The Most Satisfied Reincarnate

After an arduous few hours of running, Desmond finally reached the imposing main gate of his residence. Breathing heavily, he paused to catch his breath, his eyes fixated on the two vigilant guards standing watch.

Despite the invisibility spell he had cast, the guards remained unfazed, their unwavering stoicism accentuated by their intense scrutiny of the surroundings. The conjured friction dust dispersed, leaving no trace, but the guards' watchful gazes remained unaffected.

With a flick of his wrist, Desmond deactivated the spell, causing a ripple of astonishment to course through the guards. One of them bellowed, "Hold your position!" They approached Desmond cautiously, their wary expressions etched on their faces.

Desmond couldn't help but sport a self-satisfied smirk as he observed their reaction. Casually dropping the bag he had been carrying, he removed his mask, prompting an even more profound shock from the guards, their eyes widening almost comically.

Without giving the guards another glance, Desmond strolled past them, leaning casually against the sturdy gate pillar. "Take the bag to the rear of the house and make preparations for the carriage," he commanded, his voice oozing authority.

Upon hearing Desmond's unmistakable voice, the guards snapped back to reality. "Yes, young master!" one of them promptly responded, hastening to execute the orders. The other guard's curiosity lingered in his gaze, but Desmond paid it no mind.

"Don't ask, don't speak, maintain the illusion of normalcy," Desmond mused internally. He couldn't afford for his subordinates to uncover the true nature of his actions, as it would only intensify the threats looming over his life.

Who knew if an infiltrator from the kingdom or a cunning interrogator would arrive at his doorstep, akin to Grimm's case, swiftly apprehending his loyal subjects to extract crucial information? Life could be merciless, and any discovery could expose his entire family to the clutches of the Imperial Empire.

Casting a sidelong glance at the guard who regarded him with a tinge of disappointment, Desmond replied coolly, "Indeed, young master."

The guard, acutely aware of Desmond's enigmatic nature, understood that probing further or delving into the matter would be an affront to the numerous favors Desmond had bestowed upon him—a steady income, comfortable accommodations, and a sense of belonging.

Within minutes, the guard who had departed to fetch the horse-drawn carriage returned, his face flushed with an apologetic expression. "My apologies for the delay, young master. Given the late hour, finding a suitable coachman proved quite challenging."

All eyes fell upon the disheveled coachman, perched unsteadily on the carriage seat. "Eh?" He blinked, rubbing his eyes as if to ward off drowsiness. Gradually, his senses returned, and he mustered a contrived smile. "Forgive my earlier lapse, young master. Let us proceed without further delay."

Desmond's confidence in the coachman's mental state wavered. "I hope this isn't a disappointment," he silently mused, his gaze shifting towards the pouch carried by the guard who had just spoken. "Take the bag inside. If there's any movement, deliver a swift strike to the pocket," he instructed.

The guards immediately deciphered the underlying message. "Is the young master so smitten with one of the girls his age that he would stoop to such desperate measures?" their minds raced, fixating on the bag carried by one of their comrades.

Desmond would have reprimanded them for their absurd assumptions, but exhaustion dulled his response. Weary, he stepped into the horse-drawn carriage, and just as the guards lifted the bag, a faint rustling and muffled noises emanated from within.

"Damn it, my friend, we're treading on sinful ground together," the guard carrying the bag muttered, grappling with the weight of their cruel task. He dared not defy his young master's orders.

"Cut the nonsense. This is the task bestowed upon us by the young master. Why should I hold back?" retorted the other guard, a mischievous grin adorning his face, relishing his friend's torment.

"Fuck you," the first guard snapped, casting aside his tender-hearted nature, and with growing frustration, he struck the bag forcefully. Blow after blow, until silence befell the pouch.

"Cursed be I, doomed to this wretched deed," the guard muttered remorsefully, flinging the bag into the vacant space at the rear of the carriage.

The other guard commanded the coachman to commence the journey. "Proceed."

Nightfall descended, shrouding the city in an eerie mist, amplifying the uncanny atmosphere within Desmond's estate. The sound of the horse's rhythmic breathing merged with the ethereal ambiance. Slowly, the horse-drawn carriage vanished into the fog, its destination: Desmond's abode.

...

Meanwhile, Desmond listened to the conversations around him with an air of indifference, his thoughts consumed by the anticipation of the impending fortune due to arrive in a matter of days. As he awaited the carriage's arrival at his residence, he gazed out of the window, fixating on the expanse of grassy meadow.

"How beautiful," he mused, captivated by the dance of fireflies illuminating the field, as if offering him a warm welcome.

"Even amidst the turmoil of the kingdom plunging into war, nature remains untouched. It is the actions of sentient beings that mar the pristine essence of the world," his contemplative thoughts echoed through his mind.

He relished the caress of the night breeze against his face, even though the renowned night wind held the potential to leave one with a lingering chill. But for Desmond, who had ascended to the ranks of a first swordsman and earned the title of a qualified first wizard, such trivial concerns no longer held sway.

After indulging in a prolonged reverie, the horse-drawn carriage came to a halt. "Young master, we have arrived," announced the coachman.

Desmond closed the window, severing his connection with the outside world, and gracefully disembarked from the carriage. "Very well. Take the bag to the backyard of the estate. Should you encounter numerous pouches along the way, refrain from meddling with them. I have specific plans for their contents," he instructed with authority.

The coachman let out a weary sigh, the midnight hour coupled with the burden of carrying the perspiration-inducing bag taking its toll. "Hmm... in that case..." he hesitated, stealing fleeting glances at Desmond.

The underlying implications were not lost on Desmond. After all, the coachman existed on the periphery of his inner circle, a temporary hire at the behest of his guards.

"I shall compensate you twofold. Inform my servant of this arrangement come morning. And heed this warning once more: do not dare open the pouch you have transported, nor any of those within the backyard," Desmond admonished, his voice brimming with an air of stern menace.

The coachman nodded, trembling beneath the weight of Desmond's commanding words. "Yes, young master."

Stepping out of the horse-drawn carriage, the coachman retrieved the pouch from the rear, his footsteps guided by trepidation as he embarked on the path leading to the secluded backyard of Desmond's resplendent residence.

[System: Tagging the individual.]

Meanwhile, hidden within the recesses of his thoughts, Desmond's magenta eyes shimmered with a glint that betrayed the clandestine intent behind his penetrating gaze, delicately tracing the silhouette of the coachman as he ventured forth.