The silence in the dining hall was heavy. Cheon Ma sat at the head of a long, dark oak table. Before him sat an empty plate with a gold rim. He remained silent, struggling to hide the tremor in his hands.
Evelyn rose from her seat. Her movements were fluid. She took up a heavy silver decanter and approached him. Wine poured into the goblet, staining the bottom a deep crimson.
A line from the novel surfaced in Cheon Ma's memory:
'Evelyn added belladonna poison to the wine, hoping her drunken father wouldn't notice the bitterness'
He looked up at his daughter. Evelyn froze, holding the decanter over the table. Her pale fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the handle. She was waiting for the habitual shout or blow, but Cheon Ma simply watched her—like a spectator watching an actress who was overacting.
"Thank you."
Evelyn flinched. The decanter thudded dully against the edge of the table as she pulled away. For a moment, confusion flickered in her eyes.
Cheon Ma took the goblet and brought the wine to his lips. The tart aroma of grapes hit his nose, followed by a faint, sickly-sweet scent. Belladonna.
He didn't take a sip. He simply held the cup to his mouth, observing the others.
Ethan, the middle son, sat to the right. He was buried in a book, but the pages weren't turning. The boy had practically grown into his chair, anticipating an outburst of rage. The youngest, Leon, sat frozen at the end of the table, staring into his bowl of porridge.
"Why is no one eating?"
Cheon Ma asked.
His voice, unusually steady and low, made Ethan jump. The book slipped from his hands and hit the floor with a loud slap. The boy turned pale, lunging to pick it up.
"Forgive me, Father! I'll... right away..."
"Sit, Ethan."
The teenager froze and slowly returned to his seat. Cheon Ma set the poisoned goblet back on the table. The sound of metal hitting wood made all four of them flinch.
"Evelyn."
The girl, who had already sat back down, snapped her head up.
"Yes, Father?"
"The wine is too warm. Bring another. From the cellar. Yourself."
Evelyn looked at the poisoned cup. "But... the servants can bring..."
"I said—you."
Cheon Ma tilted his head slightly. His cold gaze forced her to stand.
"You have poor taste, Evelyn. Choose something that doesn't smell so... obvious."
Evelyn went pale. Wordlessly, she took the poisoned cup and left the hall.
Cheon Ma picked up his fork. He could feel Ethan's gaze on him—terrified, yet fascinated. The teenager was still clutching the book to his chest, as if expecting his father to snatch it away and hurl it into the fireplace.
A short paragraph from the novel flashed in Cheon Ma's mind:
'Viktor hated weakness. Every time he saw Ethan with an alchemy book, he forced his son to watch as the fruits of his labor turned to ash'
Cheon Ma slowly chewed a piece of meat, which felt tasteless due to his dry mouth.
"Ethan."
The boy jumped so violently he nearly dropped the book again.
"Yes... yes, Father?"
Cheon Ma nodded toward the tattered binding in his son's hands.
"Is that the same book you were hiding in the stables with yesterday?"
Ethan turned even paler, if that were possible. He didn't know how his father had found out about his secret spot.
"Forgive me... I... I won't do it anymore..." Ethan said, bowing his head.
Cheon Ma watched him silently for a few seconds. In the novel, Ethan was a genius broken by his own family. But now, just a frightened child sat before him.
"Read."
Ethan froze. He slowly lifted his head, unable to believe his ears.
"What?.."
"I said—read. Since you spend so much time on it, at least try not to go blind in this dim hall."
Cheon Ma returned his attention to his plate. He didn't know if it was a good book or a bad one. He just didn't want to stage a bonfire scene on his first morning in this world.
"But you... you said it was trash for weaklings..."
Ethan whispered, still not daring to open the pages.
Cheon Ma turned a heavy gaze toward him. The very look of Count Viktor that, according to the book, made servants' legs give way.
"People sometimes change their minds, Ethan. Don't make me repeat myself."
