"Ah~ha~"
Lorien wondered if he was cursed. He hadn't had a proper night's sleep in two days. The night before last, he went to bed hungry. Last night, he was exhausted and had stayed up too late experimenting with the Nation of Disorder.
At least he had figured out a few things about it:
First, like Klein, he could only enter through the ritual of bowing and chanting the honorific name, and only his spirit body could enter. He couldn't bring objects with him, but anything he held would appear as a projection there.
The projected objects couldn't be too heavy. From his tests, anything heavier than three books caused instability. He guessed this was related to his level of spirituality.
Changes made to the projected objects in the Sefirot would reflect on the real objects outside. He even tried writing inside the space, and the same words appeared on paper outside. This seemed to be an application of the Lawyer pathway's ability to manipulate and exploit loopholes in rules.
Additionally, he couldn't stay in the castle - palace? Court? - for too long. If he exceeded an hour, he would start consuming spirituality upon returning to reality. The absolute limit was around an hour and a half. Any longer, and he would be forcibly ejected due to excessive spirituality depletion.
He also searched for the prayer-storing place or a space that stores things connected to the Sefirot, similar to the crimson balls of lights in the Sefirah Castle, but found nothing.
He had a hunch that the more steps he took on the stairs, the more features of the Sefirot he would unlock. It was possible that the ability to bring people inside the Sefirot was still locked behind progression.
Furthermore, other than the throne and the nine stone steps, almost everything was an illusion formed from pale white mist, from the walls of the domes to the seats.
Even after all this time, he still hadn't figured out why the Nation of Disorder was connected to him.
What had the predecessor Lorien done to lead to this outcome? Or is my transmigration connected to the Sefirot? It's also possible that I was meant to be another resurrection attempt by the Celestial Worthy - one that also went awry, resulting in my transmigration. Fuck... Speculating isn't helping. I need answers, though I doubt I'll get them anytime soon.
Now, I also have to worry about coincidences happening around me. And just like with Klein, The Law of Beyonder Characteristics Convergence around me will be off the charts too. He thought as he massaged his forehead.
Nonetheless, after finishing breakfast, he got into Fitch's carriage and had him drive to the Quelaag Club - the place where Klein would soon conduct his adultery sting.
Of course, Lorien wasn't going there just to take a look, he was going to practice his shooting skills. He had been a member of the Quelaag Club for four years, with an early membership number: 27.
He had joined thanks to Mason's arrangement. Though the club was relatively new at the time, most of its members were young people from the upper middle class. Of course, compared to Lorien, they were generally over ten years older.
Mason had hoped Lorien would attend one of the three major law colleges in Backlund, preferably Grey Law College - his own alma mater - so he could look after him better.
Loen Kingdom had four major law academies: one in Tingen, Tingen Law College, which Lorien attended, and three in Backlund: Blackfriars Law College and Middle Hall Law College, both located in Cherwood Borough, and Grey Law College in the North Borough.
The Blackfriars and Middle Hall colleges were near the Church of the Lord of Storms' Holy Wind Cathedral, and as their names suggested, they had deep ties with the Church. Over a thousand years ago, Holy Wind Cathedral was the headquarters of the Church of the Lord of Storms, exerting significant influence over the area.
After Loen Kingdom was founded, the Church of the Lord of Storms moved its headquarters to the Chasm of Storms Cathedral on Pasu Island, and the two law academies were established on the vacant land left behind by the cathedral. Along with Grey Law College near St. Samuel Cathedral in the North Borough, they formed the backbone of Loen Kingdom's early judicial system.
These three academies all had church influence, whereas Tingen Law College thrived in the "City of University," eventually standing on equal footing with the other three.
Over a century ago, Roselle's legal reforms and the introduction of the Civil Code drastically reshaped Loen Kingdom's legal system. With tacit approval from the Augustus royal family, the four major law academies united to suppress all others, declaring that only their graduates could become judges in Loen Kingdom.
Despite the backlash, the royal family's covert support, combined with the fact that high-ranking lawyers and judges were all from these four academies, allowed them to crush all opposition. The ruling has remained in place ever since.
However, Lorien didn't stay in Backlund as Mason had hoped. Instead, he secretly chose to attend Tingen Law College. As a result, he never got the chance to build connections with the "young elites" of the club, only visiting during holidays when he returned to Backlund for relaxation.
But Lorien was too young at the time, still a student, and had little experience dealing with "troublesome matters," making it difficult to engage in meaningful conversations with other members. He could only play tennis and squash, practice shooting, and enjoy fine dining. After taking over the law firm, he stopped coming altogether. Fortunately, he had prepaid his membership fees, or he would have needed to reapply.
