Disclaimer: This story started of as a parody of all the tropes that I ever loved. I love the Dukes of North, the Invincible Magicians, the godlike tyrant Emperors, childcare and so on. I always wondered what the world would look like from the point of view of a normal character? So, here is my story as a young aristrocrat navigates through the intricacies of court, facing a daughter-slave emperor, stopping his own villainous side-character father, stopping his second male lead elder brother from sacrificing himself to save a heroine, preventing his neglected wife from being a plot device and best of all just being a main character in his own life.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The golden light of the afternoon sun filtered through the tall, arched windows of the Shelb estate's workshop, casting a warm glow over the organized chaos within. Tools clinked and clattered, workers murmured to one another, and the faint hum of mana-powered mechanisms filled the air. Rows of gleaming horseless carriages stood proudly amidst the activity, their sleek designs a testament to innovation and ambition. The workshop, though a hive of productivity, carried an undertone of tension as if every occupant sensed the weight of their task.
The double doors at the far end of the room creaked open, and the lively chatter dwindled to a respectful hush. All eyes turned to the tall, striking figure entering the workshop. Micheal von Shelb strode in with a quiet authority that commanded attention. His platinum blonde hair, tied neatly in a half-ponytail, gleamed under the sunlight, cascading like liquid silver over his tailored navy coat. Sharp blue eyes scanned the room, assessing every detail with a mix of curiosity and scrutiny.
Behind him followed Barnaby Trent, Micheal's ever-loyal butler. Barnaby's green eyes sparkled with their usual calm efficiency, though his chestnut-brown hair—slightly tousled from the brisk walk—betrayed the pace they had kept. His posture was impeccable, his movements precise as he matched Micheal's stride, clipboard in hand and always prepared for the unexpected.
The room seemed to hold its breath as Micheal approached the line of free workers and recruits gathered near the prototypes. These were not seasoned mechanics or engineers but a mix of eager individuals drawn from the estate's grounds, their faces reflecting a blend of hope and apprehension. For them, this was an opportunity to be part of something extraordinary—to learn skills that could redefine their lives.
"Good afternoon," Micheal began, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the room. He didn't need to raise his tone; his presence alone demanded attention. "I trust yesterday's session was illuminating?"
The workers nodded in unison, their responses ranging from eager affirmations to shy smiles. Barnaby stepped forward, his sharp eyes glancing over the group as he handed Micheal a summary of the previous day's progress.
"Sir, the group has shown promising initiative," Barnaby remarked, his tone measured. "Though there are... areas for improvement."
Micheal's gaze drifted to the nearest prototype, its metallic sheen glinting under the workshop's lights. The mana-powered carriage was a marvel of engineering, its intricate design blending function with elegance. Yet, under Micheal, their inventor's sharp eyes imperfections usually got caught immediately—a misaligned axle, a faint residue of improperly channeled mana near the stabilizer.
"Promising," Micheal echoed, his tone contemplative. "But not quite there yet." He turned back to the group, his expression softening into a faint smile. "You've all done commendable work thus far. However, I fear I've been too ambitious in expecting immediate mastery."
The workers exchanged uncertain glances, their murmurs barely audible. Micheal raised a hand, silencing them gently.
"Innovation requires patience," he continued, his voice steady. "And precision. These prototypes are not yet safe enough for widespread use. For today, I'm dismissing you all from further training."
A ripple of surprise passed through the group. Some looked relieved, others confused. Barnaby's sharp green eyes flicked to Micheal, a question lingering unspoken, but he held his tongue.
"Take this time to reflect on what you've learned," Micheal added, his tone encouraging. "We'll reconvene once the designs have been adjusted to ensure both efficiency and safety."
The group hesitated for a moment before offering respectful bows and murmured thanks. They began filing out of the workshop, their expressions a mix of admiration and puzzlement. Micheal's decisions often defied expectations, but his reputation for kindness and ingenuity kept their doubts at bay.
As the doors closed behind the last of the workers, Barnaby's measured steps brought him to Micheal's side. "A surprising decision, Master Micheal," he said, his tone even. "Shall I prepare the tools for recalibration?"
Micheal's gaze remained on the prototypes, his expression unreadable. "Not yet, Barnaby," he replied. "First, I'd like to take a closer look myself."
With the workshop now empty, an almost eerie silence replaced the earlier hum of activity. Micheal approached the nearest prototype, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as an inexplicable unease gnawed at him. These horseless carriages were Micheal's brainchild, meticulously designed to revolutionize transportation across the estate. They promised faster, more efficient movement of heavier goods and an unprecedented level of comfort and speed for passengers. This project wasn't just an exercise in innovation; it was Micheal's vision for a modernized estate and a better quality of life for those who worked within it.
This workshop, central to Micheal's ambitions, was meant to train estate workers as handlers—or "drivers," as Micheal fondly called them—capable of managing the complexities of these mana-powered vehicles. Despite skepticism from his family and friends, who dismissed the carriages as an unnecessary extravagance and a waste of precious mana stones, Micheal's resolve remained unshaken. He was determined to prove their worth and silence the doubters with success. To Micheal, these carriages symbolized progress—an idea he refused to abandon.
Without a word, he removed his tailored coat, folding it neatly and setting it aside. To the shock of his butler, he crouched by the first prototype and began his inspection.
"Barnaby," Micheal called over his shoulder, his voice calm yet edged with a quiet urgency. "Fetch me a lantern and some tools."
