"Sorry, Fyrion I can only sell you to protect this land." The last words Fyrion heard before getting sold to the south in his past life, a foreign land of luxury but filled with malice and corruption.
However, later he heard his father fled with the money instead of helping people abandoning both his pride and the people like Hanna and Viola who relied upon him.
Fyrion at that time was naive and a famous rubbish he thought only by sacrificing himself could he protect his land's people and the persons he cared for.
'What a fool I was', Fyrion thought as he gazed out of the window. The only reason he isn't bothering with his father even after regressing is because his mother loved this man, and he loved his mother.
Outside, the wind howled through the northern pass, carrying away the last of Envoy Corvus's curses. The wagons, now significantly lighter, rumbled away in a desperate, ungraceful retreat. They had paid.
In the Great Hall, Lord Valdemar stared at the two heavy bags of gold sitting on the ancient, scarred oak table. The sheer, impossible sight made him dizzy at the same time covet over it.
"You... you extorted a Royal Envoy," Valdemar finally said, his voice a low, stunned rumble. He looked at his son, truly seeing him for the first time, and he was not sure what he was looking at. "You threatened a Noble of the Crown. You've doomed us all for a... a bag of gold."
Fyrion was calmly wiping the soot from his alchemical tools. "Doomed? I just paid our 'debt' and established a new trade agreement, all in one morning. We are safer now than we have been in three years. You're welcome."
"This... this is dishonorable. This is... trickery," Valdemar seethed, his mundane mind clashing with the undeniable reality of the gold. "This is not how our House operates."
He reached for one of the bags. His thick, calloused fingers brushed the rough leather. "This gold will go to the men. It will buy grain from the coast. We must—"
A thin, young hand placed itself firmly on top of the bag.
"No."
Valdemar froze. His gaze lifted slowly from Fyrion's hand to his son's face. The boy's eyes were not defiant. They were not rebellious. They were... bored. They were the eyes of a superior officer addressing an incompetent subordinate.
"What," Valdemar said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "did you just say to me?"
"This isn't your gold, Father."
"I am your Lord! I am your FATHER! This is my hall, and that is my—"
"And you are the Lord who ran this house into the ground," Fyrion cut him off, his voice slicing through the hall's cold air.
The words hit Valdemar like a physical blow. He recoiled, his face slack with shock.
"You are the father who was about to sell his son to a Southern snake for a few bags of moldy grain," Fyrion continued, his voice utterly devoid of malice, a simple, cold statement of fact. "This isn't family gold. This is my capital. My alchemy. My plan. Your leadership has been... inefficient."
He stepped back, turning his gaze from his father to the only other person in the hall.
Silas, the scribe, was pressed against the wall, trying to make himself invisible. He was trembling, trapped between the old lion and the new, unknown wolf.
"Silas."
Silas flinched as if he'd been struck. "Y-Young... Young Master?"
"You've been juggling my father's debts for five years. You're a gambler, but you're a good accountant when you're sober."
Silas's face went white.
Fyrion walked toward him. "My father's authority over the treasury is revoked. You work for me now. Exclusively."
Silas's eyes darted nervously to Lord Valdemar, who was still speechless, his hand frozen in mid-air above the gold. This was treason. This was a coup.
But Silas was a gambler. He looked at the old, failing Lord. Then he looked at the young, terrifying master who had crippled a Royal Knight and summoned a mountain of gold from thin air.
The odds were clear.
Silas bowed, his head nearly touching his knees. "Yes... yes, Master Fyrion. What... what is my first task?"
"Take this bag," Fyrion said. "This is your new operational fund. Your first task is to buy every gram of sulfur, saltpeter, and coal dust in our territory. Start with our own vassals. I want the storehouses full by tomorrow night. We are scaling production."
Fyrion hefted one of the massive bags of gold. His arm, thin as it was, didn't even tremble as his Aura Core took the strain. He tossed it.
Silas yelped, fumbling to catch the immense weight. He staggered, but he held it, hugging the gold to his chest as if it were a lover. His eyes were wide, feverish.
This was more money than he had ever seen, and it was in his hands. His path out of debt, his path to survival, was clear.
"I will see to it at once, Master!" he said, his voice cracking with a new, fervent loyalty.
He turned to leave, his mind already calculating routes, suppliers, and how much he could skim off the top.
"And Silas?"
Fyrion's voice was soft, almost friendly. Silas stopped, his hand on the door.
Fyrion smiled, but his eyes were as cold as the dungeon he'd died in.
"Not one coin for the gambling dens."
Silas froze, the blood draining from his face.
"Or I'll break your wrists," Fyrion finished, his smile not wavering. "And I promise you... I won't be as clean as I was with that knight."
Silas stared, his heart hammering. He knew, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that this was not a threat.
'Damn, all my schemes just went down drain…I can't mess with this demon.' With crying expression he nodded once, clutching the bag, and fled.
Fyrion was left alone in the hall with his father. He picked up the second bag of gold, this one for his own research, and walked past the still-frozen Lord.
"See to the men, Father," Fyrion said, as if giving an order to a mid-level manager. "You're good at that, at least. Keep them loyal. I'll handle the rest."