The message had barely been sent before Noah regretted it.
It was nothing more than an unsubstantiated, unverified guess. To label an adult female of the high-ranking privileged class, someone who held enough power to cover the sky in the Federation, as a “pervert” simply because of his own lingering suspicion and frustration was immature, irrational, and undignified.
The core of politics is plunder, yet its outward appearance must remain crowned in decorum and dignity.
After a brief pause, he pressed his lips together. Before the Councilor could see it, he withdrew the message as if nothing had happened.
A light knock sounded at the door.
The butler entered holding a silver tray. He bowed slightly and, while placing the freshly brewed coffee before the Saint, said, “Good morning, Lord Noah. Please allow me to review your schedule for today.”
“…At ten o’clock in the morning, the designer from Bohemia Street will arrive to adjust your wardrobe. At fourteen o’clock in the afternoon, you are to visit your teacher, Lord Evans. Since the temperature difference between day and night is significant today, I will have the head servant pack several warm coats in the transport’s walk-in closet for your convenience…”
“In addition, Elder Mr. Veroria inquired last night if you would like him to accompany you to the Tower of Truth to search the academy’s reserved technologies for any possibility of recovering your memories.”
Setting his scattered thoughts aside, the Saint focused his mind and spoke calmly, “I understand.”
As for his father’s invitation…
Noah felt a slight headache.
Since everything happening now was the result of his own machinations, the version of him before his amnesia likely had a plan for how and when his memories would return. If he were to find a method to recover them prematurely at the academy, it would only make things difficult.
Unfortunately, he was surrounded by eyes everywhere, and his father’s invitation was made in good faith; it would be hard to refuse right away.
I will just take it one step at a time, he thought.
In the afternoon.
Noah set out early to visit his teacher.
Regarding the education of underage Excellencies, the Holy Land had always adopted a one-on-one private tutoring model, the relationship between a Guide and the Guided, commonly known as teacher and student.
Typically, the first-choice Guide would be the young Excellency’s biological father. Only when the father had passed away and there were no other male elders in the family would the Holy Land step in to coordinate, select, and assign an adult male from the same political faction, class, or even rank to serve as the Guide.
His teacher, Lord Saville Evans, was one of the few males in the Holy Land who held real power.
At 13:40.
The moment he stepped into the courtyard, Noah acutely sensed that something was amiss.
The doors to the manor were tightly shut. The servants kept their heads down and moved with hurried steps, like bees whose hive had just been destroyed, scurrying between buildings. Even their breathing seemed more cautious than usual.
The sunlight spilling onto the greenery in the garden appeared cold and desolate.
He paused for a few seconds, having guessed what had happened.
Dismissing the servants around him, the young Saint paused, turned, and entered the tea room beside the garden. Familiar with the layout, he took out the tea set he had used in the past and skillfully warmed the pot, added the tea leaves, and began to brew. He monitored the heat carefully while waiting quietly until the tea boiled.
After filtering it three times, he added a dash of fresh milk and a few crystal sugar cubes according to the drinker’s preference, stirring gently.
At 13:59.
He placed the teacup on a tray and proceeded unhurriedly toward the reception hall. Right on time for his appointment, he lowered his eyes and respectfully handed the cup to the adult male opposite him.
“Teacher, please have some tea.”
The male’s tightly locked brow relaxed slightly as he took a shallow sip.
The tea was slightly bitter upon entry but quickly turned sweet. The texture was dense and mellow, like a tiny feather gently brushing away the anger in his heart.
He praised, “Your tea-brewing skills have reached a master’s level.”
Brewing tea was a trivial matter, certainly not a mandatory skill for a male, let alone a high-ranking privileged male.
It was a requirement imposed by Noah’s father, the previous head of the Veroria family, on his young son. Tea ceremony was an ancient art with elegant form, perfect for tempering one’s temperament and removing impulsiveness. Later, after his father’s passing, Noah’s Guide changed from his father to Lord Evans, but the habit formed in childhood remained.
“It is thanks to your teaching, Teacher.”
Saville chuckled, “Don’t say such things in the future. Don’t try to gild your teacher’s name. If I didn’t even know my own worth and cheekily took credit for my student’s success, I wouldn’t be fit to be your teacher.”
He looked at the male before him.
