[Gloria Yuval's POV]
Gloria adjusted the long silk glove on her wrist as her heels clicked lightly down the marble corridor. Her expression was unreadable, but her thoughts simmered beneath the surface.
Gram's acting strnage.
The way he skulked around the estate like a bored cat chasing dust motes. Wandering room to room, feigning interest in everything and everyone. She'd even caught him talking to the gardeners—the gardeners.
It wasn't that he was acting… polite. No, far from it. He still wore that usual sneer like it was stitched into his face. But there was a difference. An unease. A twitch beneath the mask.
He was looking for something, she concluded. Probably trying to dig up dirt, find leverage. Typical Gram—playing games he doesn't understand.
Still, when she'd confronted him earlier, his robe had hung loose over his chest. The lazy fold of fabric, the slight sheen of his skin, and the stark definition of his collarbone—
She bit her lip, a flicker of frustration—or something more—passing across her features.
Get a grip, Gloria. She smoothed out her dress. He's your brother.
Adopted.
Still counts.
Ugh.
With a sigh, she stepped into the waiting carriage, the doors shutting behind her with a gentle click. Her destination: the Golden Ledger Trade Hall, where coin and blood held equal weight. Let her little brother chase ghosts; she had empires to build.
—
[Gram (Owen) POV]
Gram—no, Owen—leaned back in the overstuffed chair of his room, staring blankly at the lavish chandelier above. His mind churned.
Okay… time for a plan.
First: Strength.
From what he remembered of Hero's Last Crusade, Gram was a combat freak. A natural-born warrior. The kind of guy who could copy a person's entire fighting style mid-battle and use it better than they could. There were whole forum threads of readers foaming at the mouth because Gram outclassed the protagonist—repeatedly—in raw technique.
No magic affinity worth a damn. But reflexes? Senses? Muscle memory? Off the charts.
If Owen could tap into that, maybe he could close the power gap early—before the main cast really kicked into gear.
Second: The Academy.
Can I skip it?
Nope. Not a chance. The Yuvals had likely greased every palm in the capital to get him accepted early. Even if he tried to bail, they'd drag him there bound and gagged in velvet ropes.
Still, the Imperial Academy meant access: libraries, instructors, records, magical theory. If he played it smart, avoided the protagonist and especially the heroines like the plague, he might survive. Might even thrive.
Third: The Yuval Family.
Owen grimaced. The Yuvals were doomed. He remembered clearly: Arc Nine. Cedric August. Betrayal. Blood.
If I stay under their roof, I'm going down with them.
He needed out. Freedom. Autonomy. Which meant building up resources, allies, and—ugh—reputation.
Changing Gram's image? That'd be like polishing a turd into a diamond. The guy was a self-obsessed, smug, arrogant bastard with the personality of a knife. Everyone knew it. But if Owen didn't fix that, he'd get eaten alive at the academy.
Alright. Step one: Strength. Step two: Distance Myself From The Yuval's. Step three: Aboid the plot like I owe it money.
"Sounds simple enough," he muttered.
His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle click as the door opened.
Runa entered, balancing a silver tray. The smell hit him first—meat, herbs, and something sweet in the air. His stomach made an embarrassing grrhhrrrkk noise.
But what really caught him off guard wasn't the food.
It was her.
The way the sunlight hit her pale ivory skin. The soft bounce of her black hair. The subtle gap in her maid outfit that showed the slope of her—
He cleared his throat and looked away, awkward. It didn't help that the last time he'd seen her, she was naked beside him in bed. A fact that refused to leave his brain.
"Are you feeling alright, Young Master?" Runa asked gently, tilting her head.
"I—uh—fine," Owen muttered. "Just a little under the weather."
At that, Runa dropped the tray on a side table and rushed over in a mild panic. "Should I fetch a healer? Your complexion looks pale. Are you—"
She leaned in close, too close. He could see her lips, soft and parted. Her uniform tugged slightly forward as she bent, revealing a glimpse of cleavage.
Owen jerked back. "Runa—uh, personal space!"
She blinked, then flushed. "I-I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—!"
He sighed, waving it off. "It's alright. Just a headache. Nothing serious."
Runa nodded, brushing her bangs aside, clearly still flustered. She busied herself placing the tray on his lap. "Please eat, Young Master. It'll help."
Owen glanced down at the food. It looked incredible. Juicy steak, golden potatoes, something like glazed carrots with a citrus twist. He hesitated… then took a bite.
Oh. My. God.
He almost wept.
"This is…" he whispered. "This is… this is amazing."
Runa blinked, smiling softly. "Really? You like it?"
"I—thank you. Seriously."
—
As he devoured the rest, he noticed Runa tidying up. Something tugged at him. Now was as good a time as any.
"Hey… Runa?"
"Yes, Young Master?"
"Did I… train before? Combat, I mean."
She paused, eyes wide. "Of course. You were incredible—no, terrifying sometimes. The instructors said you were the most naturally gifted combatant they'd ever seen. You outgrew them all. Then… well, you stopped."
"Stopped?"
She nodded. "You said… 'No one is worthy enough to teach me something they can't even master themselves.'"
Owen facepalmed so hard it echoed.
God, this guy was a walking ego. No wonder people hated him.
"…I see," he muttered.
Runa glanced at him curiously, sensing a shift. "Is something wrong?"
"No. Actually… I need a favor."
She tilted her head again.
"I want to train again. Properly this time. Can you… hire three instructors for me? One for magic. One for combat. And one for alchemy."
Runa's mouth parted slightly in shock. "…Of course. I'll do it right away, Young Master."
As she left, Owen leaned back in his chair once more.
His real journey was about to begin.