Margrave’s Bastard Son was The Emperor - Chapter 8

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 8. Intention
“Ian. My little boy. Ahem.”
The Tutor cleared his throat and observed Ian’s expression. The illegitimate son who received this letter was illiterate, so he must have asked someone else to read it for him.
The most natural choice among them was the Tutor.
I sparkled my clear eyes and rested my chin on my hand.
“Please continue reading, sir.”
“Are you doing well there? Your mother is comfortable thanks to Count Derga. I’m happy every day not having to work. You too must study diligently with gratitude toward the Count. Chel is your half-sibling, but don’t forget that you must serve him. Consider it an honor to become a symbol of peace. Above all, build a firm relationship with the Cheonryeo tribe. You and the young master are the hope for generations to come.”
The Tutor reading the letter glanced sideways, gauging my reaction.
“And there is one request.”
Yes. And here comes the real matter.
“I hear the Cheonryeo tribe smokes something called guroot leaves instead of cigarettes. Your mother would like to taste them too. When you come home for your birthday next year, could you secretly obtain some seeds for me?”
Guroot leaves were a type of stimulant used by the Cheonryeo tribe.
They chewed it finely, or rolled and burned the leaves. What plant it exactly was and how it was made remained a secret of the Cheonryeo tribe, known to none.
One thing was certain—they charged into battle with a single leaf in their mouths.
“And the flower bloomed in the pot you carefully tended. Once you cross the border, I won’t be able to see you anymore.”
“…Hmm.”
“The last line reads: If this letter reaches you, write down a verse of the song your mother used to sing for you often. I always love you. Your son.”
I suspected the dried flower petals in my pocket were the real gift from my mother. Moreover, only the final paragraph was the actual letter content. She had used her wits. By requesting a cipher, she forced Count Derga to deliver the letter and receive a response.
‘It seems Mother mixed in a request to smuggle guroot leaves along with the letter…’
What puzzled me was Count Derga’s approach. Why would he lure me with such a roundabout method?
If he simply commanded me as he always had, holding my mother’s life as collateral, I would comply. There was no reason to circle around like this.
“Ian?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. Please keep the contents of this letter secret.”
“Of course.”
Count Derga surely had hidden intentions beyond this. I resolved to uncover them.
The Tutor pulled out clean parchment and asked.
“Will you write a reply today?”
“No. I have too much to say and need to organize my thoughts. I’ll ask you next time.”
“I see. Your mother will be waiting.”
He was pressing me.
But even if I wanted to write, I didn’t know the lyrics to the song.
‘If I write the wrong lyrics, my mother will panic. She’ll know something is wrong with me.’
The shackle bound me while simultaneously protecting me. What if my mother misunderstood and took her own life? I couldn’t predict how Count Derga would respond to bind me further.
‘In the worst case, I could be confined until the peace ceremony.’
It seemed best to meet her directly.
Fortunately, tomorrow was my luncheon with Mollin.
If I used it well, I could obtain both an opportunity to leave the Manor and uncover Count Derga’s true intention.
* * *
“Oh. Mollin.”
“It’s been only a week, Count Derga.”
As previously arranged, Mollin arrived at the Manor with his attendants. They were two men who appeared young and spirited, clearly juniors whom Mollin mentored from the Central Administration.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Count.”
“Thank you sincerely for your warm hospitality at lunch.”
The men, introduced as Mac and Dgor respectively, kissed the back of the Countess’s hand. Mrs. Mary laughed with grace and presented her son Chel.
“I do hope you’ll have an enjoyable time.”
“Ah. Is this young master Chel? Then this would be…?”
There was really no confusion to be had.
Just as I’d heard, Ian possessed brilliant golden hair that shone like sunlight. It was merely a courtesy, a polite pretense.
“I’m Ian.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you after hearing so much.”
“Call me Mac, young master.”
