Quentin inclined his head slightly in deference to the Duke, prepared to take his leave, yet awaiting the Duke's words.
"Remain at Greystone Hall for the time being. Do not act independently," the Duke instructed, resuming his previous stance by the window, gazing at the moon.
Until then, I require someone I can rely on for my plans to succeed, the Duke thought silently.
Quentin offered a brief bow once more before opening the door behind him and departing.
His expression remained unreadable, his usual cold gaze betraying no emotion, despite the underlying irritation he felt.
As the door closed behind him, he observed the glass in his hand, activating his aether. A subtle vibration emanated from it before the glass shattered, his face betraying his disappointment.
Too much
He then left the mansion and entered his carriage. The journey through the cold, quiet night was calming as he drifted into his thoughts.
Upon arriving at Greystone Hall, he was greeted by an establishment similar to Beaumont Manor, though smaller and more modest. The walls were adorned with plants and algae.
Quentin paid no mind to the simplicity of his surroundings, for this was his humble abode, a gift from his father, the Duke, who had also granted him the title of Earl.
Frederick silently accompanied Quentin into Greystone Hall before taking his leave, heading toward his designated quarters.
Quentin's existence was one of quiet servitude, far removed from the life of a true noble. The son of a mistress, he was but a reminder of the Duke's youthful transgressions. Fourth in line, and the only one of his siblings to possess the rare and coveted ability of body enhancement, he had sought to impress his father, to claim a sliver of recognition. Yet, all he earned was his place as an unremarkable tool in the Duke's vast machinery.
Regarded as little more than an instrument for menial tasks, he was, at best, an afterthought in the Duke's household—a mere extension of his father's will.
Still, there was no mistaking the fire in Quentin's spirit. Despite his youth, his relentless drive had earned him the status of a second-grade from the second tier body enhancer—a title few in Lunaris could claim. His skill, honed through years of discipline, made him a name to be reckoned with in the underground circles of enhancement.
As the night gave way to dawn, a knock echoed at Quentin's door. The sunlight streamed through the window, bathing the room in a warm, golden hue.
Quentin rose from his bed, his movements deliberate as he donned a formal attire—much like the one he had worn the previous day.
Frederick's voice followed shortly, announcing that a messenger from the Duke awaited him in the living room, bearing news of an important task.
Quentin entered the living room, his gaze settling on the messenger standing by the far end. Before Quentin could take his seat, the guard abruptly rose, a gesture that, while seemingly neutral, struck Quentin as subtly disrespectful. His cold eyes narrowed momentarily, though he said nothing, choosing instead to observe the man's demeanor in silence.
The man, dressed in a dark guard's uniform adorned with the subtle elegance of high-quality silk, bowed with a gesture of respect—though it was clear that his loyalty lay with the Duke, not with Quentin.
"Sir," the messenger began, his tone respectful yet detached. "His Majesty, the Duke, has sent me to inform you of a matter requiring your attention. Workers from Luneford, specifically along Pendleton Street, are in need of control." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "You are to meet with the overseer, Cedric Holloway, at his post. Should you have any further inquiries, direct them to him."
With that, the messenger straightened, his bow barely more than a formality before he turned and left.
Seeing Quentin's usual cold gaze, Frederick immediately understood its meaning as the Earl silently followed the departing figure with his eyes.
"Lysander of the Iron Brigade," Frederick remarked, his gaze shifting to the window where the guard mounted his horse, preparing to return to the Duke. He turned back to Quentin, his tone cautious. "Do you want me to take any action?"
Before Quentin could respond, one of his maids approached, bowing respectfully. "My lord, breakfast is ready," she informed him softly.
Quentin glanced briefly at Frederick, his voice steady yet decisive. "No. That would only create unnecessary complications."
With that, he turned and began making his way to the dining hall, his mind already preoccupied with the task ahead.
After concluding his morning repast, Quentin summoned his loyal bodyguard, Frederick, and commanded him to ready the carriage. His destination, as decreed by the Duke, was none other than Pendleton Street—a place that promised an encounter with the enigmatic overseer, Cedric Holloway.