Stepping out of the carriage, he presented his Badge to the guard in a black-and-white checkered uniform, a symbol of his membership. Normally, he wouldn't need to show proof, but since he hadn't been here in nearly two years, he didn't want the embarrassment of being turned away. That's why he had searched for his badge first thing in the morning.
The guard raised his left arm and gave a slight bow in greeting:
"Sir Ashford, please enter."
Lorien glanced at the man in surprise. He was certain he had never met him before, and the Badge didn't bear names, only the symbol and the number "27."
Yet this man had addressed him correctly. Clearly, he had done his homework. Lorien nodded in acknowledgment and stepped into the club.
After informing the front desk of his arrival, he had a footman in a red vest lead him directly to the shooting range.
To prevent gunfire from causing noise and panic, the range was built underground.
Upon entering, a middle-aged man in a hunting jacket and knee-high boots stood up from a lounging sofa and approached.
"Ashford, sir? It's been a long time."
Lorien scrutinized him for a moment before hesitantly asking, "Atwood?"
"It's me, sir." Atwood's face lit up when he saw Lorien remembered his name, and his tone became noticeably more enthusiastic.
Lorien exhaled in relief - I didn't got the name wrong.
He had rarely visited the club, let alone the shooting range. It had been two years since he last came, and there were four or five different shooting instructors here. Atwood wasn't even his instructor. Remembering his name was already impressive.
"It really has been a while."
"I had some family matters to attend to, only recently found some free time."
Lorien didn't elaborate, keeping things vague before asking, "Is Gary here?"
Atwood made an apologetic expression and replied, "Gary resigned a year ago. He moved to Midseashire County."
Lorien glanced at him and understood his implication. Smiling, he said, "In that case, Atwood, do you happen to be free today to coach me in shooting?"
Atwood quickly nodded and said, "This would be my honor."
At Quelaag Club, the tennis court, bar, library, squash room, conference hall, and card room were all available for free. The food and drinks at the buffet were also complimentary.
The shooting range was also free to use, but firearms and ammunition required additional payment. Otherwise, with a single revolver round costing about one soli, 300 rounds would be enough to cover Quelaag Club's annual membership fee.
Of course, if you wanted a shooting instructor to train you, that came with a fee. However, it wasn't too expensive - after deducting the club's commission, an instructor could earn about 1 pound per hour, including the cost of the bullets Lorien would use.
Lorien's previous shooting instructor, Gary, had a weekly salary of about 4 pounds. Atwood's pay should be similar. Earning 1 pound an hour was definitely a considerable income for him.
Moreover, since Lorien's previous shooting instructor had left the club, he needed to find a new one. This meant a steady stream of income, which explained Atwood's enthusiasm.
As he led the way, Atwood turned and asked, "Would you like to practice with a rifle or a shotgun?"
"I'm here for revolver practice this time."
"Revolver?"
Atwood was momentarily stunned. After confirming that Lorien hadn't misspoken, he quickly nodded, "Alright, I'll get the revolver and ammunition."
Quelaag Club's members were generally young professionals with respectable careers. Their usual recreational activities consisted of playing cards, squash, tennis, attending salons, and going to balls.
Few opted for shooting, as it was physically demanding and time-consuming. The only exception was during the autumn and winter seasons, when nobles and wealthy elites prepared for the hunting season. That was when some members practiced shooting to improve their chances of success in the hunt.
As a result, most members practiced with rifles and shotguns, particularly the latter, since shotguns made poor marksmanship look less terrible. Even Lorien had primarily practiced with a shotgun before, which explained Atwood's surprise at his choice of a revolver.
Still, Atwood didn't dwell on it. What mattered most to him was making money. It didn't matter what Lorien practiced, as long as he paid. Revolver training fees were even higher than shotgun training fees.
Atwood led Lorien into a small practice room. Revolver practice required less space compared to shotgun training, as shotgun practice typically involved moving targets.
"Please wait here for a moment. I'll get the gun and ammunition from Mr. Damon."
Lorien handed him his badge. Registering firearms and ammunition was mandatory, and Atwood also needed to log Lorien's name - otherwise, how would he get paid?
Mr. Damon's full name was Wit Damon. He was the manager of the shooting range, a man in his fifties who had lost his left arm in the war over twenty years ago at the Southern Continent.
"Start with fifty rounds."
Atwood took the badge, nodded, and left the training room.