His white hair was soft, his eyes clear. Sunlight swayed across his fair face, and his long, thick eyelashes drooped like a butterfly resting in the snow.
He was cold, otherworldly, and possessed a clear, crisp temperament.
His words and actions carried an obvious sense of distance, yet he never made those around him feel slighted or neglected.
What was that saying? Comparison is the thief of joy?
Looking at the quiet and well-behaved student before him, then thinking of his own son, who had argued and sulked with him since early morning and was still locked in his room engaged in a cold war, Saville sighed, “If only Lacey were as sensible as you.” Lacey was the name of his biological son.
Distance should not interfere with intimacy.
Noah didn’t take the bait, only saying softly, “He is only twenty-six; he is still young.”
Saville shook his head helplessly.
Is twenty-six considered young?
Compared to the long lifespan of the Zerg, twenty-six was just the beginning, but it depends on who you compare him to. At twenty-six, Noah Veroria had already begun to shine, while his own son was still throwing tantrums over insignificant matters.
He waved his hand, feeling rather dejected. “Let’s not talk about that rebellious child. Let’s talk about you.”
He looked his student up and down, nodding in satisfaction. “You seem to have recovered well; your complexion is much better than when I visited you in the hospital last week. The Holy Land has no urgent matters, and Casirel will handle any outside inquiries for you. However, there is a small problem at the company… I have postponed the Supreme Board meeting until next week. How about it? Can you attend?”
Noah nodded slightly, “No problem.”
His body was already mostly recovered; attending a private meeting would be fine.
Outside the window, leaves rustled. Noah sat nearby, chatting with his teacher for a while, and within minutes, he had the frustrated elder male smiling broadly.
He then turned to instruct the servants to prepare desserts and afternoon tea.
“It has been a while since I saw Lacey; let’s have afternoon tea together.” He curved his eyes, joking, “A tea party for young insects, I won’t take you along, Teacher.”
Minutes later, the servants lined up with a wide variety of desserts and snacks, looking slightly troubled: until now, the door to Lacey Evans’s room remained tightly shut, with no sign of the young male coming out. He was clearly still sulking.
Noah said, “I’ll handle it.”
He knocked on the door.
Three long, one short.
It was as if he recognized a specific code; the previously silent door suddenly clicked open. Noah picked out a few pieces of dessert and walked inside, and the door slammed shut with a bang behind him.
He was still in a foul mood.
Noah didn’t mind. He placed the tray on the dining table and sat down to the side. The young Saint leaned lazily against the sofa, counting slowly to ten in his heart. A second later, the voice of the other young male rang out, filled with melancholy complaints.
“Didn’t they say you had amnesia?”
Lacey Evans looked him up and down, judging, “Isn’t this still that same deadpan face? But then again, I feel like you’ve been this way ever since I’ve known you.”
Noah glanced at him and remained silent.
Having known each other for over a decade, Lacey was long accustomed to his friend’s cold face.
He didn’t stand on ceremony, crossing over in two or three steps and plopping down beside the Saint. The young male blinked, leaning his face toward Noah and lowering his voice, urging with undeniable anticipation, “So? How is it? Does my father know he was wrong?”
…?
What kind of topsy-turvy logic was this?
Noah couldn’t respond to that. He swept his gaze over Lacey Evans, who wore an expression of absolute entitlement, looking exactly like the naive and lively child in Noah’s memories from eighteen. The ten years Noah had suddenly lost seemed not to have left a single trace on this young male.
He pointed to a dessert on the tray intended as a side, asking, “Want some?”
The cake’s aroma was sweet and fresh. Nestled among the exquisite pastries, its clumsy appearance was undeniable; it was clearly a cream staircase made by a certain male parent trying to coax his son, yet unable to lower his pride to speak directly.
It actually looked rather delicious.
The Saint’s gaze lingered on the cake before turning to the other party involved.
It was only reasonable to share a small cake while mediating an argument.
“No, I’m dieting. If you want to eat, eat it yourself.” The lively young male spoke fast, his mouth fluttering, muttering, “Wait, a perfect Excellency like you would never eat junk food like cake—forget it, pretend I didn’t say that, don’t you dare laugh at me!”
Noah said, “…”
He paused, withdrew his gaze as if nothing happened, and gave a cold “Mm,” acknowledging the other’s statement.
“Hey! You still haven’t told me what my father meant.”
