The boy felt a surge of unease, wondering what kind of demand this noble would make of him.
He had assumed the noble had helped him out of simple kindness—but that was a mistake.
Now he realized there had been an ulterior motive all along.
‘Is he going to make me do something dangerous?’
His anxiety spiked.
When Ian’s hands settled on his shoulders, the boy flinched.
The noble’s grip was firm—he clearly had no intention of letting him go easily.
“Work for me.”
“…Huh?”
The sudden offer left the boy stunned.
Ian and Hugo were staying at a high-end inn.
Now back in his room, Ian watched with amusement as the boy voraciously devoured the food in front of him.
‘Both arms intact, but with that face… Could it really be him? It’s actually Millio!’
Millio the One-Armed Merchant King.
An NPC no Meta Pangaea player could possibly not know.
A true rags-to-riches legend—starting with nothing and rising to become the continent’s greatest trade magnate.
Rumors claimed the wheels of his merchant caravans were even plated in gold. (They weren’t, but the fact that such stories existed spoke volumes about his empire’s scale.)
And now, the man destined for that fame sat right in front of Ian.
‘I never thought I’d run into him here!’
A war orphan who had fled to the Fried Empire—finding him in this vast nation had been pure luck.
‘Losing his arm must’ve been because of today’s theft.’
Getting caught stealing often meant losing a hand—perhaps today had been the day it happened in the original timeline.
Ian carefully pieced it together.
Most assumed he’d lost his arm in the war, but no one knew the truth.
Now, Ian did—but who would believe him?
‘Still, if the future Merchant King works under our family’s trade guild…!’
The wealth he could bring was beyond imagination.
“Need more?”
Ian eyed the stack of empty plates beside him.
“No, this is plenty! I’ve never eaten anything this delicious before. Thank you so much, milord!”
‘Never had food this good?’
What Ian had bought him was the same fare the guards ate daily—decent, but nothing extravagant.
‘What the hell has he been eating until now?’
His skeletal frame suggested meals had been scarce.
Ian’s gaze softened.
“Glad you liked it. Work hard, and you’ll eat even better from now on.”
“Really?!”
“Of course. You’ll wear fine clothes too.”
“I’ll do my best, milord!”
Millio’s eyes sparkled with determination, ready to tackle any task immediately.
“You’ll start once we return to the territory. Till then, behave. And don’t call me ‘milord’—just ‘Young Master Ian.’”
“Yes, Young Master Ian!”
“Rest in the room at the end of the second-floor hallway. The guards are staying there—just tell them you’re my retainer.”
“Yes, sir!”
With a bow, Millio hurried upstairs.
Once he was out of sight, Ian turned to Nia.
“Tell Guild Master Beroth to take Millio under his wing when we return.”
“Does he have a talent for trade?”
He’d expected her to question the decision, but she didn’t.
“Guess you’re used to me by now?”
She shrugged.
“At this point, being surprised would be weirder. I’m too tired to react anymore.”
Her nonchalance was almost amusing.
After all, Ian had already proven his knack for spotting hidden potential—like with Colin.
“Your shocked face was fun, though.”
“Disappointed?”
“Just means I’ll have to think harder to impress you next time.”
She smirked. “Try recruiting a dragon next.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Their banter was cut short when a well-dressed man approached.
“Pardon me. Are you Ian von Schrantz?”
“I am. And you are?”
The man—clearly a noble’s attendant—bowed.
“I serve House Endran. His Grace the Duke has sent a letter for you.”
“The Duke?”
The attendant presented the letter with both hands.
Ian accepted it and read the contents.
[You are cordially invited to a tea party at the Endran Ducal Estate. Your presence would honor us.]
“……”
The message was brief and to the point.
‘Why me?’
Ian couldn’t fathom why he’d been singled out.
‘Was Viola serious about wanting to hear my stories? Guess I’m seeing her again.’
The letter said “no pressure,” but Ian felt plenty.
The last person he wanted to spend time with was Viola.
‘Well, no choice. One more meeting, and then I’m done.’
Since I can’t refuse anyway, I might as well grit my teeth and go.