Lorien glanced at a nearby servant in a red waistcoat and waved, "Bring two cups of Marquis Black Tea."
"Yes, Mr. Ashford."
Soon, Atwood returned with a tray carrying two revolvers, two boxes of ammunition, and a pair of modern-looking earmuffs - one of Roselle's inventions.
"Have you practiced with a revolver before?"
"A few times."
"Alright, let's start with this one..."
"Would you like to use noise-dampening earmuffs?"
"No need." In real combat, there was no time to cover your ears.
"I'll load the bullets for you."
Although Atwood was called a shooting instructor, he didn't actually teach much technique. Shooting was mostly a matter of talent and experience. His main job was to cater to Lorien, a wealthy client.
"No need. I'll do it myself." After all, no one would be loading bullets for him in a real fight.
...
At two in the afternoon, Lorien left Quelaag Club, rubbing his sore arm.
He had trained for over an hour in the morning, taken a break, had lunch, and then resumed practice for another hour, firing about 120 rounds in total.
The results were promising - out of ten shots at a ten-meter target, five or six landed on the board. Most were in the outer rings, but that was already a decent performance.
According to Atwood, for an ordinary person, this was an excellent result. If Lorien hadn't gotten fatigued toward the end, he could have maintained his accuracy.
After boarding Fitch's carriage, Lorien headed home to wait for his future butler. However, upon learning of his connection to Sefirot last night, his paranoia is telling him to reject both of them - otherwise, the Law of Convergence might be the death of him. But he really need a butler or at least some people in his house if he wanted to advance in politics.
When he arrived, he realized his house was nearly empty. He had to send Fitch out to buy some tea and eventually had him act as a temporary servant.
...
Mr. Norman was fifty-five years old, but his face had few wrinkles, making him look energetic. Wearing a morning coat, he arrived at Lorien's home.
After a brief introduction, Lorien asked the first question,
"Mr. Norman, my long-term plan is to advance in politics. Do you have any advice?"
"Do you plan to develop your career in Backlund?"
Lorien nodded and gestured toward the window.
"Of course. This is Backlund, the political center of Loen. Everything I have is here."
Norman frowned slightly. While Backlund was indeed the political center, it was also overrun with aristocrats and politicians, leaving little room for newcomers.
"May I be so bold as to ask about your current assets?"
Lorien raised an eyebrow, surprised by the directness of the question.
Seeing his reaction, Norman apologized with a wave of his hand, "Please don't misunderstand. I'm only considering whether you have enough liquidity or assets to seize the right opportunity when it arises."
Lorien had a rough idea of what Norman was suggesting, which surprised him even more.
"What do you mean?"
"You're aware that the Grain Act will soon be repealed. Land prices will inevitably fall, and both political parties will need to raise funds and recruit more supporters. At that point, you could make a donation to either party and secure a position."
"I don't have that kind of money."
Lorien sighed. Even if he sold his three properties and vacation estate, he'd only have about ten thousand pounds. To those people, that was a mere drop in the ocean.
Norman hesitated for a moment before continuing, "You could donate to members of the New Party who rely on land rent for income. That would be much cheaper."
Most New Party members derived their wealth from banks, coal, factories, and other industries. A few relied on land rent, but they were a minority.
"You should know my political leanings."
"Yes, but compared to the great nobles of the Conservative Party, the gap isn't as large. The New Party is more suitable for you."
Unlike the extravagance of the Conservative Party's great nobles, many of whom spent fortunes on maintaining castles, buying clothes and jewelry, hosting endless hunts, social banquets, lavish weddings, and grand funerals, the New Party was relatively modest in comparison.
If Lorien chose to align himself with the Conservative Party's great nobles, all his wealth would be thrown into a bottomless pit. Aligning with lesser nobles was more manageable, but their political influence was pathetic, let alone something they could share.
Lorien frowned and continued asking, "What if I insist on choosing the Conservative Party?"
"Then you'll have to wait - wait until you become a magistrate, then seek other opportunities."
Norman sensed Lorien's urgency, which was why he first suggested leveraging the repeal of the Grain Act to negotiate between the two parties rather than following the usual political path for lawyers by becoming a judge.
However, he still didn't understand why Lorien was in such a rush. At only 23 years old, it was far too early for him to step into politics.
"Alright, Mr. Norman. Thank you very much for your advice. I'll think about it carefully."
Lorien stood up, shook hands with Norman, and motioned to Fitch, who was standing nearby.
"Fitch, take Mr. Norman to the third reception room."
