The ancestral estate of the Rowling family stood in the southwest of the Rowling Plain, where a tributary of the Rowling River—known also as the Emerald River—wound its way through fertile lands. Scattered farms dotted the riverbanks, with towns thriving nearby. Following the stream downward, one would pass through a picturesque valley, its beauty a quiet testament to the land's ancient roots.
This was the cradle of the great Rowling family. Centuries ago, when their forebears were but minor nobles ruling a humble village, the bloodline of the Rowlings began to weave its legacy into this soil.
The carriage rolled through a stretch of Blackwood Forest, where lush green trees framed the path, their branches swaying in the crisp air. A smooth road unfurled ahead, offering glimpses of a serene valley to the left. To the right, in the distance, a towering spire pierced the horizon—the hallmark of the Rowling ancestral estate.
Over centuries of glory, the modest village of yore had vanished. The original manor, reshaped through countless renovations and expansions, had grown into a formidable stronghold. A crimson stone wall encircled a castle wrought from white granite, hewn from the nearby valley—legend held that what was once a small mountain had been quarried into oblivion over generations.
The arrival of the family patriarch's eldest son warranted grand ceremony. Three hundred private soldiers, stationed at the castle, donned their finest gear and formed ranks beneath the red walls long before the carriage approached. The arched gateway loomed with imposing grandeur, and to Du Wei, seated within the carriage, it carried an air of unyielding strength. His keen eye noted the wall's thickness—stout enough to serve as a stalwart defense in times of need.
A true martial lineage of the empire, indeed. The three hundred guards were no mere showpieces; their posture atop their steeds was ramrod straight, their horsemanship deft, their equipment polished to a gleam. Du Wei later learned these men were the elite, handpicked from across the Rowling Plain's private forces. Their training rivaled that of the empire's local garrisons, honed to a fine edge.
Beyond the walls, the Blackwood Forest doubled as a natural hunting ground, where annual hunts sharpened the soldiers' skills—a clever blend of sport and discipline.
The castle's heart comprised two towers, one soaring higher than the distant hills. Du Wei, versed in family lore, recalled its origin: a peculiar patriarch, a warrior general with an odd fascination for astrology, had built it for his wife, a female stargazer, to better chart the heavens' mysteries.
A scarlet carpet unfurled from the castle's grand entrance to the spot where Du Wei's carriage halted. As he stepped down, stooping slightly, a silver-haired elder approached with measured steps. Tall and lean, clad in an immaculate gray suit, the man's demeanor was stern yet meticulously courteous, his movements precise without a hint of servility.
Barely had Du Wei's boots touched the ground when the elder bowed deeply, his voice low and deliberate: "Young Master, I am Hill Rowling, steward of this estate. I received word of your arrival three days hence. The castle stands ready to welcome you. Please, follow me."
With that, Old Butler Hill turned, leading Du Wei up the steps with care. His etiquette was flawless—respectful yet dignified, humble without flattery. He guided Du Wei along the red carpet but stepped aside, walking off the fabric to let the young master claim the honor alone.
There was little time to savor the castle's inner splendor. One image burned into Du Wei's mind as he crossed the threshold: a colossal banner, blazing like fire, dominated the facing wall.
The flag, seven meters tall and six wide, consumed the entire space—a proud emblem of the Rowling crest. Two crossed swords, entwined with iris blossoms, gleamed against a field of crimson flames, crowned by a regal coronet. Its sheer presence cast a solemn, majestic aura over the hall.
Inside, servants in crisp uniforms lined the grand foyer, standing at attention to greet their lord's heir. Du Wei, unimpressed by such pomp, gave a curt nod. "My steward," he said softly, "take me to the study. As for everyone else—return to your duties."
Old Butler Hill obeyed without hesitation, ushering Du Wei to a chamber that could only be described as a library masquerading as a study.
The room was vast, its domed ceiling adorned with intricate plaster motifs. Stone statues—effigies of the family's storied ancestors—stood sentinel along the walls. Towering bookshelves, two stories high, encircled the space, groaning under the weight of tens of thousands of tomes. Iron cabinets safeguarded precious relics: family genealogies, ancient charters, and other weighty documents.