Barnaby hesitated, his usually composed features betraying a flicker of concern. "Master Micheal, surely the staff—"
"Lantern and tools, Barnaby," Micheal interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. "Now."
Within moments, Barnaby returned, his steps brisk, and handed over the requested items. Micheal lit the mana powered portable lantern and slid under the carriage with practiced precision. The sleek mana engine emitted a faint hum, its intricate network of channels glowing softly in the dim light. Yet, something was amiss. Micheal's keen eyes spotted the telltale signs almost immediately: bolts missing, connections frayed, and a vital mana channeling rod barely secured. Further inspection revealed that components had been hastily removed, leaving behind faint scratches and misplaced seals.
His lips pressed into a tight line as he moved to the next carriage. The unsettling pattern repeated: tampered bolts, misaligned parts, and improperly sealed mechanisms. By the time Micheal examined the third prototype, the unease in his chest had hardened into grim certainty.
"This isn't carelessness," he murmured, his voice low but resolute. "It's sabotage."
Barnaby's green eyes darkened as he stepped closer, his arms crossing. "Sir, this work is beneath your station. Allow me to handle—"
"No, Barnaby," Micheal interjected firmly, his tone unyielding. Rising to his full height, he dusted his hands off but made no effort to hide the tension in his usually composed features. "This requires my attention. If these flaws had gone unnoticed..." He trailed off, his piercing gaze fixed on the damaged carriages, the weight of what could have been hanging heavily in the air.
Barnaby swallowed his protest, his jaw tightening in silent agreement. "I will summon the workshop supervisor at once," he said curtly.
A short time later, the supervisor arrived, his pallor betraying his unease. Micheal's sharp gaze bore into him, unwavering. "Explain this," Micheal demanded, gesturing toward the sabotaged prototypes.
The supervisor fell to his knees, trembling. "Forgive me, Lord Micheal. I... I failed in my duties. Some of the workers stayed behind after yesterday's session. They must have tampered with the parts—likely trying to steal the refined metals. I had no idea..."
Barnaby's emerald eyes blazed with indignation, but Micheal raised a hand, silencing him with a calm yet commanding gesture. "Negligence has no place here," Micheal said evenly, his tone measured yet firm. "From now on, you will ensure tighter security. Every prototype is to be inspected thoroughly before any further training sessions commence. Do I make myself clear?"
The supervisor bowed deeply, his voice barely audible. "Yes, sir. It will be done."
As the man scurried away, Micheal exhaled slowly, his gaze lingering on the damaged carriages. The earlier sense of urgency remained, now amplified by the unsettling discovery. This was no mere mishap. It was a deliberate act, and Micheal knew he couldn't afford to dismiss it as an isolated incident. This was a warning—and one he would not ignore.
Micheal excused himself from the workshop for a breath of fresh air after straining himself under the carriages during his inspections. The workers, sensing his rare displeasure, exchanged uneasy glances of relief as the usually composed noble exited.
The estate's garden welcomed him with golden shafts of late afternoon sunlight filtering through the leaves, dappling the meticulously arranged roses, violets, and hedges. The faint scent of flowers mingled with the soft rustle of a gentle breeze, but to Micheal, the tranquil beauty was an indifferent witness to the storm raging within him.
His steps faltered as he reached the garden's edge. Micheal's normally impeccable posture—the hallmark of his noble demeanor—crumbled under the weight of his thoughts. He glanced back toward the workshop, its imposing structure silent and still, and shuddered. His sharp blue eyes, so often brimming with wit and confidence, were clouded with disbelief and horror.
On a whim—born as counteract to an inexplicable dream earlier that afternoon—he had cancelled the workshop. It had seemed irrational, reckless even, to halt the training session. But as the tampered prototypes revealed themselves one by one, the chilling realization struck him: his impulsive decision had saved lives. The dream's haunting vision—exploding carriages, burning wreckage, screaming workers—had been averted by mere chance. Or had it?
The enormity of what he had narrowly avoided crushed him. Without thought, he sank to his knees on the soft grass. His breath hitched as he clutched his chest, his heart pounding as though trying to escape the weight of his realization. His carefully maintained facade cracked, giving way to raw, unfiltered emotion.
"It's real," he whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling. "The dream… it's all real."
The memories of the dream came rushing back in vivid, horrifying detail: the mana-powered carriages roaring to life, the catastrophic explosions tearing through the workshop, and the anguished cries of workers trapped in the flames. He saw himself in the chaos—his legs mangled, Barnaby shielding him only to succumb to mortal injuries days later. The dream had shown him everything: his exile, his isolation, his slow and desolate demise.
Each image cut deeper, carving wounds into his psyche. Was this truly his fate? And if so, could he rewrite it?
A wave of nausea hit him as he stumbled to his feet, collapsing again beneath the ancient oak at the garden's center. Its sprawling branches offered brief shelter, but Micheal's mind was a storm. Leaning against the gnarled trunk, he clawed at the cool earth, desperate to steady himself.
His fingers instinctively clutched the pendant resting against his chest, the gift from his estranged wife, Magda. Its smooth surface was a small anchor in his sea of turmoil. "If this is a story, whose story is it?" he murmured, his voice barely audible. "And why was I given the chance to see it?"
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows that stretched across the estate. Micheal remained under the oak, questions and fears swirling through his mind like a storm. For the first time in years, he felt utterly powerless. Yet, beneath the horror of his realization, a flicker of determination began to burn. He had narrowly averted one disaster. Perhaps, with the right choices, he could avert more.