This villa had three reception rooms - the second and third were smaller, while the first was the largest, used for salons and balls. He was currently meeting with his prospective butlers in the second reception room.
For Lorien, if he weren't a transmigrator or if this were a normal world, Norman's advice would have been sound. In fact, for a man inclined toward the Conservative Party to suggest him to join the New Party was almost unthinkable.
If he took his advice and sided with the New Party, Norman, who leaned toward the Conservatives, would never be willing to serve as his butler.
For him, who had neither enough money nor the patience to wait, Norman's advice was useless.
Soon, Fitch returned with another butler candidate, Mr. August.
Mr. August was 52 years old, yet his wrinkled face and white hair, slightly bronze skin, made him look older than Norman, who was already 55. However, his straight posture and the disciplined movements of a soldier revealed that he wasn't as frail as he seemed.
Lorien stood up, shook hands with August, and asked, "Mr. August, were you once a soldier?"
August returned the handshake and replied, "Yes, I was once, Viscount Barton also implemented a militarized system for his butlers and servants, so I inevitably adopted some military habits."
"Oh, I see."
Lorien nodded. Most retired officers imposed military discipline on those around them. Given that Viscount Barton had been wounded in war and carried deep psychological scars, it was a miracle he hadn't suffered a complete mental breakdown.
"From your accent, you sound like you're from the Southern Continent."
August's accent was faint, but among the people of Loen, Southern accent was the most distinct.
"You caught that. I'm from West Balam."
In West Balam, there were cities managed by the Loen Kingdom, valleys controlled by the Intis Republic, native generals backed by Loen, and tribes that followed Intis orders. There were also powerful independent states that relied on maintaining a balance between the two nations.
"Then how did you end up in Backlund, working as a butler?"
"Over a decade ago, Mr. Ashford and I were in the same profession."
"Oh?"
Lorien was surprised and blurted out, "You were a barrister too?"
If August had been a barrister, then it made even less sense for him to become a butler.
August waved his hand, a hint of embarrassment crossing his face.
"No, I was just a solicitor, but I was never very successful."
"I see."
Lorien nodded. Though August had been a solicitor - and not a particularly successful one - Lorien still felt a slight kinship with him as a fellow legal practitioner.
In Loen, due to differences in their roles, there was often tension between solicitors and barristers. They weren't outright enemies, since they had to work together, but the underlying friction remained.
Barristers looked down on solicitors, seeing them as mere errand boys running around for clients like housekeepers. Meanwhile, solicitors were dissatisfied with their pay, knowing that no matter how much effort they put in, they still earned less than a barrister arguing in court for half an hour.
August continued, "Before I became a solicitor in Backlund, when Intis and Loen clashed in West Balam, the conflict escalated into war. At the time, I was frustrated with the job I had, so I joined the army as a scout."
More than twenty years ago, a colonial war for West Balam broke out between Intis and Loen. Viscount Barton also served on the Southern continent. Once he took a opportunity to flank the Intis forces from behind. With their ammunition nearly depleted, the Intis troops were suddenly faced with a devastating assault. Viscount Barton, having performed outstandingly in battle, was granted his title as a reward. The battle for colonization is still ongoing.
The last report Lorien read was from a couple of weeks ago. A battle had broken out near Tizamo Town, at the edge of the Primitive Forest stretching from the southwestern region of Matani.
Loen's forces clashed with the Intis troops. The soldiers of the Loen Kingdom charged "valiantly" into enemy lines, equipped with high-pressure steam rifles and six-barrel machine guns. But ultimately, they were almost completely wiped out. Both nations suffered heavy casualties and were forced into negotiations.
"You were Viscount Barton's scout?"
August nodded. "Yes."
"Then you're a hero of Loen! I apologize for my rudeness."
Lorien stood up and gave a slight bow. He could only imagine the difficulty of leading a cavalry unit through the Primitive Forest to flank an enemy army.
August stood as well and waved his hand. "I wouldn't call myself a hero. If it weren't for the viscount saving me, I would have died in the Primitive Forest."
Lorien gestured for him to sit down and said, "So that's why you chose to serve as Viscount Barton's butler?"
It seemed August wasn't just short-sighted - he had taken the position out of gratitude, repaying the viscount who had saved his life, even though Barton's family was doomed to fade into obscurity.
"Yes. After the war, I struggled to sleep for a long time due to the horrors I had witnessed and the near-death experience I had in the Primitive Forest."
