A Mage Reborn: Legacy of the Fallen Emperor

"What is this request you speak of?" Count Derga's voice held a note of thinly veiled annoyance.

"It has been a week since our arrival, and aside from traversing the grounds of this estate, we haven't had the opportunity to venture out," Molin began, his tone smooth and measured.

So? Derga's expression spoke volumes, though he remained silent. Ian, observing the subtle interplay, suppressed a smirk. He knew what was coming.

"Therefore, with your permission, we would be honored to request young Master Ian as our guide to your domain. Understanding the Count and Countess are occupied with numerous affairs, we hesitated to impose upon their time," Molin finished, a diplomatic smile gracing his lips.

Mac and Degor, Molin's companions, chimed in with practiced ease. Their timing was impeccable.

"An excellent suggestion! Perhaps we could also enjoy a luncheon together. Sharing a meal while discussing scholarly matters would be most agreeable. Wouldn't you agree, Degor?"

"Well…" the Countess began, hesitant to entertain the idea of three strangers being escorted by her young son. The prospect was unsettling.

Degor, seemingly oblivious to her interjection, continued, "Indeed. Furthermore, Master Ian has recently returned from his… travels, hasn't he? He undoubtedly possesses knowledge of intriguing matters beyond our ken."

Degor's use of "our" subtly encompassed both the newcomers and the Derga family, a veiled message to the Countess that their commoner upbringing was a topic best left unexplored. Only Ian could navigate those murky waters.

Derga choked back a cough, his wine momentarily forgotten. He searched for a plausible excuse to refuse. What legitimate reason could he offer for confining a boy to the estate? Especially when the proposed outing was framed as a scholarly pursuit.

Molin pressed his advantage, "Frequent visits to the manor are hardly proper guest etiquette. With your permission, we would be delighted to host you at our residence. Our hired coachman is most accommodating."

The trap was sprung. Ian, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke, "Lord Molin, where are your lodgings?"

"Near the park in the third district of Portroga."

"Ah, Portroga," Ian replied, feigning familiarity.

"You seem well acquainted with the area."

"Naturally. I was raised here, after all."

His response was deliberately ambiguous. While true for the former bastard son, Emperor Ian had no knowledge of Portroga's districts. Molin's mention of the park provided just enough context for a convincing facade.

"Then it is even more fortuitous. A stroll through the park, accompanied by thoughtful conversation, would be delightful. The sun is quite pleasant these days, wouldn't you agree? I noticed small boats upon the lake, but being an old man, I lacked the courage to venture out. Perhaps with Master Ian's assistance, I might find the boldness." Molin's eyes twinkled with amusement.

They have an ulterior motive, Ian realized, glancing at the Count. Derga forced a smile, his expression strained. The mounting pressure to acquiesce was palpable.

"Count Derga?" Ian prompted.

"Ian, your wishes are paramount," Derga conceded, shifting the burden of decision. His smile remained, but his eyes were cold, a silent warning to tread carefully.

Intriguing. The power struggle between the Marquis Derga and the central authority representative, Molin, over a mere child, was a familiar sight to the Emperor, yet viewed from this lower vantage point, it held a novel fascination.

"Well…" Ian drawled, adding tension to the already taut string. While venturing out was advantageous, disrupting the balance of power before the true game began held its own appeal.

"I fear my inexperience as a guide might prove more of a hindrance than a help. Being so young, I doubt my abilities would meet your esteemed expectations."

Molin and his companions stiffened, taken aback by Ian's unexpected response. Derga, hiding his smile behind his wine glass, nodded in approval.

"However," Ian continued, "the opportunity to glean insights from those who hail from the capital is not one to be missed. If we were to frame this outing as a luncheon combined with scholarly discourse…"

Ian glanced at Derga. The Count's jaw, working as if savoring the wine, had tightened. Degor smoothly intervened, "Count Derga, if our perceived inadequacies are the cause of your hesitation, we apologize for our presumptuous request."

His skillful manipulation of the conversation was masterful. Elevating both parties while steering towards a positive outcome. Derga's response was predictable.

"…Nonsense. Not at all."

"Then we are relieved. When would be a suitable time?"

"You should ask Ian. Ian?"

As attention returned to Ian, Molin interjected with practiced grace, "Since it is the Count who grants permission, it is fitting for him to choose the day. All matters in Bratz fall under the Count's purview."

Even Emperor Ian admired Molin's impeccable rhetoric. The man was sharp, befitting his position in the central authority. The arrogant provincial nobleman, Derga, stood no chance against such verbal dexterity.

