Soren ducked his head as he stepped down from the carriage, his black boots touching the gravel drive with a muted crunch.
The air outside was fresh, far cooler than the stuffy air inside the carriage, but the sight waiting for him soured the moment.
The Arden estate loomed ahead, its appearance gaudy and blinding in the afternoon sun.
White stone walls lined with gold trimming.
Windows tall enough to belong to a cathedral.
Flower gardens that stretched along the paths, trimmed with almost unnatural precision.
Everything screamed wealth and authority, the kind meant to impress guests and remind servants of their place.
Soren's lips tugged into something like a smile, though it held no warmth.
The old carriage behind him looked even more pathetic when set against the backdrop.
Its paint had long since chipped, the wood worn down by years of use.
The contrast was almost comical.
He could already imagine the whispers if anyone important had been around to see him arrive.
A small chuckle escaped his lips as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his cloak.
The uniform he wore didn't help either.
A plain white shirt, a black tie, grey trousers, black boots and the hooded black cloak of the academy.
That was all he owned.
He hadn't thought about buying clothes, and honestly, he hadn't cared.
But now, standing in front of the mansion dressed like this, he felt even more out of place than usual.
The grandeur of the estate made it look as though he had wandered into the wrong world by mistake.
The quiet settled in around him again.
He was used to noise, the constant chatter of his classmates, the easy banter of friends who knew how to fill the silence without even trying.
Here, there was nothing.
No voices, no distractions, just the faint rustle of leaves in the delicately manicured gardens and the distinct trickle of a fountain.
Back at the academy, he could always drown out these silent moments by training, exploring the districts, and many other things.
He had two months ahead of him, and there was no one to talk to, no allies on his side.
Just himself and whatever awaited inside those walls.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to move.
"Wrap everything up quickly," he whispered to himself on repeat.
His boots clicked against the stone as he started up the path.
When he reached the main steps, a man was already waiting.
An older steward dressed in an impeccable black uniform stood near the entrance, his posture straight as a blade.
The steward's expression was unreadable, not cold exactly, but distant.
Better put, it was professional.
"Welcome home, young master," the steward said, bowing slightly.
His tone was formal, and each word measured.
"The countess has been informed of your arrival. If you follow me, I will see you to your chambers."
There was no trace of warmth in the man's voice, but no disdain either.
His words were cleanly spoken, as if he were reciting a line from memory.
Soren found it almost impressive how perfectly the man separated his personal feelings from his work.
"Sure, let's go," Soren replied simply, his hands still in his pockets.
The steward turned, gesturing toward the grand double doors.
Their polished surface reflected the afternoon sun so sharply that Soren had to squint.
As Soren stepped forward, he cast one last glance over his shoulder at the shabby carriage waiting at the edge of the drive.
Against the overwhelming display of wealth around it, the old thing looked almost pitiful.
That bitter smile returned to his lips.
Then he stepped forward.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold…
Ting-♪
Soren's steps came to a halt, and he turned his gaze toward the translucent window that had suddenly appeared.
.
▶ The Truth (2) ◀
[Details: Stay at the Arden estate for two weeks.]
[Difficulty: PERSONAL]
[Reward: ???'s Diary, 500 Points]
.
His eyes went wide.
500 points.
Far more than any quest so far, enough to raise his total by half of his current amount in a single go.
For a moment, the sheer number pulled at him, a spark of excitement flickering in his chest.
But it didn't last.
His smile quickly faded as he read the contents.
It was, of course, a personal quest, but he couldn't help but grimace at what it was asking him to do.
Two weeks.
Here.
He didn't need anyone to tell him how unpleasant that would be after his carriage ride.
"Young master? Is something the matter?"
The steward's voice cut through his thoughts.
He was standing a step ahead, waiting with the same perfect patience as before.
Soren blinked, forcing the grimace off his face.
The window faded into the background, lingering at the edge of his vision, but he ignored it.
Complaining wouldn't change anything.
It was a personal quest, and if it involved a diary tied to his past, then no matter how bitter it felt, he had no choice.
He adjusted his cloak and forced a smile.
"No. Let's go."
The steward moved without hesitation, his polished shoes making almost no sound against the pristine marble floor.
Soren followed a few steps behind, his own boots sounding heavier, the subtle marks of dirt left in his wake highlighted the difference between them.
Inside, the estate was even more overbearing than its exterior.
The hall stretched endlessly, lined with tall windows framed in crimson curtains, chandeliers glittering above with enough mana crystals to blind someone who stared too long.
Expensive paintings hung on the walls, portraits of men and women with sharp gazes and proud stances, all carrying the same bloodline.
The Arden family.
Soren's eyes flicked from frame to frame.
Every face seemed to look down on him, their oil-painted eyes filled with arrogance even after decades.
The weight of their stares pressed down on his back as he walked.
The air was cold, not just from the temperature, but also from the atmosphere.
The halls felt hollow, no chatter of servants.
No laughter of children.
Nothing living filled this place, only grandeur and coldness.
Their steps echoed faintly, swallowed almost immediately by the vast halls.
Now and then, a servant passed by.
Each time, their eyes darted toward him, scanning his body up and down with their gaze.
And each time, the same thing.
Disdain.
Disgust.
Hatred.
All of it thinly veiled, but clear.
Some curled their lips into sneers, while others whispered behind their hands, laughter muffled but unmistakable.
However, Soren didn't flinch.