"To escape my nightmares, I came to Backlund and became a solicitor. Not long after, I heard that Viscount Barton's personality had changed drastically due to his war trauma…"
When I visited, I found that the viscount hadn't actually changed much. It was just slander from outsiders, as he rarely interacted with them.
The viscount once saved my life, so I was willing to handle these trivial matters for him. Thus, I enrolled in a butler training school, and the viscount accepted me, allowing me to become his butler."
In Loen, there are specialized training schools for butlers. Trainees must take various courses, including etiquette, wine knowledge, shooting, and dance. Of course, not everyone who completes training becomes a butler - most start as room footmen, valets, silverware stewards, or even wine stewards.
Lorien smiled and praised, "So that's how it is. You are truly a respectable man."
August slightly lowered his head and said solemnly, "No, I'm merely fulfilling my duty."
"I have great admiration for you, Mr. August, but ultimately, I am here to hire a butler who can assist me. May I ask how you can help me?"
August straightened slightly and asked in a steady tone, "Please, do ask."
"Alright, I intend to enter politics. Do you have any good suggestions?"
"In Backlund?" Seeing Lorien nod, August frowned. "If you choose Backlund, it will be difficult."
"Yes." Lorien spread his hands. "But that's your problem to consider."
August pondered for a moment before speaking. "I suggest you start with your profession."
"Do you mean becoming a judge?" Lorien was slightly disappointed. He had expected that a butler who had 'persuaded' Viscount Barton to walk out of his war trauma and helped him establish a network would have better ideas.
"No, you can't become a judge until at least the age of thirty." August understood Lorien's intentions well - he wanted to enter politics quickly. Otherwise, given his current achievements, waiting a few years would naturally lead him into politics.
Asking a butler for advice wasn't entirely about seeking genuine guidance; rather, it was a way to leverage his connections to enter politics more smoothly.
Butlers are always linked to politics. If a noble family with a butler were likened to a country, then the butler would be its prime minister, capable of handling nearly everything for their master.
Moreover, a butler from a noble family would inevitably know many upper-class figures, numerous professional butlers, and countless servants from various backgrounds. They could significantly influence a gentleman's reputation, which was crucial for gaining access to higher social circles.
"Oh? Then what do you mean?"
"You are one of the most renowned lawyers in Backlund. Ashford Law Firm is also a top-tier firm. The cases you and your firm handle, along with the people you interact with, are all valuable resources you can use."
"That is indeed a good suggestion. Do you have any others?" Lorien was quite satisfied with August's suggestion, but it wasn't what he truly wanted.
August sighed inwardly. It seemed that Mr. Ashford is determined to make use of my personal connections to assist him.
"You could engage in charity work."
"In what aspect?"
There are many different types of charity. Given Ashford's financial situation, if he wanted to make an impact, he had to choose something that would yield significant results.
"How about providing aid to retired soldiers?"
"No problem. They have made sacrifices for our country and deserve proper treatment."
Lorien stood up and extended his hand.
"Let's reintroduce ourselves. Your employer - Lorien Ashford."
August immediately stood up, bowed slightly, and said in a deep voice, "How may I be of service?"
Lorien waved his hand and turned to Fitch.
"Fitch, please take that bottle of Aurmir Blood Wine to Mr. Norman in the third reception room and convey my apologies and gratitude."
Once Fitch took the Aurmir wine and left, Lorien sat back down.
August remained standing in front of Lorien without sitting. Though he hadn't officially started yet, he had already begun to conduct himself as Lorien's butler. A butler would never sit before their employer.
Lorien said with a smile, "My villa has nine bedrooms, three reception rooms - one large and two small - a dining room, two kitchens in the basement, a bakery, around seven or eight servant rooms, a stable, a garden, and a tennis court.
"But right now, besides you and my temporary coachman, Fitch, I have no one else."
August lowered his head and asked, "What would you like me to do?"
"I need you to quickly hire all the necessary staff for this villa. As for how many to hire, that's up to you."
"Understood."
"Remember, it must be done quickly. I'm hosting two banquets at the beginning of next month, and I need you to prepare everything as soon as possible."
August's expression turned serious. He couldn't take Lorien's words lightly.
In spring and autumn, the owners of grand residences would typically host lavish gatherings, making it the greatest test for a butler. The house had to be spotless, the silverware and tableware immaculate, the garden beautifully maintained, and the dishes had to be exquisite - not only luxurious but also accommodating guests with special dietary needs.
Even details such as the placement of each set of cutlery, the height of the candles, the folding of napkins, the number of flowers, and the lighting intensity all had to be meticulously arranged.