The teenager nodded quickly and, with trembling fingers, opened the book and buried himself in it. He wasn't reading—he was simply hiding behind the pages, trying to process why he hadn't been struck yet.
At the far end of the table, Leon suddenly sobbed. The sound was quiet, but in the dead silence of the hall, it rang out like thunder. Cheon Ma stood up.
Kyle, standing by the door, straightened instantly, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. His eyes held a clear warning: If you touch the youngest, I will forget about protocol.
Cheon Ma ignored his threatening posture. He walked along the table and stopped beside Leon. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, pulling his head into his shoulders. Cheon Ma simply looked at his plate.
"Eat your porridge, Leon. It's getting cold."
He turned and, without looking at anyone, left the dining room.
In the hallway, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. His knees were treacherously weak. He knew nothing of alchemy and couldn't fight with a sword. He simply remembered the plot and was trying not to break character.
'The first scene is over. But what will I do when they realize I'm just acting?'
Cheon Ma walked down the corridor, trying not to look back. The servants he passed pressed themselves into the walls as if trying to become part of the tapestries.
The office door, covered in darkened leather, was at the end of the right wing. Cheon Ma pushed it open and entered, immediately locking it behind him. The click of the metal acted as a sobering cold shower.
The room smelled of sour wine, stale tobacco, and dust. Heavy drapes were drawn, making the office feel like a tomb in the half-light. Cheon Ma walked to the window and yanked the curtains open with a sharp motion. Light flooded in, exposing the chaos on the massive black wood desk.
"Damn it... Damn, damn, damn."
He walked to the desk, stumbling over an empty bottle of expensive brandy. The room reeked of stale booze and dust—the true scent of Viktor von Hellsworth's life.
Cheon Ma sat in the chair. It was hard, uncomfortable, and upholstered in leather that creaked with every movement. Stacks of paper were piled on the desk. He began feverishly leafing through them, tossing aside bills from jewelry shops and letters from mistresses, of which the Count had an indecent number.
He was interested in something else.
"Count Hellsworth, we notify you that the delay in tax payments for the last three quarters has exceeded permissible limits... In the event of non-payment by the end of the spring equinox..."
"Payment," — Cheon Ma noted. — "I'm not just a villain. I'm a broke villain."
He found the ledger. The figures were written in the messy handwriting of the steward. By all accounts, the castle was held together only by a wing, a prayer, and the fear of Viktor's reputation. There was barely enough gold in the treasury for a couple of weeks of normal living. Neighboring barons had already begun nibbling at the edges of the estate, knowing the Count was too busy with hangovers to raise a legion.
"Great. The kids want to kill me, the King wants to take the castle, and I have a hole in my pocket."
Cheon Ma leaned back in his chair and stared at his hands.
"Viktor..."
He spoke the name aloud, testing the sound of it.
He wasn't a great actor, but years of working as an extra and in second-rate dramas had taught him the main rule: for the audience to believe, you must believe yourself. If he walked out of this room now and someone noticed hesitation or—God forbid—kindness in his eyes, it would be the end. The children, who had nursed their hatred for years, wouldn't miss the chance. For them, any sign of weakness from their father was a signal to attack.
Cheon Ma stood up and walked to the full-length mirror in the corner of the office.
From the depths of the glass, a man in his prime looked back at him. Thick black eyebrows, a heavy gaze, and a face that knew no smile. Viktor von Hellsworth. Tyrant, drunkard, and bankrupt.
"So, this is my role now."
He needed to remember everything he had read in that ill-fated novel. Cheon Ma... no, here his name was Viktor. In the text, he was always described as unpredictable and cruel. This meant that a sudden change in mood or cold silence instead of shouting could be written off as another whim or a heavy hangover.
The main thing was not to make excuses. Viktor never made excuses to anyone.
Cheon Ma returned to the desk and looked at the ledger again. The numbers didn't lie. If he didn't find gold soon, the guard would desert, and the creditors would simply throw him out of his own castle. Or, more likely, they would help the children accelerate his demise.