In fact, he couldn't help but smile.
After days of silence and mental torment, this blatant hostility was almost refreshing.
At least it was honest.
Soren wasn't a masochist or anything, far from it; he just hated the way Sofia Arden tried to get into his head in subtle, annoying ways.
He hated people who hid their hatred.
He would much rather people be open about it, so he doesn't need to jump around in a minefield, watching every step.
Soren slipped his hands into his cloak pockets and tilted his head toward the steward.
"So," he began casually, "Is it always this quiet here? Or did everyone decide to hold their breath just for me?"
The steward didn't even spare Soren a glance.
"The estate observes discipline, young master. Noise is kept to a minimum." His voice remained calm.
"Right," Soren smirked.
They turned into another corridor.
A servant carrying folded sheets came the other way.
The moment her eyes landed on Soren, her steps faltered for a moment.
She stared openly, her mouth grimacing as if she had bitten into something foul.
Her gaze lingered all the way until she passed, whispering something under her breath as she walked by.
"Failure."
Soren caught it easily.
His lips tugged upward, amusement evident in his expression.
"What a warm welcome," he muttered, loud enough for the steward a few steps ahead to hear.
He tried talking to the elderly man one more time, if only for his own entertainment.
"Must be fun working here. I mean, keeping everything spotless, never being allowed to speak. Really living the dream, aren't you, old man?"
The steward's reply came without pause, as professional as before.
"The servants take pride in their duties, young master. The Arden estate expects no less."
Soren chuckled under his breath.
It was almost admirable how the man could answer anything while revealing nothing at all.
A human wall.
He couldn't help but wonder whether the steward practised in front of a mirror every morning.
The halls stretched on, twisting deeper into the mansion.
At first, Soren thought he might be imagining it, but the further they walked, the more isolated the path became.
The polished decorations grew sparse. The gilded accents and paintings gave way to bare stone and simple doors.
The difference was like stepping out of a palace into a monastery.
Finally, the steward stopped before a plain wooden door tucked into the far corner of a long hall.
Compared to the lavish rooms they had passed by, this one looked almost forgotten.
"Your chambers," the steward said, bowing slightly.
His tone never changed, as though this hidden corner was as dignified as the grandest suite.
"The countess has instructed that you wait here until summoned."
Soren raised a brow,
"Wait here, huh? Sounds exciting."
The steward did not respond, only opening the door with a neat, practised gesture.
Inside, the room was… serviceable.
A narrow bed, a desk, a wardrobe so small it looked more like a storage chest.
The air smelled faintly of dust, as though no one had stayed within for a long time.
Soren stepped inside, boots clicking softly on the wooden floor.
He glanced around once, then turned back just in time to see the steward bow again.
"Please wait here," the man repeated.
Then he closed the door, and the click of the lock echoed throughout the room.
Soren stared at the door for a moment, then exhaled sharply through his nose.
A laugh slipped out, quiet at first, then growing into something genuine.
"Locked in my own room," he said to the empty space, shaking his head. "Perfect."
He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, dust bounced up, and the frame creaked under his weight.
His smile lingered, bitter but amused.
Whatever awaited him here, the mansion had already made one thing clear.
He was not welcome.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
.
▶ ù̷̥͇̹̽́o̶̜̊l̷̡̔͂̅S̸̥͕̬̔̐́̉̀ͅ ̴̤̝͎̅͐̓̓͝i̸̢̳͙̮͚̽̂ṉ̴̡̧̧͋̅̐e̶̩̓̾̆̀̃g̸̗͌̉̓̑̚r̵̠̠͎̱̟͛̾̚M̵̢̙̣̒͑͂͐g̶̛̪͛̍̀ ȍ̶̠̘̬̳̩͍̣̩̒͗̿̉̀͝f̷̟͊́̉͋̑͑̽̈̕̚͘͘ ̵̛̠̗̞̠̌̀̏͛̈́̒͆̄̄̕ͅͅḮ̴̪͎̙̮̲̳͌̄̒̇̉͆̒͂̊́̓̉s̶̺̭̗͓̯̭̮̜̭͎͍͕͓̏̉̈́̅͌͗̔̏͌̀͋͋̉͜͜a̵̧̘͇̤̻͖̠̮͋͂́̓̓͒͠a̶̦͙̜̜̜͉̝̜̺̓̏͌c̸̰͚͍̺̮͚͚̳̮̥̠͗̀̓̔̐͝ ̴̛̝̥͉̟̓̈́̇͜͝a̷̡̳̮̰̯͍͉̩̮͓͍̥̟͆͐͑͜͜n̴̬̫͇̫̜̘̤̼̾̇̎̏̈͊̀͘͜͜d̶̡͖̤͕̮̯̫̑̇͋̂͒̎͝͠ ̵̢̜͈͔̮̗̝̠̠͚͑̏͜S̶͉͔̬͔̯̊̎͐̔̔͝o̶͖̭̩͂̄̌̍̐͗̅͜͝r̷̡͓̥̦͕̹̯̬̽̾̽͗͂̃̉̽̋̊͛̐̒͝ë̵͇̘̺̮͉̥͈̌̇̋̆̑̕n̷͈̘͚͍̞̹̰̱͈͉̼̘̹͆̑̒̌:̴̻̹͉̌̈́ ̵͖̝̽̂̋̍͌13%̸͉̓͑̈̅͗ ◀
————「❤︎」————