Yet even here, the martial spirit of the Rowlings shone through. Above the entrance, a massive two-handed sword crossed with a hulking war axe hung on the wall, their blades glinting with meticulous care. Another shelf displayed an array of antique weaponry—relics of bygone eras, from imperial shortbows to knightly broadswords, black ironwood bows to curved cavalry sabers. Each piece, though aged, shimmered with preserved menace.
Du Wei's gaze lingered on the arsenal, drawn to their craftsmanship. "These," intoned Hill from behind, his voice steady, "were wielded by the illustrious forebears of the Rowling line. They bear the marks of our family's storied triumphs."
The room's acoustics lent a solemn hum to his words, each syllable reverberating with gravitas.
Du Wei's fingers brushed the smooth, timeworn surface of a pearwood desk, its age likely surpassing even the steward's. Every item here, though meticulously maintained, bore the patina of centuries. The bookshelves' edges were rounded from countless hands, the desk's surface polished by years of use.
"This was once the heart of the Rowling family's power," Hill murmured. "Here, patriarchs pondered and decreed. Every object carries the echo of past glories. Though the family's seat has shifted to the capital, tradition demands that any patriarch—or their representative—spend their first night in this study, not a bedchamber, to honor our legacy and the burdens we bear."
He paused, eyeing Du Wei. "As the eldest son of Earl Raymond, you stand in his stead. Tonight…"
Du Wei nodded, his smile easy. "Tradition is tradition, and I'll uphold it. I'm no patriarch, but as my father's proxy, I'll spend the night here."
Hill's stern visage softened, a trace of warmth in his tone. "Very well, I'll see it prepared. Now, as you're here to inspect the family's holdings on the earl's behalf, where shall we begin? I've had this year's ledgers and accounts readied. When would you like to review them, or—"
Du Wei cut him off with a genial wave, gliding behind the desk to settle into its firm, cushioned chair. "My dear steward, I've traveled far and find myself famished. Bring me something to eat first. Then, I'll dive into those records."
Efficiency, it seemed, was this estate's hallmark. Soon, Du Wei savored a quintessentially southern noble's afternoon tea, complete with a delectable pumpkin pie. No sooner had he wiped his lips than Hill returned, directing two burly servants who wheeled in a cart piled high with ledgers—a veritable mountain of parchment towering over Du Wei himself.
"All this… for this year's accounts?" Du Wei's brow furrowed, half-suspecting a jest.
"Indeed, Young Master," Hill replied gravely. "These detail the entirety of Kurt Province's holdings: land surveys, crop yields, revenues and expenditures from six townships, logistics for the family's private forces across three garrisons—wages, supplies, weaponry—and more. Grain harvests, new construction budgets, and even a draft for next year's projections are included, though the latter remains unfinished. I assumed you'd linger here long enough for us to complete it."
Du Wei rubbed his nose, eyeing the stack. "This is… all of it?"
"This is but a portion," Hill admitted, a rare flicker of levity in his voice. "The rest might keep you occupied for a week."
Du Wei's eyes narrowed, studying the steward. The man's face betrayed no mockery, yet doubt gnawed at him. Did Hill truly expect a thirteen-year-old to decipher this deluge of figures? Surely he knew Du Wei's return was less a mission than a polite exile. So why this charade of ledgers, presented with such earnestness?
Was it a power play—a subtle jab from a steward wary of losing sway? Or did Hill harbor secrets within these accounts, hoping to bamboozle a mere boy?
Possibilities swirled, but Du Wei held his tongue. Without a word, he plucked the topmost ledger, brushed off its dust, and sank into the chair, flipping to the first page with calm deliberation.
Some time later, he glanced up to find Hill still hovering. "Is there more, steward?" Du Wei's tone cooled. "I prefer solitude when I read."
"Of course, Young Master." A flicker of surprise crossed Hill's eyes. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then thought better of it, bowing out with the servants in tow.
