The room was large.
Not lavish. No opulent corridors, no golden mirrors reflecting a thousand glittering baubles. Simply much larger than any space he had known before—the cold, narrow alleys of the streets, the cramped rooms of inns and brothels.
A bed pressed against the far wall, linen sheets carrying the scent of lavender wherever they stirred with the wind. Light gleamed in the basin on the adjacent table, shimmering faintly over still, clear water. The wardrobe stood wide-open, its interior stark and strangely expectant, as if it waited patiently for life that had not yet come to fill it.
Ryota stood in the doorway.
"There will be clothes delivered later," he stated. "There's a bell pull next to the bed if you need anything. Only use it if necessary."
The boy slowly circled the room.
"I've never…" He paused. Couldn't find words.
Ryota waited.
"I've never had a room before," he said finally. "Mine."
A brief flicker crossed Ryota's eyes—a shadow, shuttered and gone before he could make sense of it. His expression became blank again, as flat as winter glass.
"Sleep now," he ordered. "Tomorrow waits."
He turned to leave.
"Wait."
He stopped.
"What?" the boy demanded. "Why do you keep doing this? None of this makes any sense. Who am I to you? What could I possibly offer?"
Silence.
"Lord Waganaki orders," he replied. "I obey."
"That's not good enough."
A different expression crossed Ryota's features, lingering for a bare instant before vanishing. Recognition—or warning?
"It's all there is," he answered.
He disappeared before the boy could ask any more questions.
Dinner was strange.
He sat at the long table in the great hall, the same place he'd met Waganaki before—but this time, the table was crowded with dishes filled with food, steam curling into the air above them. Their very scents tightened his abdomen—cooked meats, baked breads, sweets with strange spices that made his mouth water despite himself.
He had never dined this way before.
The servants seated him between Lia and Yumi—by accident, he presumed, since he didn't understand their seating protocol. Waganaki presided at the table's head, with Ryota positioned beside him to the right. Silent and watchful as ever.
None spoke during the first several minutes. Even the sound of cutlery on china was unusually loud.
Finally, Yumi leaned closer to him.
"You hold your fork incorrectly," she murmured. Her tone was gentle but her eyes twinkled mischievously. Across the table, Lia concealed a smile under her wineglass.
Waganaki didn't comment—either because he hadn't seen, or because he had decided to ignore it. He ate slowly, deliberately, paying careful attention to something they could not see.
The meal itself…was extraordinary. Throughout his entire life, he had subsisted on scraps—anything that could be scavenged and eaten. Anything at all—cold, tough, rotten. Meat on his plate cooked to perfection; the cuts crumbled delicately at the contact of fork. Soft bread, still warm from its baking process; rich butter—real, salty, luxurious—melted into its surface.
He ate cautiously at first, studying the mannerisms of those around him. Carefully mimicking the movement of their utensils, how they drank and ate. Cutting food into appropriately sized chunks with precision.
But hunger does not wait patiently.
He eventually abandoned his efforts. Let his own needs override decorum. Etiquette.
When he reached for a second portion of bread, he met Ryota's observant gaze again.
He stopped mid-action, hand suspended in the air.
Ryota said nothing—he merely turned away.
The boy took the bread.
Afterward, the servants removed the plates efficiently. Waganaki left abruptly, returning to his private study without so much as a goodbye. Ryota followed.
The boy lingered outside the dining hall door. Unsure what he was supposed to do now.
Lia appeared beside him.
"You don't require permission," she noted casually. "This isn't a prison cell."
"It often feels like one," he admitted, the sentiment tumbling from his lips before he could stop himself. It startled her momentarily.
She smiled faintly. "Give it time," she advised gently. "You'll adjust."
She turned toward the staircase. Mid-stride, she halted again.
"Your room is the third door to the left on this floor. You can ask any servant directions. They'll show you wherever you wish."
He nodded.
"Lia?"
"Yes?"
"Wh…why did you take me here?" His words hung in the silence between them.
She contemplated this question carefully. "Because you helped me," she concluded. "Because you didn't request compensation. Because most individuals in this city wouldn't lift a finger, and you didn't."
She smiled warmly—not the cold, sharp grin she reserved exclusively for her father. This one genuine and understated.
"Satisfactory explanation?"
"I don't know."
"Think about it," she suggested lightly. "You have all the time in the world."
Without further hesitation, she ascended the stairs.
His bedroom was dark when he returned.
He lit the candle near the bed, striking a flame against its wick. Pale light spread throughout the room, banishing the shadows only partially. He seated himself atop the mattress—testing its suppleness. Its comfort. Unlike anything he had ever known.
He should feel grateful.
Instead, there was anticipation—an eerie sensation that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. As if the silence of the massive house itself was watching him, waiting to see what a boy with zero mana would do next.
He reclined onto the mattress, observing the ceiling above him. Candle-light expanded the normal shadows of the furniture, stretching them across the walls until the flame finally burned low and flickered out.
He lay awake in the dark for a long time, the heavy quiet of the manor pressing down on his chest, before exhaustion finally took him.
He woke with sunlight piercing his eyelids.
Cold and silent, the dead candle sat atop the nightstand next to his bed. Daylight streamed in through the window, staining everything with pale illumination, washing away the cold stillness of the night.
Slowly sitting upright, his pulse throbbed violently with the realization of where he was.
Then he heard footsteps.
A knock sounded upon the wooden door, resounding sharply.
"You have five minutes," Ryota's voice carried through solid oak.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet firmly upon the floor, ready for the dawn.