Lacey tilted his head, unwilling to give up. He leaned in, resting his head on Noah’s shoulder and complaining, “Father wouldn’t really make me go on dates with those females he arranged, right? Ah, so annoying! If you ask me, only useless males marry young. I don’t want to get married so early!”
That wasn’t entirely wrong.
For a high-ranking male, marrying young was equivalent to being eliminated.
It meant losing face, carried contempt, and implied that this high-ranking male had no say in his own marriage, that the family behind him didn’t care much for his feelings. It meant that from then on, when others called him “Excellency,” the gaze would actually be fixed not on him, but on the powerful high-ranking female standing by his side.
Noah was slightly surprised that his brain could even reach this level of understanding.
As he lowered his eyes in thought, seeing no reaction from Noah, Lacey Evans leaned in closer, skillfully hugging his arm and rubbing his face against him, clearly intending to use his pouting tactics.
Noah’s brow twitched. He reached out to press against the other’s forehead, pushing him away in distaste, and asked, “Since you were little, every time you threw a tantrum, when has Teacher not eventually given in to you?”
“I guess that’s true.”
Lacey realized.
He wasn’t entirely a fool. After pondering for a moment, his eyes lingered on the plate of cakes, and he quickly caught on. His eyes brightened, and he stopped sulking entirely. He opened the door and ran out like a little cannonball, giddily pouncing on his father.
The Saint smiled silently, nodding at his teacher from afar.
His work was done.
As he left the Evans manor, he could faintly hear the elder male behind him, scolding with helpless but underlying laughter, “…How old are you, still acting like a child…”
Dusk descended.
The young Excellencies, having spent the whole day playing wildly on the island, finally reined in their desire to play and were obediently led home by their respective fathers. Even the scattered groups of insects seemed to gain a bit of street-like bustle and liveliness because of the lively, happy chatter of the young males.
“Father, Father! I’m telling you, I learned so many—so many things in class today!”
“My baby is amazing!”
“Hehe, I want a kiss~”
“Alright, have you decided what you want for dinner?”
A small figure and a large one, one after the other, passed by the young Saint’s side in this lively manner, like flickers of light falling by chance, soon disappearing at the end of the road.
The world returned to silence.
Occasionally, a thin branch would fall from a tree to the ground with a soft pat.
Noah looked up slightly at the sky, which was wrapped in a transparent bubble and refracted colorful lights under the sun. For some reason, he suddenly felt a sense of apathy.
He just felt… a little bored.
At the same time.
Igris looked down at the light-brain in front of him.
The male had withdrawn the message extremely quickly. If it weren’t for the fact that he had indeed been scolded, and he was indeed well-versed in being scolded, Igris would have suspected he had seen wrong.
That’s right.
Well-versed in being scolded.
Sometimes Igris himself was puzzled: what he had gone to such great lengths to bring home—was it the male master described in the Federal Marriage Law, or was it the ancestor carved on the first page of the Orwell family tree? Think of him, the dignified head of the Federal Parliament, married for three years, and yet every day he was either being scolded by his male master or on the way to being scolded by his male master.
…How unfair.
He was actually quite cute when he was a child.
Come to think of it, for what reason was he scolded by his male master each time?
The Councilor stroked his chin, thinking for a long time, and could only scrape from his memory the beautiful, vivid eyes that danced like burning flames when the Saint looked at him with a cold face to lecture him.
Forget it, it doesn’t matter.
It should be his fault, right? Recalling his male master’s cold, beautiful profile, Igris thought distractedly.
Time returns to the present.
Igris looked at the message in front of him.
Since he chose to withdraw it, it meant the other party did not want him to see it. The Councilor thought for a moment and decided to be empathetic and pretend he hadn’t seen it. As the saying goes, one should play the role to the end. He deliberately did not reply immediately but, after finishing his morning work, replied as if nothing had happened: “?”
Three parts confusion, three parts bewilderment, three parts innocence, and a final, subtle hint that he was working hard—a dedicated, conscientious, and good female.
Half an hour later, the Saint’s reply finally came:
Frost-White Lop Rabbit: It’s nothing. Frost-White Lop Rabbit: Just an accidental mis-tap.
Wind blew through the corridor, bringing a hint of chill.
Igris stared at the handwriting on the screen for a while, slowly furrowing his brows.