The warmth of the reunion eventually faded, replaced by the hushed orders of the physician insisting on absolute quiet. The Viscount and Viscountess left reluctantly, promising to return in the morning.

  The heavy oak door clicked shut.

  Silence rushed back into the room, thick and suffocating.

  Oliver—no, Arthur—lay back against the pillows. The performance had drained him. Even the simple act of smiling and speaking had emptied his invisible stamina bar.

  Stamina bar…

  He stared at the canopy above, flickering candlelight casting restless shadows.

  “Status,” he whispered.

  The air remained still.

  “System? Menu? Character sheet?”

  He waited for the translucent blue box. He waited for the ding of a notification. He waited for a robotic voice to announce [Gamer’s Mind] or [Sacred Architecture System].

  Nothing. Only the scratching of a branch against the windowpane and the distant howl of a wolf.

  A cold stone settled in his gut.

  “So that’s how it is,” he murmured, voice dry. “No cheats. No golden finger. Just a poisoned body and a crumbling house.”

  He exhaled shakily. “I’m so screwed.”

  His hands trembled—not from fear this time, but from weakness. If he wanted to survive the second assassination attempt—and there would be a second—he couldn’t stay in this bed.

  If I ever want to see Elena again, he thought, teeth gritted, I have to survive this first.

  He threw the covers off. Cold air bit at his legs. They were thin and pale, muscles wasted from poison and a week in a coma.

  He swung his legs over the side of the mattress. One. Two. Three. He pushed himself up.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  His knees buckled instantly.

  “Whoa!”

  He crashed to the floor, tangling in the sheets, his shoulder slamming against the nightstand. The pitcher of water wobbled dangerously before settling with a heavy thud.

  “Master Oliver?!”

  The side door burst open. Layla rushed in, eyes wide with panic. She dropped the basin of warm water she carried, ignoring the splash that soaked her apron.

  “Master! What are you doing? You must not leave the bed!”

  She was at his side in an instant, her grip surprisingly strong as she hauled him up. Terror flickered in her eyes—likely imagining the Viscount’s wrath if his son cracked his head open on her watch.

  “I…” Oliver gritted his teeth, frustration bubbling. Hated being weak. He hated needing help. But Arthur Vance was a pragmatist. “I needed… to see the window, Layla. Help me.”

  “The window?” Layla blinked, confused, but didn’t argue. She draped his arm over her shoulder, acting as a human crutch. “Slowly, Young Master, Lean on me.”

  Together, they shuffled the ten feet to the tall arched window. It felt like a marathon. Sweat beaded on Oliver’s forehead.

  When they reached the glass, he leaned against the cold sill and looked out.

  The moon was full, illuminating the Ashborn territory below. Earlier, he had seen only a peaceful town. Now, with his engineer’s mind fully awake and the hope of a 'System' dead, he saw the infrastructure.

  The river cut through the town sluggishly, brown with sediment. Silt means upstream erosion. The banks are collapsing.

  The main road leading to the gate was rutted and uneven, holding pools of stagnant water. A logistical nightmare. Wagons will get stuck the moment winter hits.

  The defensive walls were old stone, crumbling in sections, patched with rotting wood.

  “It’s a ruin,” he whispered, imagining the rest of the territory in similar—or worse—condition.

  Layla stiffened beside him. “My Lord? The territory is… we have had some bad harvests, but…”

  “Not the harvest,” Oliver muttered, eyes tracing the town’s layout. “The foundation. This place… it’s falling apart.”

  He turned to Layla, his gaze burning with intensity that made her step back.

  “Layla. I need you to bring me something.”

  “Water? Broth? The physician left a sleeping draught…”

  “No,” Oliver said firmly. “I need paper. A quill. And I need the maps of the territory and the continent. The oldest ones you can find.”

  He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “And Layla… do it quietly. I don’t want anyone else to know.”

  Layla hesitated, brows knitting, but the sheer authority in his voice made her nod. She curtsied quickly and hurried out the side door.

  Oliver turned back to the window, staring at the broken town. It was a mess. But it was his mess now.

  (To be continued …)