Clutching the letter, Ian addressed the butler again.
“Please inform His Grace that I’d be honored to attend. But the letter doesn’t specify a time—were there any additional instructions?”
“A carriage is waiting outside. We’ll depart whenever you’re ready.”
There wasn’t much to prepare.
He could leave right now if needed.
“Nea, is Father still asleep?”
“According to the maid attending him, he woke early but is resting in his room due to… lingering effects from last night.”
Ian snorted.
“Paying the price for yesterday, I see.”
Not that he blamed him.
Hugo had been forced to avoid from alcohol during his recovery.
For a man who loved his drink, that must have been torture.
Now that he was fully healed, he’d clearly let loose at the banquet.
“Inform him where I’m going—and while you’re at it, brief him about Millio.”
“Yes, Young Master.”
Riding the carriage back to the ducal estate, Ian followed the butler’s lead, strolling through the sprawling gardens.
‘No matter how many times I see this place, it’s just unnecessarily huge.’
A mansion rivaling the imperial palace, with grounds so vast the gardens alone felt like a separate realm.
First-time visitors always gasped in awe, but after countless visits in-game, Ian’s only thought was:
‘Pointlessly oversized for living in.’
Nothing more, nothing less.
In truth, this estate boasted the largest private garden in the Fried Empire.
The upkeep alone must have cost a fortune yearly.
‘Hm?’*
As they walked, Ian noticed something odd.
‘Where is this? This isn’t the direct path to the mansion.’
While all garden paths eventually led to the residence, this one meandered conspicuously.
He turned to the butler.
“Is there construction blocking the main route? Or are preparations still underway? We seem to be taking a detour.”
“Ah, my apologies. His Grace is currently in the Garden of Whispers. That’s where I’m taking you.”
The Endran ducal estate had two gardens.
One was the grand showcase stretching from the main gate—where Ian now walked—meant to impress visiting nobles.
The other, the Garden of Whispers, was a secluded place nestled along a private walking path in the back.
Access was restricted to the ducal family, their invited guests, and the groundskeepers.
“…I see.”
Ian’s reply was curt, but his eyes sharpened.
‘First a personal banquet invite, now this.’
He knew how rare it was to be admitted here without sky-high affinity.
‘Is he genuinely trying to ally with our house?’
Whatever the reason, closer ties couldn’t hurt.
Following the butler, they soon reached the garden’s entrance.
The knights stationed there, seemingly briefed in advance, let Ian pass without question.
“Simply follow the path inside. I’ll wait here.”
The butler stopped at the threshold—apparently forbidden from entering further.
Ian proceeded alone.
The path opened into a clearing with a tea pavilion, large enough to host intimate dinners.
The Duke greeted him first.
“There you are. Been expecting you.”
“An honor to see you again. Thank you for the invitation—”
“Hah! No need for formalities in private. Sit, sit.”
Waving off Ian’s courtesy, the Duke’s casual demeanor drew an involuntary smile from him.
‘It’s been a while. This side of him.’
Some might find it jarring, but Ian found it nostalgic.
“Then I’ll gladly take a seat.”
As Ian sat, the Duke addressed a middle-aged woman nearby.
“Stewardess, the tea, please. Ah, but didn’t you dislike black tea?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Fetch him something else.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
A separate drink was already prepared.
Ian blinked.
“How did you know I dislike black tea?”
“Your father mentioned it while in his cups. Said you were a picky eater until a few years ago—now you’ll eat anything except black tea. Bragged about you till my ears bled.”
‘Just how much did you reveal, Father?!’
Hugo had been carried back to the inn dead drunk last night.
Ian worried what other secrets might’ve slipped.
He seriously considered enforcing sobriety henceforth.
‘Speaking of which…’
Ian glanced around, prompting the Duke’s question.
“Looking for someone?”
“Lady Viola isn’t here. Has she stepped away?”
He’d assumed she’d join them, given the promised “war stories.”
The stewardess nearly spilled Ian’s drink.
Mentioning Viola in front of the Duke—especially from an outsider’s lips—was borderline taboo.
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