transparency to every subtle stimulus—was thoroughly charming.

“It’s all because of Uncle Dalton,” Simon grumbled, sinking helplessly onto the plush velvet settee.

Clint poured a fresh glass of water and presented it to his guest. “Ah, the elder Mr. Grayan. What has he done this time?”

Simon hesitated, his cheeks flushing deep crimson from the sheer embarrassment of admitting the truth.

“…He gave me a severe scolding and explicitly forbade me from ever associating with you again.”

Simon let out a long, heavy sigh. In his desperate bid to meet Clint without drawing his uncle’s wrath, he had been forced to wrap himself in a sweltering cloak and navigate two separate public carriage transfers in the heat, barely managing to reach the agency undetected.

“He is currently so intensely absorbed in gathering his social circle to brag about our castle invitation that he won’t pay the slightest attention to my whereabouts for a while… but taking extreme precautions is never a bad strategy.”

He harbored a desperate desire to see Clint, yet he lacked the heart to trigger an explosive confrontation with his uncle; taking elaborate precautions to sneak around was the only viable middle ground.

“Why do you allow him to walk all over you like that?” Clint asked, his tone shifting into a quieter, more serious cadence.

“Well… that is…”

Stammering over his words, Simon ultimately laid bare the unvarnished reality of his domestic situation. He confessed how the entirety of the Grayan family’s commercial enterprises and financial assets were managed exclusively by Dalton, and how the entire structural ecosystem of his household would instantly collapse into ruin should his uncle abandon his duties in a fit of rage.

“He was genuinely furious this time… He even threatened to permanently resign from managing the family affairs entirely. It was only because the Lord Regent’s invitation arrived at that exact microsecond that the crisis was temporarily swept under the rug…”

Once the prestigious high of the castle visit inevitably faded, Dalton would undoubtedly resume his relentless psychological pressure campaign. Simon let out another defeated sigh.

“Do you truly buy into those empty threats?” Clint offered, his voice carrying a subtle, razor-sharp edge of mockery.

“Pardon?”

“His claim that he will permanently abandon the management of the Grayan estate and commercial holdings—it is nothing more than a hollow, manipulative threat. If you were to casually call his bluff and tell him to proceed as he pleases, he would be the one dropping to his knees in absolute terror.”

“Oh, come now… he sounded entirely sincere.”

Clint shook his head with a quiet, dismissive wave.

“You mentioned earlier that he is aggressively campaigning for a seat on the regional council, correct? Securing political influence requires astronomical sums of capital alongside high-tier social connections… Aside from the vast wealth and institutional prestige of the Grayan estate, does Dalton possess a single personal asset to his name?”

“Um… not that I am aware of…”

Simon searched his memories thoroughly, yet he had never once heard of Dalton engaging in independent commercial ventures or generating personal revenue outside of the family firm. The exact same reality applied to his personal fortune. In accordance with the strict laws of primogeniture governing the realm, the overwhelming majority of his grandparents’ vast estate had passed directly to Simon’s father, which subsequently flowed entirely into Simon’s own hands upon his father’s passing. While he recalled hearing that his grandparents had granted a modest liquid sum to Dalton, the older man’s notorious history of wild financial recklessness during his youth meant that reserve had likely been exhausted long ago.

“There you have it. Stripped of the Grayan family name and your inheritance, the man is an absolute nobody. He is fundamentally incapable of walking away from those assets.”

“Then… why would he repeatedly make such extreme threats…?”

“Because he is acutely aware of your deepest vulnerabilities, and he is weaponizing them to maintain total psychological control over you.”

“My uncle… would never be that calculating…” Simon offered a weak, thoroughly awkward smile, though his conviction was visibly wavering.

Clint studied the young noble’s conflicted face for a silent second before leaning forward, a sly, dangerously confident glint dancing within his eyes.

“If he ever attempts to manipulate you with that specific threat again, I want you to deliver a single, precise counter.”

“What should I say?”

“Tell him to fund his political campaign for the regional council entirely on his own merits.”

“Would… would a line like that truly prove effective?”

“It will strike him like a physical blow. Absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt.”

Clint asserted the tactic with total, unwavering conviction. And to Simon—a man who would readily believe the sun rose in the west if Clint stated it with enough authority—that absolute confidence was more than enough to settle the matter entirely.

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