"Sir, do you have specific dates and guest lists?"
"The first banquet will likely be on the 5th, and the second on the 8th. The first one is for the lawyers from my law firm. The second is for my neighbors and some of my father's old friends."
August let out a soft breath. Today was April 28th - there was barely enough time. The short gap between the two banquets would make things tight, but having experience from the first one would help.
"I will provide you with the guest lists tomorrow morning. I leave everything in your hands."
Lorien knew this was a bit rushed, but he had no choice. Others had not given him any extra time.
"This is my duty." August bowed slightly.
"As for the contracts for you and the servants you hire, you may visit my law firm and have one of the firm's attorneys draft them."
"Understood."
Watching August leave, Lorien leaned back on the sofa and rubbed his temples. Sigh… I have a feeling… August might just be a fellow 'lawyer'! Fucking Law of Beyonder Characteristics Convergence at work, no doubt.
…
Lorien sat at the oak table and opened the drawer. Inside lay two revolvers, resting quietly.
One was entirely black, with a slightly longer barrel. Its body and grip were forged from metal, giving off a cold, eerie sheen.
The other revolver had a much more refined appearance. It was even cushioned by a layer of fine velvet. Its brass-plated body was adorned with three sun-like floral patterns on the cylinder, and the wooden grip was engraved with a bird design. The bird's head was near the cylinder, and its vibrant tail feathers spread out at the grip's end.
Lorien had recently acquired both of these revolvers. The one with the black barrel and extended length was something he bought three days ago at Iron Anchor Bar during a Beyonder gathering that his "uncle," Kane Rister, had introduced him to.
When Lorien attended that gathering three days ago, he noticed that including himself, there were only seven people present. The host of the gathering warned him that once a deal was made, there was no turning back - regardless of whether the purchased item was real or fake.
Upon hearing this, Lorien immediately decided he wouldn't be coming back to this gathering again. If even the authenticity of goods couldn't be guaranteed, a newcomer like him was bound to be scammed.
By the end of the gathering, he had only bought one revolver. According to its previous owner, this revolver was twice as powerful as a normal one. Since Lorien had no offensive abilities and no gun license, he simply bought it for 15 pounds, with 30 bullets included.
He had secretly tested the revolver and found that it was indeed more powerful than the ones used at the Quelaag Club's shooting range. However, its recoil was also significantly greater. After firing 12 rounds, his wrist already felt sore.
The other revolver was something he had bid on at a charity auction yesterday. It had been donated by a wealthy man from Intis. According to him, this lavishly designed revolver had been passed down from his grandfather and was still functional.
When Lorien saw the floral patterns on the cylinder and grip, he immediately thought of the Bard pathway. In that pathway, potion formulas often included sunflowers and birds. Given that this revolver came from Intis, it made sense.
Ever since the founding of Intis, the Church of the Eternal Blazing Sun had been dominant, suppressing the Church of the God of Craftsmen until the industrial revolution, which led it to rename itself as the Church of Steam and Machinery. This was why Intis was also known as the "Land of the Sun."
Remembering the looks of the old, frail appearance of the wealthy man, Lorien figured that his grandfather would have to be over 130 years old if he were still alive. Back then, revolvers had only recently been invented.
Although Lorien didn't believe this was a Beyonder weapon, he still spent 270 pounds to acquire it.
After obtaining it, he realized that while the revolver was indeed functional as the wealthy man claimed, its ammunition was custom-made. There were only ten bullets, and standard bullets couldn't fit into its cylinder.
After firing two rounds in a test, Lorien stored it away in the drawer as a collector's item.
He picked up one of the revolvers, flicked open the cylinder, and unloaded each bullet one by one before expertly reloading them. After repeating this process a few times, he placed the fully loaded cylinder back into the drawer.
Recently, he had been practicing shooting for an hour every day. His marksmanship had barely improved, but his speed at loading bullets had increased significantly.
Closing the drawer, Lorien pushed open the door and stepped out of his bedroom, immediately greeted by a cacophony of noise.
His personal valet, Morris, was standing outside the bedroom. Morris was tall, with slightly dark skin. His slicked-back hair gleamed with oil, and he wore a white shirt, a black vest, and a dark red tie. A ring adorned one of his fingers.
"Sir, did we disturb your rest?"
"No," Lorien pointed at the brown woolen carpet on his bedroom door. "With that there, no sound gets through."
The coarse woolen fabric on the door muffled all noise from the servants' quarters. It was a necessity in any household that employed servants.
Morris lowered his head slightly, saying nothing.