When the heavy study door thudded shut, Du Wei set the ledger aside and rose, pacing the vast room to stretch his limbs. A faint smile played on his lips. "Well now," he murmured, "something intriguing might just be afoot."
Until nightfall, Hill returned twice—once with tea, then to light the room's twenty massive candelabras as dusk settled. To his astonishment, the young master was not merely skimming the ledgers but poring over them with evident focus. Pages lay open across the desk, numbers scribbled as if Du Wei were unraveling their secrets. When Hill arrived to kindle the candles, Du Wei tossed out a few pointed questions about the accounts—each one sharp, cutting to the heart of the matter.
This was no pretense. The boy was reading.
Could this truly be the "idiot" heir whispered of in the capital?
Though Hill masked his shock, Du Wei caught the fleeting look. He said nothing, waiting until the steward departed before closing the ledger he'd finished.
The accounts, in truth, were fascinating—not for their numbers, which Du Wei had no hope of auditing, but for what they revealed. He wasn't chasing fraud or errors; his mind worked differently.
Who said ledgers were only for bookkeeping?
To Du Wei, they were a map of power. From project titles and expenditures, he gleaned the Rowlings' grip on their domain. The family operated almost as a sovereign state, controlling taxes and even local appointments. While tax rates followed imperial law, the Rowlings could tweak them under various pretexts—reductions, exemptions, or hikes—as they saw fit, remitting only a portion to the empire's coffers.
Militarily, the accounts painted a stark picture. Imperial garrisons here were negligible—two understrength reserve regiments stationed at the territory's fringes, their supplies and upkeep borne entirely by the Rowlings. Order and security within the domain fell to the family's private forces.
Through these dry pages, Du Wei pieced together the Rowlings' dominion over Kurt Province—economic, political, and martial. If Hill knew how he "read" these books, the old man's jaw would hit the floor.
Two truths stood clear: the Rowlings held near-absolute sway over taxation, and their private army was the region's true power. In Du Wei's otherworldly knowledge, sovereignty rested on two pillars—taxes and troops. Here, both belonged to the family.
Kurt Province, half the empire's southern heartland, was no longer truly imperial. It was a Rowling fiefdom, a near-independent realm.
Du Wei leaned back, lost in thought. Such a state of affairs was startling. When a central authority lost its grip, chaos often loomed on the horizon.
The room grew still, save for the occasional crackle of candle flames. Then, abruptly, Du Wei sprang to his feet, whirling to face the wall behind him.
A towering bookshelf, laden with volumes, stared back—unremarkable at first glance. Yet something stirred within him, a prickle of unease. His sharpened senses, honed beyond ordinary men, had caught it: the fleeting sensation of being watched.
His eyes scanned the shelves, finding nothing amiss, then drifted upward to a row of portraits lining the wall. These oil paintings, arranged by era, depicted the Rowling patriarchs of old. The leftmost, oldest canvas—its style slightly distorted by time—showed a man in an imperial uniform: the legendary marshal who'd won the Rowling Plain from an emperor's hand. His features bore an uncanny resemblance to Earl Raymond, with the same steely, unyielding gaze.
That gaze seemed to pierce Du Wei, pinning him where he stood.
He stepped back, shifting left and right, testing the portrait's eyes. A soft laugh escaped him. "Too sensitive, perhaps," he muttered. "It's just a painting."
Turning away, he picked up another ledger…
Behind him, the marshal's painted eyes blinked.
The rigid figure seemed to stir, its gaze locking onto Du Wei's back with a spark of curiosity, alive with sudden, eerie vitality.
Unseen, Du Wei's fingers tightened on the ledger. Without warning, he spun, his eyes blazing as they met the portrait's.
Man and painting locked gazes, a silent clash in the flickering candlelight.
"No need to play coy," Du Wei said softly, raising his hand. A silver spoon gleamed between his fingers, its surface mirror-bright—the same spoon he'd used for his pie. "You were watching me, and I was watching you."
His smile was sharp, his stare unwavering. "No more pretending. But surely you know—spying from the shadows is rather impolite, isn't it?"
Silence answered, thick with unspoken secrets.