The streets, once tranquil, now bustled with life. Citizens of all walks engaged in their myriad tasks, painting a vivid portrait of daily toil. Yet, amidst this lively scene, the presence of Quentin's carriage stirred a palpable shift. A crowd began to form—not out of mere curiosity but drawn by the allure of the vehicle itself. Its elegant craftsmanship, a stark contrast to the ordinary carriages of other nobles, bore the unmistakable mark of the famed engineer who had fashioned it as a gift to the Duke. In turn, the Duke had bestowed this marvel upon his favored son, Quentin, further elevating its mystique.
Hours passed as the carriage made its way from Greystone Hall to Pendleton Street. The air grew heavier, laden with a sense of unease. The vibrant hum of the noble district gave way to the harsh realities of the working class. Here, the hostility of the downtrodden masses was tangible, their glares a silent rebellion against the unseen occupant of the grand carriage.
Inspectors patrolled the streets with an air of oppressive authority. One, with unfeeling cruelty, kicked an elderly man sprawled on the ground, commanding him to return to his labor. Others forcibly herded workers into lines leading to a desk, where an inspector presided over a peculiar device—a spherical contraption with three rings suspended within its transparent casing. The apparatus emitted a subtle reaction whenever a worker placed their hands upon it, its purpose as ominous as it was obscure.
Further down the lane, some inspectors lounged idly against buildings, indulging in their meals without a care for the suffering around them. One, his mouth still full, spat contemptuously at a man waiting in line. "Disgusting," he sneered. The insult struck like a lash, but the man, fearing reprisal, lowered his gaze in submission.
Quentin observed it all through the window of his carriage, his eyes taking in the stark tableau of dominance and despair. The scene unfolded before him like a macabre theater, every detail a stark reminder of the chasm between those who wielded power and those crushed beneath its weight.
Arriving at the factory, Quentin was greeted by a man in his mid-forties, distinguished by his neatly combed blonde hair and a meticulously trimmed mustache. His attire was similar to that of the inspectors scattered throughout the district, yet the subtle differences in his uniform spoke volumes about his elevated rank. The dark blue double breasted fabric was identical in hue, but his hat lacked the martial cut of a soldier's, signifying a station of authority rather than servitude.
His gloves and boots extended longer than those of an ordinary inspector, adding an air of practicality and prestige to his appearance. Draped over his shoulders was a mantle resembling a towel, reaching from his shoulders to his elbows, neatly covering his coat. Upon his chest, an emblem gleamed—a flying eagle, its wings spread wide, marking him unmistakably as one of the Duke's private soldiers, an elite among the ranks.
On his right hip rested a red aether-powered pistol, its polished surface glinting faintly in the light. This weapon was compact but formidable, designed for precise, close-quarters combat. On his left side was slung a remarkable rifle, a masterpiece of engineering, intended for long-range engagements. The rifle's barrel was elongated, lined with intricate engravings that channeled high-powered aether, amplifying the weapon's destructive force. Its stock bore a shimmering metallic finish, housing a delicate network of aether conduits that pulsed faintly with energy. A design reserved for only the most skilled marksmen, this rifle could strike targets at incredible distances with deadly precision.
Completing his arsenal was a baton fastened beside the rifle—a brutal tool of enforcement, its simplicity a stark contrast to the sophistication of the firearm.
"Cedric Holloway of the Obsidian Vanguards, a marksman of renown and highly esteemed among his peers," Frederick remarked as he appeared beside Quentin, who had just alighted from the carriage. His tone carried an air of subtle admiration, though his expression remained neutral.
Quentin turned his gaze toward the approaching figure. Before him stood a man exuding an aura of disciplined strength, his presence commanding respect without effort. A faint smile tugged at Quentin's lips.
He looks strong enough, he thought, his eyes narrowing slightly as if to measure the man's capabilities.
Cedric halted a few steps away, bowing deeply to the Earl. "It is an honor to meet you, Sir," he said, his voice steady and resolute. Rising, he shifted his attention to Quentin. "I am Cedric Holloway. My duties here include the categorization and oversight of the workers."
With a slight gesture, Cedric turned to his side, inviting Quentin to walk alongside him.
