Once the heavy timber door closed, sealing out the echoes of sobbing servants and Father Luik’s parting warnings, silence settled over the bedchamber like a thick woolen blanket.
Pulchra and Luna had lingered just long enough to tuck Julian back into the bed, smothering him in down pillows and sweet-smelling lavender linens before reluctantly leaving him to rest.
Alone at last, Julian leaned his head against the carved wooden headboard and closed his eyes.
He didn’t sleep.
Instead, he plunged his consciousness inward, descending into the quiet void of his own mind.
There, suspended in the pitch-black space of his soul, rested the Technology Tree.
It was vast beyond human comprehension.
It stretched upward and outward like a constellation of brilliant, interconnected stars—a massive, silent monolith containing the entirety of human innovation.
Millions of nodes hummed quietly, holding everything from the primitive mechanics of a hand-cranked loom to the incomprehensible architectures of orbital satellites and quantum computing.
Julian focused his intent, testing the constraints of his cheat.
As he reached out toward the lowest tier of the tree, the baseline nodes lit up with a soft, pale radiance.
With a simple thought, information flooded his mind, clear and weightless.
Blueprints for basic metallurgy, basic chemistry , timber seasoning, and crop rotation unfolded seamlessly in his mind’s eye.
There was no head-splitting pain this time, no overwhelming pressure threatening to tear his frail skull apart.
The baseline data was fully unlocked, completely free for him to query, read, and manipulate at will.
He drifted through the theoretical models, testing the interface.
He found he could mentally zoom in on detailed cross-sections, alter material variables, and even simulate structural stress tests in real-time.
The higher, futuristic nodes—those containing advanced chemistry, electrification, and modern weaponry—remained locked behind translucent, amber barriers, waiting for his physical body and mental capacity to strengthen.
But the foundation?
The entire base of industrial human civilization was sitting right at his fingertips, waiting for him to build it.
This is how we survive, Julian thought, a quiet flame igniting in his chest.
The Vane family might have swords and mercenaries, but I have thousands of years of human ingenuity.
A soft, rhythmic knocking at the heavy oak door shattered his internal concentration, pulling his mind back into the physical world.
“Lady Pulchra has instructed us to prepare you for lunch.”
Before Julian could answer, the door swung open, and a troupe of six young female servants glided into the chamber.
They moved with practiced, liquid grace, carrying heavy copper basins of steaming water, silk towels, porcelain vials of fragrant oils, and fresh linen robes.
At the head of the group was Maeve, a senior maid in her early twenties.
She possessed a striking, ripe beauty—voluptuous curves that stretched the seams of her high-waisted linen bodice, wide hips that swayed with every step, and dark, bedroom eyes that held a heavy, knowing warmth.
Behind her were five handmaidens, each selected personally by Pulchra for their gentle touch and fetching appearance.
The room’s atmosphere shifted almost instantly.
As steam began to billow from the copper bath set behind a carved wooden screen, the rich, sweet scent of crushed rose petals and cinnamon oil filled the air, creating a heavy, intoxicating haze.
“You must be exhausted, Young Master,” Maeve murmured, stepping close to the bed.
Her voice was like smooth velvet, carried on a breath that smelled faintly of sweet wine and honey.
“Allow us to tend to you.”
The environment quickly transformed into something dense, luxurious, and undeniably provocative.
It was an atmosphere of spring color overflowing the garden—a sensory assault of blooming youth and uninhibited temptation.
Every movement of the maidens was filled with an innate graceful and charming bearing, their soft, rounded figures casting lithe shadows against the firelight as they moved back and forth with copper kettles.
Two maidens unbuttoned Julian’s nightshirt with delicate, cool fingers.
As the linen slid from his shoulders, revealing his pale, unblemished skin, Maeve stepped closer, her full bosom pressing lightly against his arm as she reached across him to test the temperature of the bathwater.
Julian froze, his breath catching in his throat.
The proximity was agonizing.
The women moved around him with a casual, intimate familiarity that left no space for distance.
They were exuding a thousand charming and seductive graces, their laughter soft, tinkling, and low, echoing like small silver bells in the warm, steam-filled room.
One maiden knelt to slip his leather slippers off, her fingers trailing teasingly over his calves, while another gently unclasped his waist sash, her warm breath brushing against his bare chest.
Julian felt the dormant, primal instinct of an adult man—his inner beast—roar to life within his chest.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Every instinct commanded him to reach out, to pull Maeve’s supple waist closer, to give in to the overwhelming physical temptation filling the room.
Yet, as he tried to shift his weight, a sudden, familiar breathlessness washed over him. Find the original chapter at g.com.
A wave of faint dizziness rippled through his temples, forcing him to steady himself against the edge of the tub.
His body was simply too weak.
The frail, fragile shell he had inherited possessed no physical stamina.
The moment his heart rate spiked, his sickly constitution dragged him right back down, dousing his rising desire with a bucket of cold reality.
His inner beast was thoroughly awake, clawing at its cage, but the vessel housing it was made of thin glass.
Damn this body, Julian lamented mentally, biting the inside of his cheek to suppress a frustrated sigh.
I have the mind of a modern man, the drive of a predator, and the physical capacity of a dried leaf.
Maeve noticed his sudden paleness and immediately softened her movements.
With immense tenderness, she and another maid helped him step into the warm, scented water of the copper tub.
As Julian sank into the bath, the hot water soothed his aching muscles, but his mind remained sharply active.
He watched the maidens flutter around him—one gently massaging lavender oil into his shoulders with her soft, warm palms, another carefully washing his jet-black hair with castile soap, while a third hovered nearby with a heated towel, her eyes fixed on him with deep, affectionate care.
Looking at the steam, the fine oils, the Venetian glass bottles, and the beautiful, willing women devoted entirely to his physical comfort, a sudden, profound realization struck Julian.
So this is why second-generation rich heirs become degenerate bastards, he thought, letting his head rest against the padded rim of the tub as Maeve gently scrubbed his back.
In a medieval world as brutal, filthy, and cold as this one, the Falcon Estate was an absurd, unnatural paradise.
A young man raised in this level of staggering wealth—surrounded by absolute luxury, shielded from every hardship, catered to by beautiful women from the moment he opened his eyes—didn’t stand a chance.
Why would anyone bother learning statecraft, strategy, or warfare when they could spend every hour bathed in scented water, surrounded by national beauty and heavenly fragrance, eating candied fruits out of silver bowls?
Debauchery wasn’t just a choice for the elite in a world like this; it was an gravity-well.
The shear weight of endless comfort was designed to strip a man of his ambition, melting his willpower until he became nothing more than a pampered, useless puppet.
If the original Julian hadn’t been sickly, he almost certainly would have turned into a spoiled, useless playboy, thoroughly consumed by the gilded cage his father had built.
But I don’t have the luxury of becoming a degenerate, Julian thought grimly, closing his eyes as the cool porcelain of a fresh cup of diluted wine was pressed softly against his lips by a kneeling handmaiden.
The Duke of Vane is sharpening his knives at our doorstep.
If I let myself drown in this warmth, we’ll all be dead before the leaves fall.
He took a small sip of the wine, letting the sweet flavor sit on his tongue, before opening his eyes with a cold, clear focus that instantly made Maeve pause her massaging hands.
The frail boy was still sitting in the tub, but the gaze that cut through the warm steam was no longer that of a helpless heir.