Chel’s expression showed displeasure at being called by the same title as Ian. But what could he do? He couldn’t complain in front of the adults and Ian. Chel simply stayed close to his mother’s side as they walked into the Garden.
“As expected of the Bratz Mansion. The Garden is quite impressive.”
“To receive such praise from someone visiting from the Capital—it seems fortune favors us today.”
A subtle exchange of words passed between them, as if each were measuring the other’s refinement. There was no ill intent behind it. It was a natural and habitual manner, as was customary among the nobility.
“Master. Shall I bring in the appetizers?”
“Yes.”
At the Butler’s signal, Servants wheeled in trolleys.
“What would you prefer for the aperitif?”
“The weather is clear, so I’ll have sherry.”
“And you, young master Ian?”
At Mac’s kind inquiry, I nearly asked for the same thing without thinking.
Sherry was white wine—an ambiguous age for drinking. I smiled gently and requested a fruit beverage instead.
“Your complexion has improved considerably since last week.”
Mollin wiped his hands and smiled benevolently. Though I was bound as a hostage for peace, the old man found me refreshingly vital.
“Perhaps I was looking forward to today.”
“Ha. Is that so?”
“In truth, I’ve been curious about the Capital. Last time, I only spoke about myself, which was rather disappointing. Wouldn’t you agree, Father?”
At my glib remark, Count Derga cleared his throat and stroked his beard. Meanwhile, Servants arranged the aperitifs and simple salads.
“Yes. What is it you’re curious about? The Capital may be called such, but life there is much the same as anywhere else. It was fortunate I brought Mac and Dgor today. As an old man, I don’t know much about young people’s affairs.”
I began with trivial matters.
What did Capital students study, how did they spend their leisure, had they truly seen a mage—and so on. When I mentioned mages, Mollin, Mac, and Dgor’s eyes gleamed with interest.
“I’m particularly curious about what people typically eat in the Capital.”
“The Capital isn’t special or abundant just because it’s the Capital. All specialty products from the territories go to the Imperial Palace. Above all, there’s almost no farmland in the Central region.”
“Then there’s no choice but to rely on what merchants distribute.”
“Precisely. That’s why the Capital’s scarcity comes not from parched earth, but from parched purses. Regulating appropriate supply and demand is one of the Imperial Palace’s roles.”
Unlike Chel, who merely rolled his eyes and pretended to know, I led the conversation with ease and composure. Mac and Dgor exchanged meaningful glances.
‘For a lowborn bastard, he’s quite sharp.’
His insight struck at the heart of matters, and his concentration was unusual for a child. I cut my steak at a leisurely pace and added my thoughts.
“Food is fundamental, so supply should always be abundant. It would be wonderful to discover new provisions.”
It was a statement delivered without particular emphasis—casual as a remark about the weather. Yet all the adults at the table focused intently on Ian’s words. Count Derga and the Countess wondered why he was suddenly so talkative today, while the guests appeared genuinely intrigued.
Mollin in particular.
“A new food source, you say? I’m quite curious about your perspective, Ian.”
“There’s nothing particularly insightful about it. What we once deemed inedible might, upon closer inspection, prove to be a precious ingredient.”
“Aha. Do such dreams truly come to pass?”
“One cannot say for certain. The starving are not particular—they consume whatever they can find to survive. If one examines such things carefully, remarkable discoveries might be made.”
I had no intention of revealing the truth about gula just yet. I planned to remain silent until an opportune moment arose, but I thought it harmless to lay some groundwork. Mac seemed to recall something and added his own comment.
“Now that you mention it, I’ve heard that in the slums, they make stew from seafood shells. Apparently it tastes surprisingly good. Have you ever tried it, Ian?”
It was the first sharp question amid an otherwise cordial conversation. Ian, who had been poor enough to live in the red-light district—truly the poorest of the poor.
‘Surprisingly sharp, this one.’
I swallowed my laughter internally.
The Central authority and the Borderlands maintained a relationship of mutual restraint. The Imperial Palace had tacitly permitted sending me instead of Chel.