Lorien chuckled and continued, "How are the banquet preparations going?"
"Everything is nearly ready."
"Where is August?"
"He should be in the banquet hall."
Lorien pulled the bell cord that signaled the banquet hall.
Moments later, the butler, Mr. August, briskly approached.
"Good afternoon, sir."
"Hmm. Is the wine ready?"
"We have taken fifty bottles of wine from the cellar, including twenty bottles of Aurmir. Additionally, fifty bottles of champagne have been purchased, including twenty bottles of Mist Champagne."
Butler August spoke fluidly, without hesitation, listing off the selection.
"Are the gifts prepared?"
"All the gifts for the guests have been arranged."
Lorien nodded in satisfaction and followed the butler into the banquet hall.
The reception hall was dimly lit, with only the gas lamps on the walls providing illumination. A massive chandelier hung overhead, its white candles already placed but left unlit until the banquet began.
The silverware steward directed the footmen to arrange various silver pieces around the hall, ensuring the candlelight would reflect off them. Meanwhile, servants in red vests meticulously measured the placement of each dining set and the heights of the candles before the guests' seats.
Maids in black dresses and white aprons busied themselves inspecting floral arrangements on the tables or folding pristine white napkins into the latest fashionable bishop's hat shape.
...
Inside the grand banquet hall, chandeliers held rows of burning candles, emitting a soothing fragrance and casting a warm glow that rivaled the gas lamps.
The long tables were laden with delicacies: Seared Foie Gras, Roasted Beef Dteak, Roast Chicken, Pan-Fried Dole, Dixie Oysters, Stewed Lamb, and Creamy Soups. Additionally, there were bottles of Mist Champagne, Aurmir Blood Wine, and Southville Beer and Liquor.
Lorien stood at the main seat, addressing his neighbors and his father's old friends.
His speech was nothing more than the usual pleasantries - acknowledging that he had been too preoccupied with his law firm over the past two years and had neglected his social circles. He offered his apologies and announced that he would now focus more on managing the firm while maintaining closer ties with those present.
It was essentially a newcomer introducing himself to the community, though it also had the undertone of a father presenting his newly matured son to his friends.
Regardless of how it was perceived, for Lorien, it was a declaration that he had now taken over the Ashford family and would ensure its future prosperity.
After Lorien's speech, his uncle Edmund Robert took the stage. His eyes were already red, barely holding back tears as he spoke.
Following this, the banquet officially began.
Servants in red vests moved through the elegantly dressed crowd, carrying trays of crystal glasses.
Lorien held a glass of Aurmir Blood Wine, greeting each of his father Mason's old friends under Uncle Robert's introduction.
When the main course was finished, the white tablecloths were replaced with fresh ones, and the servants began serving desserts and fruit.
After dessert, since the Ashford household lacked a hostess, their neighbor, Mrs. Curtis, was invited to temporarily assume the role.
At her signal, all the ladies rose from their seats and left for the first reception hall, while the servants withdrew from the banquet hall. Meanwhile, the gentlemen remained behind. This was a tradition unique to Loen, different from the customs of other Northern Continent nations.
The men gathered in small groups, some around Lorien, others around Edmund. They smoked cigars and sipped fine, strong liquor, discussing politics, sports, and more private matters that wouldn't be spoken of in front of the ladies.
Once the conversation reached its natural end, Lorien led the gentlemen to the first reception hall to reunite with the ladies, marking the start of the second half of the banquet - the dance.
…
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Quelaag Club, underground shooting range.
Lorien held a revolver in one hand, aimed at the 10-meter target, and fired continuously.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
After emptying all six rounds in the cylinder, Lorien flipped it open, smoothly ejecting the spent casings before reloading with practiced ease.
His shooting instructor, Atwood, retrieved the target sheet and reported the results of Lorien's six shots:
"Mr. Ashford, two in the seventh ring, three in the eighth, and one in the ninth."
Hearing his score, Lorien nodded in satisfaction.
For the past two months, he had spent half an hour to an hour almost every day training his marksmanship, firing over 3,000 rounds in total. The cost of these bullets alone, along with the use of firearms, targets, and Atwood's fees, exceeded 220 pounds.
220 pounds - if some families had an annual income of that amount, they could call themselves middle class. But for Lorien, it was merely the cost of his shooting practice over two months.
During this time, he had hosted three banquets and six salons, attended three charity auctions, and participated in five or six events for disabled veterans. Coupled with the wages for his servants, his bank account had plummeted.