What is their true objective? Initially, Ian had assumed it was a simple power play by Molin, a way to scrutinize the bastard son for weaknesses. But the coordinated efforts of the trio suggested a deeper purpose. This was more than a casual probe. Had Derga noticed?

He has. The Count's hand, stroking his beard, was cautious. His eyes darted about, calculating. Lacking a valid excuse to refuse, he would likely cooperate to discern their intentions.

"How about luncheon tomorrow?" Derga proposed, addressing Molin but watching Ian. His earlier tension had dissipated, replaced by a languid smile. He had finished his calculations.

"Excellent. Thank you, Count Derga."

"However, I have a small request in return." Derga turned to Chel, his other son. All eyes followed, focusing on the boy who had been about to devour a mouthful of steak. Chel froze, his expression wary.

"As Ian mentioned, our guests hail from the capital and are undoubtedly excellent teachers. Therefore, I would like Chel to join you and partake in this scholarly exchange."

While an inconvenience, it wasn't an unreasonable request. Mac, Degor, and Molin exchanged swift, imperceptible glances.

"But Father, I have school-" Chel began to protest.

"It is settled. Young Master Chel is also remarkably bright. I eagerly anticipate this luncheon discussion."

"We are grateful for your consideration."

Before Chel could utter another word, the adults had reached a consensus. He shot a resentful glance at Ian. As if their relationship wasn't strained enough, now he was expected to spend the entire day with him, outside the confines of the manor?

"Shall we have dessert brought in?" the Countess interjected, attempting to smooth over the awkwardness.

"Yes. An exceptional meal," Molin agreed.

Ian echoed the sentiment, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. The luncheon had yielded everything he desired. He felt full, even without dessert.

"It was an honor to dine with you, Count Derga."

"Until next week."

"Master Ian, I shall send a carriage for you tomorrow at lunchtime."

The remaining conversation was devoid of substance, a perfunctory exchange of pleasantries. The forced laughter had vanished, replaced by a palpable disinterest. Molin and his companions departed after barely touching their desserts.

"Safe travels."

"Countess, until we meet again."

With a parting kiss on Mary's hand, the three guests boarded their carriage and disappeared. As the dining area was cleared and Ian prepared to return to his quarters, Derga summoned his sons.

"Chel. Ian."

"Yes, Father."

"You will recount every word spoken by our guests, omitting nothing. Be vigilant."

A predictable precaution. Both Chel and Ian nodded in unison. Derga's gaze fixed on Ian, his eyes cold.

"And you, come with me to my study."

Mary and Chel exchanged puzzled glances, but said nothing. They departed for their respective rooms, leaving Ian to follow Derga.

The study was much as he had seen it before, perhaps with a few more documents cluttering the desk. Derga rummaged through a drawer without offering Ian a seat.

"Hmm." He retrieved a small brooch, a Bratz family crest of a tiger and laurel wreath encrusted with a red gemstone.

"Wear this tomorrow."

Unlike the dismissive toss of his mother's pouch, Derga personally fastened the brooch to Ian's chest. Ian instantly recognized its purpose.

A magic stone capable of recording and tracking location. Commonplace in Ian's time, such devices were rare in this era, especially in the borderlands. Likely a family heirloom, reserved for times of threat.

Derga patted Ian's chest, his voice a low warning, "Do not lose it. Keep it pristine. It is worth far more than your insignificant life."

"…I understand."

Two boys' accounts were insufficient, especially against three seasoned officials from the central authority. Could they not handle a simpleton like Chel? They would undoubtedly isolate Ian.

"I will also assign guards. Do not attempt anything foolish. Return directly to my study upon your arrival."

But was Ian truly on Derga's side? The man held his mother's life hostage and intended to sell him off. He had no choice but to utilize the precious magic brooch.

"Yes, Father."

Ian examined the brooch in his room, a cynical smile twisting his lips. Derga clearly believed he was incapable of written communication. The fool felt secure with such a useless trinket.

Ian channeled mana into the brooch. It quickly became blocked, indicating a limited capacity.

Inferior in every way. Child's play for Ian to manipulate.

The location tracking is irrelevant, as it requires a corresponding stone. Derga would likely be observing a compass in his study, its needle linked to the brooch, indicating direction and distance.

I just need to deal with the recording function. Ian focused his mana again, the gemstone glowing brighter.

"Ah." He had almost forgotten his primary reason for wanting to leave the estate: to meet his birth mother. Ian rang for a servant.

"You called, Master Ian?"

"Bring me a snack."

A snack, so soon after a large meal? The servant bowed, concealing his surprise. Ian hummed cheerfully, his gaze fixed on the doorway. He awaited not the snack, but the person bringing it.