"The situation, as you may observe, is less than ideal," Cedric began, his tone measured but firm. "The workers are increasingly resistant, and some of my men have been compelled to enforce compliance." He glanced at Quentin, gauging the young noble's reaction to his blunt words.
But Quentin offered only a cold, impassive glance, his eyes fixed on Cedric's every movement, silently urging him to continue.
Cedric exhaled audibly, the faintest shadow of unease crossing his face before he resumed. "The Duke has tasked me with testing each worker and assigning them to roles befitting their capabilities." He crouched suddenly, picking up a small toy car—a crude but cherished possession of a child standing forlornly in line. Straightening, Cedric handed the toy back to its young owner before continuing, his voice tinged with a rare note of regret. "Regrettably, some of these workers are children."
He straightened his coat, his features sharpening. "The Duke fears the seeds of civil unrest are taking root. A disturbance has arisen within the inner circle itself, threatening to ignite a broader conflict."
Quentin's expression remained unreadable, though his mind churned. I see. That explains the urgency in his instructions. He needs me to secure a viable candidate for the body enhancement procedure—an endeavor as challenging as it is critical.
Satisfied with his analysis, Quentin spoke, his tone cool but authoritative. "I understand. The preparations appear to be in order. Now, tell me—what precisely am I needed for?"
Unmoved by the piercing look in the Earl's eyes, Cedric let out a resigned sigh. "As I mentioned earlier, we are facing resistance from the workers," he said, his voice steady but laced with a hint of fatigue. His gaze drifted to the far end of Pendleton Street, where shadows seemed to gather ominously. "Among them are those with battlefield experience—veterans whom the Duke has deemed nuisances, now reduced to the status of slaves."
Quentin's brow furrowed slightly as he pondered Cedric's words. "...You, being a marksman, refrain from engaging these veterans in combat because it might sway public opinion against you?" He paused, his mind turning over the possibilities. "No, that's not it. From the look on your face, you strike me as someone indifferent to judgment," he continued, his tone cool and analytical. "Then, is it to avoid unnecessary casualties—damage your weaponry might inflict upon the workers or your own men?"
Cedric's expression remained stoic, though a faint glimmer of approval flickered in his eyes. "Indeed," he replied, meeting Quentin's gaze without hesitation. "Whether they see us as villains or heroes is of no consequence," he added, his voice unwavering as they resumed their pace. "What matters is that we are prepared—prepared for whatever is about to unfold."
The weight of his words lingered in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment of the grim reality they both faced. To Cedric, morality was a fleeting concern, overshadowed by the necessity of control and survival.
I pity you, Quentin thought as he observed the man beside him. You possess the potential to grow stronger, yet you are shackled by the Duke's will.
By now, they had reached the end of Pendleton Street, where the air seemed heavy with sweat and oppression. Before them stood workers of impressive physiques, their hands and feet bound by iron shackles.
Some labored tirelessly, manually turning large levers that acted as generators to power the streetlights. Others hauled cumbersome machinery toward specialized carriages designed for transporting goods. The rhythmic clanking of chains was underscored by the occasional grunt of exertion, a monotonous melody of servitude.
"As you can see," Cedric began, gesturing toward the toiling workers, "some of them comply without issue, performing their duties until the end of their shift." He paused, his gaze shifting to the far side of the sunken field that stretched before them.
"And then there are those," he continued, his tone hardening, "who refused to work."
Quentin followed Cedric's gaze and saw the defiant ones. Men lounged idly on the ground, some throwing rocks at their fellow workers, others laughing mockingly or simply dozing in the sun, indifferent to the world around them.
Cedric's voice broke the tense silence. "We need your presence to remind them of who they serve."
Quentin turned to Cedric, his expression cold and impassive, his eyes devoid of emotion. "There is no need for me here," he replied flatly, dismissing the suggestion with a glance.
Then, without waiting for Cedric's reaction, he addressed his bodyguard. "Fred, I'll wait for you at the carriage. Don't kill them." His voice was calm, yet it carried an unyielding authority.
Frederick nodded, his tone clipped but resolute. "Yes, sir."
Quentin turned away without another word, leaving Cedric to watch him retreat, the weight of his command hanging in the air like an unspoken judgment.