That not so important character turned out to be important

This place I currently live in? Oh, it's a real piece of work. On paper, I'm a noble. Fancy title, family crest, the whole deal. I even own a mansion—sounds impressive, right? But here's the punchline: we're dirt poor. The kind of poor where you can't even afford to cultivate the land you supposedly own. So, naturally, there's no income other than that chump change from crown. Zilch. A few years back, Shaun's grandfather worked as a manager for some noble estate, which kept things afloat. But after he passed away? The whole house fell into disrepair, and support dried up faster than a desert well.

Lucky for this family—or maybe just unlucky timing—the moment Grandpa kicked the bucket and with both parents disappeared, the mantle of responsibility fell squarely on the OG Shaun's shoulders. Now, sure, he had the body of a scrawny adolescent, but the mind? Fully grown adult, courtesy of his transmigrator status. And to his credit, he handled things surprisingly well. Managed finances, kept the house running, even navigated through the local politics. Kid really stepped up. Respect

he poor kid had no choice. He sold everything that wasn't nailed down. Family heirlooms, furniture, decorative pieces—gone. If it wasn't essential, it went on the auction block. Turns out, old noble junk still fetches a decent price. Thanks to that, we're not exactly living in luxury, but I've got enough to keep things running. And hey, it's better than nothing.

The mansion itself? A massive, crumbling relic. Most of it is shut off now, gathering dust in the dark. I only use a small section—a guest wing that's just comfortable enough to live in without feeling like a squatter. It's not much, but it keeps the rain off my head and food on my plate. No complaints. The rest of the place? Empty hallways, silent rooms, and a sense of history no one cares about anymore.

And the staff? OG Shaun hired three people to help maintain the place. Two ancient men and one old woman. Think of the kind of folks who could've fought in the last war and maybe still have enough energy to complain about it. They're loyal, though. I'll give them that.

Problems though ? They haven't ended just because I'm holed up in this crumbling mansion. Eating, sleeping, and leisurely passing time while I wait for some miraculous turnaround? Not a chance. Not even close.

The old servant, Harold—a wiry man with sharp, calculating eyes—shuffled into the room, his brow furrowed "Master Shaun," he began, his voice clipped and steady. "Another one's come. Same story. Claims you owe him money."

Shaun sighed, rubbing his temples. "Another conman, huh? They really can't let me live in peace. Throw him out."

Harold's frown deepened. "We tried. He's... persistent. Damaged some of the vases in the main hall. That's why I've been suggesting we hire guards."

Shaun gave him a flat look. "And how, exactly, do you propose we pay them, Harold? With dust and dreams?" He leaned back, exhaling slowly. "Fine. Bring him in. I'll deal with him."

This is the real issue. Plenty of people have their eyes on this mansion. Why wouldn't they? A ten-year-old in charge of prime property? It's a joke to them. An open invitation.

And so, they keep coming. Swindlers. Long-lost 'relatives.' Businessmen with empty promises of partnerships. This place is practically a magnet for leeches. I'm just a kid in their eyes, easy pickings. It's exhausting.

Still, this mansion—this land—is my shield. Temporary, yes, but a shield nonetheless. OG Shaun had a plan: hold onto the place until he could scrape together enough to enroll in some fancy academy. Secure his future, or something like that.

Me? I'm not wasting time on dreams that don't matter. I'll wrap things up long before then. This house is just a stepping stone. Nothing more.

The door slammed open, crashing against the wall. A man stormed in—a broad-shouldered brute, his eyes wild and bloodshot. He scanned the room before his gaze zeroed in on Shaun, sneering.

"There you are," he growled. "Where've you been, huh? Think you can hide? Forgotten about us, did ya?"

Shaun didn't even flinch. He steepled his fingers, watching the man like he was a particularly dull insect. "And you are...?"

The man's face twisted into a mask of rage, veins bulging in his neck. "Don't play dumb, kid! You owe us! When are you gonna pay up, huh? Or were you hoping we'd just forget?!"

Shaun tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "Owe you? Really? Funny, I don't recall signing any loan agreements. And correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't there laws against lending to minors? Strange how that works." His voice dripped with sarcasm, each word a deliberate jab. "Maybe you should… elaborate."

The man's patience snapped. He lunged forward, grabbing Shaun by the collar and hauling him halfway out of his chair. "Listen here, you little bastard. I don't care what games you're playing. Pay up, or I'll—"

Crunch.

The man's sentence ended in a strangled gasp as Shaun drove a fountain pen deep into his side. Blood seeped through the man's tunic, staining the fabric a dark, ugly red. His eyes bulged in shock and pain.

"You should've thought that through," Shaun murmured, his voice calm, almost bored. He yanked the pen free, flicking droplets of blood onto the floor.

The man stumbled back, clutching his side. He tried to lunge again, but Shaun was already moving. Grabbing the heaviest book from the desk, he swung it with both hands.

Thud.

Once. Twice. Three times.

The man crumpled, groaning as he hit the floor, half-conscious and bleeding. Shaun stood over him, adjusting his cuffs with meticulous care.

He turned to Harold, who watched with a blank expression. "Harold. Basement. And… cut his Achilles tendons. Don't kill him. Just enough to make sure he can't pull this crap again."

Harold nodded without hesitation. "Understood, Master Shaun."

As Harold dragged the bleeding man away, Shaun sank back into his chair, brushing blood off the desk with a handkerchief. The silence returned, heavy and oppressive.

Welcome to nobility. What a joke.

The darkness in the basement was suffocating, broken only by the faint glow of a lantern hanging from a low hook. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the scent of blood and mold. Jim groaned as he stirred, pain shooting through his legs. His body was crumpled on the cold stone floor, and when he tried to move, a sharp, searing agony ripped through his heels.