But if, after I crossed over to the Cheonryeo clan, questions arose about my qualifications? If that caused damage to Bariel? Then they would gain leverage to effectively pressure the Borderlands.
Therefore, the intent behind the question was singular.
‘Ian. Are you from the slums?’
To force a bastard’s laundered origins from my own mouth. With three Central bureaucrats hearing it simultaneously, no testimony could be more conclusive.
“Ian? Lord Mac is asking you a question.”
The Countess urged me with a smile. She seemed oblivious to the political machinations woven into a single sentence. Of course, Chel was equally ignorant.
“I’m afraid that’s not quite—”
“Chel!”
As Chel began stammering out an excuse, Count Derga cut him off sharply. The clatter of a fork hitting the plate—startled, the boy had dropped it. Yet Count Derga reprimanded his son with an impassive expression.
“Lord Mac posed a question to Ian, did he not? It is impolite to interject. Mind yourself.”
It was a command to stay silent.
Chel’s face fell as he clamped his mouth shut, while Mrs. Mary reached beneath the tablecloth to grasp her son’s hand. Her gaze toward her husband was remarkably sharp—as if questioning why he would raise his voice over such a minor transgression. And the boy had already been downhearted after his mistake last week!
“I have never tasted it.”
“Is that so?”
I set down my knife and answered firmly.
For now, it was good to maintain a submissive demeanor beside Count Derga.
“Though I was raised outside the manor, my father has always cared for me warmly. I am, regardless of what anyone says, a member of the proud Bratz bloodline.”
“Indeed, quite so.”
Everyone knew it was a lie, yet they all pretended not to notice—a rather amusing situation.
Mollin wore an extremely satisfied smile. He seemed delighted at how well I had parried his unexpected attack.
“For that reason, while I have not tasted it, I would certainly like to experience it should the opportunity arise.”
Count Derga’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing further. My response had been decisive and the flow of conversation quite natural.
“Is that so?”
“In truth, what comes from nature knows no hierarchy. If it can merely satisfy hunger, is that not cause for gratitude in itself? And you say it’s a delicacy, no less.”
For a moment, Mollin felt a strange sense of déjà vu at my words.
He was certain he’d heard this argument before somewhere.
“You speak the same words as the Prince, it seems.”
Dgor scratched the itch for him.
‘The Prince? Who is that?’
By Ian’s era, the current Emperor would have required going back several generations. And there were quite a few princes on top of that. Usually, emperors fathered more than ten children.
In short, even I, who had been Emperor, had no idea who the Prince was from a hundred years ago.
“You speak of the Second Prince Gale, Your Highness. While conversing with nobles about street food, he made such a remark quite casually. Haha.”
He hadn’t said anything in front of them, but they must have spoken quite harshly behind his back. That a prince of a nation would say something so uncultured.
Anyway, the Second Prince Gale. I felt as though I’d heard that name somewhere before—it was oddly familiar.
“The two of you would get along well if you met.”
“How could I possibly presume such a thing?”
“No, I think it’s an excellent opinion.”
At Count Derga’s attempt to save face, Dgor laughed and waved his hand dismissively.
He was sincere. In an age where tens of thousands starved to death each year, what did a bit of street food matter? Survival came first.
“Face is truly a frightening thing. Even street food has value and gets consumed, after all.”
“Quite so. But reality is even grimmer. Even commoners won’t look twice at food eaten by the lowborn.”
The Countess interjected into Mac and Dgor’s lament.
“Even if new crops are discovered, it would take quite some time to distribute them, wouldn’t it?”
It wasn’t a bad topic, but the context was off. Without realizing it, I shook my head.
“No, Mother. Actually, distribution isn’t the problem.”
“Is that so? It seems you have an opinion on this, Ian.”
Mollin’s tone carried a hint of testing. I smiled as if to say, why would someone who knows everything ask like that?

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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