"Your father has arrived. You must deal with him yourself."
With that, Johanna turned and departed, her posture rigid with disapproval.
Shortly after, a portly, shiny-faced middle-aged man strode into the hall without ceremony. "Cayman, my son!" Benick boomed, his voice dripping with false warmth. "Let me behold my precious grandchildren."
"Father, welcome," Cayman replied, his smile not reaching his eyes. "But Johanna has just lulled the little ones to sleep. It may not be the most convenient time."
Benick's expression stiffened for a fleeting moment before he smoothed it into a mask of disappointment. "Hah, I suppose my timing is rather unfortunate." He sighed, gazing at Cayman with what he hoped looked like a sense of loss.
But beneath that feigned disappointment lay a simmering anger. Years ago, he had lent this rebellious son thirty gold dragons, a trivial sum intended as a simple investment to keep him placated. He never anticipated that Cayman would flourish to such an extent in merely three years. The impudent youth who had once flattered him was now beyond his control, amassing wealth that could rival his own. The casual investment had yielded an uncontrollable, greedy wolf.
"I hear you intend to compete for the position of Governor of Lys," Benick managed, awkwardly shifting the topic.
Cayman nodded, his smile unwavering as he unreservedly acknowledged his ambition. The governance of Lys was overseen by a council of governors selected from the wealthiest citizens. To win, a candidate needed more than a third of the popular vote.
"I can assist you," Benick said, a look of unwarranted pride appearing on his face. "I still possess some influence in Lys. If I lend my support, you can rest assured of securing your position. What do you desire?"
Cayman nonchalantly reclined in his chair, crossing his legs. To him, the proposition was ludicrous. Over the years, he had been occupied with far more than merely accumulating wealth. The establishment of the Storm Brigade and the economic infiltration of the city had been his true focus. For a year, his Free Trade Guild had renovated public squares and roads, while his shops—catering to every need from clothing to transport—had won the people's loyalty with affordable prices and quality service. Should he run for governor, his probability of success was high, perhaps as much as seventy percent. Benick, however, remained oblivious to the fact that in Cayman's eyes, he had become a mere afterthought.
"I have served as governor for sixteen years," Benick continued, his tone growing haughty. "I was already in office when you were born. As you know, your brother has yet to produce an heir. If you hand over the secret of the beauty soap to me, I shall ensure your ascension. Moreover, I will personally nurture Grace to inherit my wealth in the future."
Cayman gazed at Benick, whose demeanor suggested he believed he was bestowing a great favor. Cayman watched him with a half-smirk, letting the silence stretch. After a prolonged pause, Benick's flushed cheeks darkened with anger.
"What do you mean? Are you looking down on me, young man? Your arrogance is not a commendable trait!" Benick's patience, worn thin by his own desperation, was clearly waning. "The waters of Lys run deep. If I do not speak, no voter will cast their ballot for you."
The veiled threat was evident. Benick could not afford to wait any longer. His spice trade was failing, and among the five governors, his financial standing was the weakest. If he failed to secure the beauty soap, he risked being ousted from the council, his properties bought for a pittance by his rivals.
Upon hearing the threat, Cayman's smile finally faded. His voice was low and cold. "Father, it is in deep waters that the great fish swim. Do you still remember how I used to make my living? My little fishing boat still rests at the headquarters of the Free Trade Merchants Association. Would you like to see it?"
With a resounding thud, Cayman slammed his hand on the table, the crash echoing in the hall. "Am I afraid of deep waters? Benick, my calling you 'father' is a sign of respect. Do not take it for granted. You are nothing but a foul leech. Let me guess, how much longer do you think you can hold your position in the governor's council? A year? Two years?"
Cayman's words were direct, marking his first open confrontation and tearing away any pretense of civility. His influence now rivaled any governor's, and there was no longer any need for him to feign humility.
"You… you…" Benick sputtered, his face purpling with rage. He was taken aback by how well Cayman understood his precarious situation. "You little wretch! Without the thirty golden dragons I bestowed upon you back in the day, would you be where you are today?"
Cayman, equally incensed, retorted without reservation. "Haven't you drained enough from me over these past three years? Constructing a large cargo ship requires at least five golden dragons. You've taken three from me for every one I earn! How dare you even bring that up?" Out of a twisted sense of familial obligation, Cayman had already funded Benick's failing ventures with at least a hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons. The audacity to mention the original thirty was the height of insult.
Benick felt as though he might explode. He took a deep, ragged breath to regain some composure, his eyes narrowing to slits. He had one last card to play.
"Her origins are quite remarkable," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "If you share with me the technique for the beauty soap, I will reveal your mother's identity to you."
The words immediately darkened Cayman's expression. His mismatched blue and purple eyes fixed on Benick with an intensity that was both cold and utterly consuming. The game had suddenly changed.