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.
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The golden light of the afternoon sun streamed through the arched windows of the Shelb estate's workshop, casting a warm glow over the organized chaos within.
A row of unique carriages stood to the side of the workshop, gleaming under the sunlight. Opposite them, a group of young men lined up, their eager expressions punctuated by curious glances from the returning workers and blacksmiths finishing their lunch.
This workshop was the brainchild of Micheal von Shelb, the third son of Duke Louis von Shelb. Its purpose? To train young men to operate these horseless carriages—vehicles powered by mana, the life energy of the world.
Though it was only the second day of the workshop, the participants buzzed with anticipation. The promise of becoming a "driver," as Micheal called the horseless carriage handlers, and the prospect of earning a handsome pay ensured their enthusiasm.
Completing this workshop could make them part of history—or the laughingstock of the century.
But they trusted Micheal. Though considered eccentric, he had a reputation as a noble who made the impossible possible.
Murmurs rippled through the group as they exchanged notes on yesterday's session, trying to recall every detail Micheal had shared about the carriages. At exactly 2:00 PM, as if cued by an unseen clock, the heavy doors swung open.
Micheal entered, his movements measured and deliberate.
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 movements precise as he matched Micheal's stride, clipboard in hand and always prepared for the unexpected.
All eyes turned to Micheal. It was difficult to reconcile his image with the genius inventor he was reputed to be. Dressed in a tailored blue coat befitting an aristocrat, his appearance was more reminiscent of a figure from a painting than a workshop innovator.
His platinum blonde hair, tied neatly into a half ponytail, shimmered in the sunlight. Sharp blue eyes swept the workshop with practiced precision. For a moment, his chiselled features darkened as he noticed something—but the expression passed quickly.
"Good afternoon," Micheal addressed them, his voice calm yet carrying an unmistakable authority. The workshop's hum quieted as everyone leaned in to listen.
"I trust yesterday's session was inspirational?" he asked, his tone both encouraging and probing.
The recruits nodded eagerly, a few murmuring affirmations. However, Micheal's next words disrupted their hopeful energy.
"I must apologize," he began, his expression softening. "In my eagerness, I overlooked some critical factors. For now, we'll pause the sessions to make necessary adjustments."
A wave of confusion swept through the group. Micheal raised a hand, his calm demeanor reassuring them. "You will still be paid for today," he added. "Barnaby will ensure everything is settled."
Barnaby, though surprise shone briefly in his emerald green eyes, quickly composed himself. With a graceful nod, he acknowledged his master's order.
The recruits left the workshop, murmuring among themselves, unsure what to make of the abrupt change. Yet, Micheal's decisiveness and generosity left no room for protest.
Once the last participant exited, two mechanics approached Micheal and Barnaby, bowing respectfully. Micheal's sharp blue eyes locked onto them. "I'll need a flashlight and a creeper," he instructed, his voice firm. "Make it quick."
The mechanics hurried away, returning shortly with the requested tools. Micheal shrugged off his coat and handed it to Barnaby without a word, tying back his hair with practiced ease. He crouched, set the creeper in place beneath the carriage, and smoothly slid underneath.
Barnaby stood nearby, his frown deepening. "Master Micheal, this isn't appropriate work for someone of your station."
"It's necessary," Micheal replied, his tone clipped and focused. Holding a mana-powered lantern, he began his inspection.
The lantern's glow revealed a disturbing sight: missing mana regulators, loose bolts, and hastily patched components. Micheal's movements grew more precise, his expression darkening with each discovery.
Sliding out from beneath the first carriage, Micheal moved swiftly to the next, then another. Each vehicle bore the same signs of sabotage. His jaw tightened, his calm demeanor now edged with anger.
"This isn't carelessness," he muttered, his voice low but resolute. "This is deliberate sabotage."
Micheal stood to his full height, towering over everyone in the workshop. His imposing presence silenced the hum of activity. Without missing a beat, he summoned the workshop supervisor.
The supervisor, a wiry man with nervous eyes, hesitated before approaching. Micheal's commanding presence made him feel even smaller. "My lord," he stammered, bowing slightly.
"Take a look at this," Micheal said, gesturing toward the damaged carriage. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it.