There was another knock at the door. More confident this time.
"My Lord, the steward requests an audience. He says it concerns the payments for the mercenaries."
Cheon Ma froze. His first real test. The steward—a man who had seen Viktor every day for years. He would be the hardest to deceive.
The man took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and sat in the chair, assuming a posture that was nonchalant yet threatening. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, pretending to be deathly exhausted.
"Let him enter"
Cheon Ma said, trying to infuse his voice with as much boredom and hidden menace as possible.
The door opened, and a short old man in a worn doublet entered respectfully but with obvious anxiety. He clutched a stack of parchments in his hands.
"Count, I... I'm here regarding the wages for the third squad. They threaten to abandon their post at the eastern gates if they do not receive coin by sunset."
Cheon Ma didn't open his eyes. He felt his heart pounding wildly, but his face remained immobile.
Think like Viktor. What would Viktor do when someone demands money he doesn't have?
"The eastern gates?" — Cheon Ma slowly opened his eyes and stared directly at the steward. — "The very same ones through which bandits with a neighboring baron's wagon train passed unhindered last week?"
The steward went pale and stammered.
"But... My Lord... they said they had a paper with your signature..."
"Out"
Cheon Ma said quietly.
"Pardon?"
"Get out. And tell those mercenaries: if I hear about wages before I see the heads of those bandits on pikes, I will personally test how sharp their own swords are."
The steward backed away, nearly tripping over the empty bottle on the floor. He clearly hadn't expected such an answer. Previously, Viktor would have simply thrown something heavy at him or started screaming about his power. This cold, reasoned pressure was new.
"Yes... yes, Lord Count. As you command."
When the door closed, Cheon Ma allowed himself to exhale. His forehead was covered in sweat.
"It worked. For now."
He realized that the only way to survive in this world was to become a Viktor even more dangerous and unpredictable than the original.
Cheon Ma took the quill again and pulled a clean sheet of paper toward him. He needed a plan. A plan to save his own skin, starting with two points: find money and prevent the children from poisoning him before the week was out.
At that moment, the door slowly opened. Evelyn entered the office, carrying a new goblet on a tray. She moved cautiously.
Cheon Ma didn't move. He continued to sit in the chair, propping his head with his hand and examining the papers on the desk. He felt her gaze—sharp, calculating, full of hidden tension. The girl placed the tray on the edge of the desk, the silver clinking softly.
"Your wine, Father. Straight from the cellar, as you requested."
Cheon Ma slowly raised his eyes. Evelyn stood before him, hands folded over her stomach. She looked flawless: not a single strand of hair out of place, not a single stray emotion reflected on her face. Но Cheon Ma, who had spent years watching his colleagues act on set, saw how tense her neck was.
He silently reached out and took the goblet. This time, the wine smelled only of grapes and the tartness of an oak barrel. No extra sweetness.
"Did you choose it yourself?"
He asked, not taking his eyes off her.
Evelyn gave an almost imperceptible flinch.
"Yes. Personally."
"Good."
Cheon Ma took a small sip. The wine was sour and astringent, but it helped ease the dryness in his throat. He set the cup on the table and returned to his papers, signaling that the conversation was over.
Evelyn didn't leave. She hesitated, clearly thrown off by his composure.
"Is that all? Do you not wish to... add anything?"
Cheon Ma turned a page of the ledger without even looking at her.
"Begone, Evelyn. I have much to do. And tell Kyle to stop clanking his armor at my door. It's tiring."
His daughter bowed, slightly lower than usual, and hastily left. As soon as the door closed, Cheon Ma set down the quill.
He looked in the mirror again. Viktor von Hellsworth was still there. But now, this man didn't seem like a mere character from a novel. This was his only chance. His greatest role, with his life as the price.
Cheon Ma picked up the heavy seal from the desk—bearing the crest of a shattered crown—and squeezed it in his fist.
"So, Viktor," — he thought. — "Very well. If the script requires a villain, I will play him so well you will all forget how to breathe."