His Achilles tendons had been severed.

"Son of a—" Jim growled, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He clenched his fists, biting down hard to keep from screaming outright. The pain was unbearable, and he could barely lift himself off the ground. His legs were useless.

"This ain't real... this can't be happening," he muttered through gritted teeth, the words a weak comfort against the reality crushing him. "I was just supposed to scare a damn kid. How did it end up like this?"

Jim's mind raced, trying to piece together what had happened. The job had seemed simple—go in, rough up some brat, and get him to sign over the property. Standard intimidation gig. He'd done worse to better men. But now here he was, broken and bleeding in a basement.

"This ain't over," he whispered to himself. "They'll come looking for me. Yeah... Gafnar Knights don't leave their own behind."

The door creaked open, the sound echoing through the basement like a death knell. A small figure stepped into the light, his face partially obscured by shadows. Shaun. The boy's presence was unsettling—a calm, cold demeanor that seemed far too composed for someone his age.

Jim sneered, summoning whatever bravado he could muster. "You don't know who you're messin' with, kid!" he spat, his voice hoarse but filled with venom. "You're dead. You hear me? Dead. Once my crew finds out what you did, they'll gut you like a pig."

Shaun didn't flinch. His eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, locked onto Jim with a detached, almost bored expression. He didn't say a word, simply gesturing to the old man standing silently behind him. Without hesitation, the old man approached, grabbing Jim by the arms and dragging him toward a worn wooden table in the center of the room. Jim thrashed weakly, but the pain in his legs made any resistance futile.

"Get your hands off me, you old bastard!" Jim shouted, his voice cracking as the old man slammed him onto the table and secured his wrists with heavy leather straps. "You think this is funny? Huh? You're all dead, every last one of you!"

Shaun finally spoke, his voice low and calm, almost soothing in its menace. "Funny? No. Necessary? Yes."

Jim's eyes widened as Shaun moved to a small cart, selecting his tools with deliberate care. A hammer and nails. A large, rusted pair of scissors. A whip laced with needles. Shaun placed them on the table one by one, each tool making a soft clinking sound that seemed to echo forever.

"Let's begin," Shaun said simply, picking up a nail and holding it delicately between his fingers.

Jim's bravado faltered. "W-Wait... You don't have to do this, kid. We can talk, alright? Let's—let's be reasonable."

Shaun tilted his head, considering the words for a moment. "Reasonable?" He smiled faintly. "You came to my house. You threatened me. And now... you want me to be reasonable?"

Before Jim could respond, Shaun drove the nail into his hand, the hammer coming down with a sickening thud. Jim's scream filled the room, a raw, guttural sound that echoed off the walls. He thrashed against the restraints, but Shaun didn't stop. He drove another nail into the other hand, pinning Jim to the table like a broken doll.

The old man watched silently, impassive as Shaun moved on to the scissors. He opened and closed them with a soft snip, the blades glinting in the dim light.

"Let's keep things simple," Shaun said, his tone conversational. "You answer my questions, and this stops. Lie to me, and we continue. Understood?"

Jim nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face. "Y-Yeah... yeah, okay! I'll talk, I'll talk... just stop, please."

Shaun didn't respond immediately. Instead, he placed the scissors down and picked up the whip. The needles glinted menacingly as he let it unfurl. He cracked it once in the air, the sound sharp and violent.

"Who sent you?" Shaun asked, his voice cold.

"G-Gafnar Knights!" Jim stammered. "I work for the Gafnar Knights."

"And why did you come here?"

"Orders... from the leader," Jim gasped, his voice trembling. "He told us to either scare you into signing over the property or take it by force."

Shaun nodded slowly. "Who is your leader affiliated with?"

"Count Heron," Jim blurted. "He runs the Gafnar Knights. Infamous bastard... takes land, money, anything he can get his hands on. You were just... just another name on the list."

Shaun's eyes narrowed. "Why me?"

"Because... because you're a kid," Jim admitted, his voice breaking. "They thought you'd be an easy target. No family, no protection. Just... just a kid with a big house."

Shaun leaned in closer, his voice a whisper. "What's his end goal?"

Jim swallowed hard. "He wants control. More land, more power. He runs gambling houses, loans money at high interest. If people can't pay, he enslaves them. Takes everything they own."

Shaun's gaze didn't waver. "And your plan for me?"

"Same thing," Jim croaked. "We'd make it look like you owed us. Fake a debt, claim your property... just like we do with everyone else."

Shaun stood up, the whip still in his hand. "How many men do you have?"

Jim hesitated, then whispered, "Enough... too many for you to handle."

Shaun's expression didn't change. He turned to the old man. "Clean this up. Make sure he's alive... for now."

"Yes, master," the old man replied, dragging Jim's limp body away.

Shaun stood alone in the basement, his eyes cold and calculating.

Shaun emerged from the bath, steam curling lazily around him as he wrapped a towel over his shoulders. The mansion was eerily quiet, save for the faint rustling of the both old man outside, busy tending to the task Shaun had left him. He sank into the creaky armchair by the window, a cup of tea in hand, its warmth seeping into his palms.

He stared into the darkened garden, the weight of his situation pressing on him

One thing is clear: I can't hold my own against the numbers Jim mentioned. Even if I somehow managed to get rid of this batch, my real problem is the Count, this is the worst one till now.

He took a slow sip, eyes narrowing.

Count Heron. A man with money, men, and power. And worse, there's no guarantee that magic users aren't in the mix. That complicates things. I'm no hero, and I'm definitely not some overpowered villain. This type of plot suits those roles much better. Why t's happening to me no actually natural after all people love to use and abuse NPC I bet that count heron and knight must be living like they are center of universe .

He placed the cup down, a quiet clink echoing in the room.

The game had just begun.