Someone had already repositioned the damaged carriage for repairs. The supervisor crouched, quickly examining the missing parts.
His expression darkened as he traced the poorly secured components. "It looks like… someone tampered with it," he murmured. "Thieves, perhaps. They must've been in a hurry."
Micheal's face remained unreadable, but a chill swept through the room. The workers nearby exchanged uneasy glances, sensing an undercurrent of anger in their usually patient master.
"Thieves?" Micheal's voice was quiet, yet it cut through the silence like a blade. He took a deliberate step closer, his towering form casting a shadow over the supervisor. "Do you know what happens when a mana regulator is removed from a high-power engine?"
The supervisor's eyes widened as the implications hit him.
"An explosion," he whispered, his voice trembling.
"A… catastrophic one." He fell to his knees, bowing low. "My lord, I… I didn't realize. Please forgive me!"
Nearby, an apprentice mechanic whispered to his senior. "What does he mean?"
The older mechanic's face was pale. "If one of these carriages explodes, it'll set off a chain reaction. With the other mana-sensitive equipment in here, it wouldn't just destroy the workshop…" He paused, swallowing hard. "It could bring down the entire castle."
Micheal's sharp blue eyes flicked toward the whispering mechanics. The apprentice froze, feeling as though a predator's gaze had landed on him. Micheal said nothing, but the glance was enough to silence them.
Turning back to the supervisor, Micheal spoke with measured authority. "I want these carriages fixed immediately. Ensure every component is checked and double-checked before the next session."
"Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord," the supervisor stammered, scrambling to his feet.
Without another word, Micheal left the workshop. Barnaby watched him go, his expression thoughtful. He had never seen his young master so furious. Even Barnaby, known for his composure, couldn't shake the thought of how close they had come to disaster.
Outside, Micheal made his way to the garden. The cool air hit him like a balm, but his legs felt weak. He found his way to the shade of a towering centuries-old oak and collapsed against its ancient trunk.
His carefully maintained facade crumbled. Micheal gasped for air, his heart pounding erratically. He clutched at his chest, willing it to calm, but the enormity of what had nearly transpired left him trembling.
Just hours earlier, he had been under this very tree, trying to steal a moment's rest. Sleep had eluded him the night before as he worked late into the night, drafting a curriculum for the workshop. But the brief nap he had managed had been anything but peaceful.
In his dream, Micheal had wandered through a vast library filled with novels. Shelves stretched endlessly into the gloom, each title seemingly alive with meaning.
One book flew toward him, its pages opening as if compelled by an unseen force. As his fingers touched the worn parchment, memories that were not his own surged into his mind.
He glimpsed a horrifying future. According to the book, today was the day he would lose everything.
The vision unfolded vividly. Micheal saw himself proceeding with the workshop as planned. Defective carriages exploded one after another, igniting a massive fire that engulfed the workshop and damaged the castle. The flames spared no one in the workshop but him.
Barnaby had been there in the dream—shielding Micheal with his body during the chaos. His loyal butler perished, and Micheal's legs were crushed beyond repair. He became a cripple, only to face trial for negligence. Stripped of honor, he was banished to the outskirts of the estate, condemned to a life of isolation.
When Micheal awoke beneath the oak tree, he dismissed the dream as a mere nightmare. Yet, unease gnawed at him, refusing to fade.
Something within urged him to act, to challenge the grim narrative the dream had foretold. On a whim, he canceled the day's workshop.
Now, sitting in the shade of the ancient oak, the weight of that decision pressed heavily on him. He had averted disaster—a whim had saved countless lives. The realization left him nauseous.
His trembling hand rose instinctively to clutch the pendant resting against his chest. It was a gift from his estranged wife, its smooth surface grounding him as he sought comfort.
"Am I just a character in someone's story?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Do I have no agency over my own life?"
Above, sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves, casting dappled patterns on the grass. The light seemed indifferent to his turmoil, a quiet witness to his unraveling.
For the first time, Micheal felt powerless—utterly insignificant in the face of forces beyond his control.
The chilling realization of his narrow escape was a double-edged sword—a relief, but also a haunting reminder of how fragile his existence truly was.