Initially, he had over 7,000 pounds in his account, but now, he barely had just over 3,000 left!
If not for his law firm and the fact that his social circle had stabilized - eliminating the need for extravagant events - he might have considered selling his two other properties in Backlund and the one in Tingen.
As for his marksmanship, it was already decent. Every shot hit the target, and all were within the seventh ring or better. If it were a real enemy, he might not land headshots every time, but hitting his target within ten meters was no problem at all.
At this point, further training wouldn't yield much short-term improvement, so today would likely be his last shooting session.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Firing the final six rounds, Lorien tossed the revolver onto the long table in front of him.
Atwood was momentarily stunned before smiling and asking, "Mr. Ashford, do you need a break?"
Since becoming Lorien's shooting instructor, Atwood had trained with him daily, earning nearly seventy pounds - his wages for four months.
Lorien waved a hand and took a sip of the sweet iced tea his valet had brought.
"No, that's enough for today."
"Are you busy with something, Mr. Ashford?"
Over the past two months, Atwood had gotten familiar with Lorien's habits. No matter how occupied he was, he always fired at least thirty rounds in a session. Yet today, he had only fired eighteen.
"I won't be coming back for a while, and besides, it's already June 28th. I've trained long enough."
June 28th? Was there something special about this date? Or was it because so many new clients had been showing up lately? Atwood speculated in his mind.
With the end of June and the start of July, Backlund's annual social season was in full swing. Nobles from across the Loen Kingdom were arriving in the city for various banquets, balls, and salons.
Hunting was, of course, a staple activity, though it was still too early in the season for much of it. Nonetheless, some young nobles were already eager to start, making shooting practice all the more popular.
Lately, Atwood had been getting more clients than usual. Lorien's remark made him worry his service might have been inadequate. He asked anxiously, "Mr. Ashford, are you dissatisfied with my service?"
Lorien glanced at him in surprise, realizing the misunderstanding, and explained, "No, I'm quite satisfied with you. I just don't see much point in continuing - my shooting is good enough, and being too skilled with a gun isn't particularly useful to me."
"That's a relief. I'll return the ammunition and firearm for you."
With no other choice, Atwood - disheartened at losing such a generous client - gathered the remaining bullets and revolver before walking away.
Watching him leave, Lorien turned to his valet, Morris, and chuckled.
"Looks like Mr. Atwood has gotten used to making money off me."
Morris forced out a stiff smile. His master always had a peculiar sense of humor.
Seeing his valet's awkward expression, Lorien shook his head helplessly. Morris was tall, handsome, well-dressed, and had a deep appreciation for music and theater. If not for his inability to appreciate his master's humor, he would have been nearly flawless.
After waiting for a while and seeing no sign of Atwood returning, Lorien grew impatient and left the training room, heading directly for Wit Damon's office.
Before he had taken a few steps, Atwood hurried back.
"Apologies for the wait, Mr. Ashford."
"It's fine."
Lorien's previous impatience had vanished, replaced with a look of concern - the kind of social mask honed through countless banquets, salons, and charity events spent mingling with actors and high society.
"Did something happen?"
Atwood, still catching his breath, explained, "I'm sorry, but Mr. Damon went home, and since there was no acting supervisor, I had to get the manager to sign off."
Lorien asked with concern, "Why? Was he feeling unwell?"
He had met Damon before. Despite being a veteran who had lost an arm, the man was gentle and composed. He was in charge of the shooting range but still treated customers with respect. Why would he get into a conflict?
Atwood finally steadied his breathing and sighed, "No, Mr. Damon had a conflict with a guest and was sent home by the manager."
Lorien frowned.
Seeing Lorien's furrowed brows, Atwood quickly elaborated.
"That guest was drunk and tried to enter the ammunition storeroom. Mr. Damon stopped him, and that's how the conflict started."
"Then why did your manager send Mr. Damon home?"
"The guest has a rather high status - he's the son of a leading figure in the New Party. His friends eventually persuaded him to rest, but to prevent further trouble, the manager decided to send Mr. Damon home first."
Lorien sighed inwardly. Hah… Wherever you go, you can't escape the young masters.
…
Late at night, Lorien stood by the window, gazing at the crimson full moon outside. He lowered his head and checked his pocket watch.
…
Iron Cross Street, West Borough, Tingen City.
Zhou Mingrui woke up with a splitting headache. He struggled to get out of bed and walked to his desk, gazing through the crimson veil toward the window.
High in the sky, against the black velvet curtain, a crimson full moon hung quietly, casting its eerie glow.