Forming a 'Zi Ring', that was Seven's current dilemma.
His supposed 'death' was still three days away, but the decision of the lordship would probably be made by tomorrow.
'If I fail to meet Father's expectations, exile's unavoidable.'
The carriage jolted over snowdrifts every few seconds. If this were a novel or manga, he could've just skipped the boring travel scene and jumped straight to the next part.
'How the hell am I supposed to form one in just three days? I only know the basics from the novel. Damn it aaaaall!'
He slumped back against the carriage's seat.
In theory, forming a Zi Ring sounded simple enough. There were three basic known methods, and as a reader, he knew them all.
To put it simply,
'Inborn talent.'
Some gifted children like the first daughter of House Hart were born with a Zi Ring already pulsing within their hearts, its mark etched faintly on their wrist.
'Relentless training.'
Those without one were drilled in the family's blessing as soon as they could stand. Most managed to form their first Zi Ring before the age of ten through sheer effort and sleepless discipline.
And third…
'Aid.'
Literally.
A person could channel their own Zi into another's body, forcing the formation to occur. But it was perilous! If the receiver's body failed to synchronize, both hearts would burst on the spot.
Even if it succeeded, the donor could never perform it again.
It was a once-in-a-lifetime aid. Because of that, few ever dared attempt it.
Now… in his case, no one had ever tried— not even Iria, who bore a faint tattoo on her wrist and proof that she possessed a single Zi Star.
'If I ordered her to do it, would she...?'
The thought came, but he quickly dismissed it. It wasn't feasible anyway.
Iria was a mage. And the third method had a divine restriction; a mage could not transfer power to a warrior, nor a warrior to a mage.
The novel described it as a sin against the laws of the world, an act that could provoke the wrath of the Seven Gods who created every matter.
Seven glanced through the window.
Four knights marched beside the carriage, way too casual as if they were escorting a speck of dust rather than a child of the Archduke's lordship.
Including the one holding the reins, only five knights had been assigned to him.
If there was one thing the five shared in common, it was the pair of glowing rings etched on their wrists: two Zi Rings each.
Given their age, if any of them had noble or royal blood, they would've already reached their third ring by half their current years.
'So it's true. Forming the second Zi Ring really is far harder than the first. From that point onward, it can only be done through one's own strength.'
Nonetheless—
Even he, who carried the blood of House Hart, had yet to awaken a single ring. Truly, a mark of talentless disgrace!
'Damn it aaaaaall. I should just— achoo!'
"Ughh… I wanna throw up. Who knew riding a carriage would be this bad?"
He groaned, clutching his stomach.
'By scientific standards, a car's suspension system is designed to minimize vertical oscillations and— no, what the hell am I doing? This is a fantasy world. Where's the spell for motion sickness?!'
"Young Lord, a-are you okay?"
Iria leaned forward, panic flickering in her eyes as the carriage jolted again.
"Should I tell the driver to stop? No, the snow is too deep… but if this continues, you might faint from nausea, and if that happens…"
She fumbled at her belt pouch, nearly spilling its contents.
"Young Lord, should I fetch a calming herb? I have some mint leaves— no, wait, that's for tea—"
"Iria."
She froze mid-motion, a mint leaf pinched between her fingers. After noticing a change in his expression telling that he's fine, she returned the leaf to her pouch.
A moment passed before a strange gleam returned to his eyes.
He straightened in his seat, brushing imaginary dust from his long sleeve.
"What do you call a fis— no, a pig that practices karate?"
Iria blinked, speechless.
"Um, pardon?"
"A pork-chop."
He said it with perfect seriousness, as if he had just discovered the greatest secret in the world. He waited a moment, making sure she understood, though he did not smile.
Placing his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers, he leaned forward.
"What did the tomato say to the other tomato during a race?"
"I… don't know…"
"Ketchup."
Seven looked outside the window.
"What do you call cheese that isn't yours?"
"...?"
"Nacho cheese."
Iria's eyes widened, her hands tightening around the edge of her dress. Her lips pressed together, then parted slightly, as if she wanted to speak but didn't know what words would be appropriate.
She tilted her head, her brow furrowing in deep concern,
'Was the Young Lord… unwell?'
She understood nothing. She didn't understand the joke at all! But the sheer seriousness on his face made her heart pound in unease and worry.
"Iria. What do you call someone with seven stepfathers?"
- – – 777 – – -
The carriage rolled slowly through the gates of the Lordship's dukedom.
Tall and narrow houses lined both sides of the road. Stone and brick walls rose unevenly, their steep roofs dusted with snow. Jutting out from the upper floors were small iron balconies, lanterns swinging gently in the cold wind below them.
'...A violinist street performer and this would've looked like a city in France.'
Seven leaned back, watching the street ahead.
People stopped to look as the carriage passed.
A baker froze with a tray of bread; children playing in the snow halted mid-chase; a woman paused while hanging laundry, cloth still in her hands.
The carriage curved past the houses, heading towards the castle.
The castle was huge, built of pale stone and dark roofs that disappeared into the fog of winter. Tall roofs with pointed roofs rose at each side like spears touching the clouds, and dozens of windows lined its face.
At its center, a round tower curved outward.
"We have arrived, Young Lord. Please prepare to… um… disembark. But are you feeling alright? I mean, are you sure you're not… sick or anything?"
Seven chuckled. Sick? Probably! There's no sane person who would state those corny ahh dad jokes.
"Heh. I'm fine."
The carriage stopped before a golden gate opened to a quiet garden lined with trimmed trees. The doors opened and the four knights escorting him formed a wall at the entrance, the driver watching the surroundings.
Step
Stepping out, he was greeted by an old man.
'Is he the butler of the family?'
The butler was an elderly man with neatly combed gray hair and a face marked by fine, dignified lines. A thin mustache rested above his calm lips, and a monocle hung by a silver chain over his right eye.
He wore a spotless black suit and a crisp white shirt, his bow tie perfectly tied. His posture was straight.
"Welcome back, Young Master Seven. It has been some time since this household last received you. Please allow me to accompany you to your room."
Seven's gaze lingered on him.
Despite his composed appearance, the man likely ranked among the family's strongest, third only to the archduke and the first daughter.
Seven cleared his throat, straightening his own posture.
"Lead the way."