Henry froze momentarily before offering measured condolences. "I am sorry for your loss. It's a tragic event."
The baron waved off the sentiment. Despite being the lord of the barony, he couldn't assert his authority too forcefully here—not with Henry, who was both the heir to the executioner's legacy and his brother-in-law.
"Life is short, and he's been called to the light of the Radiant One. He'll find peace," the baron said coolly.
To Henry, who had never forgotten the children Clara had lost, the baron's indifference was incomprehensible. But his growing anger was only stoked by the baron's next words.
"I've come to take Michael with me."
Henry's temper flared. He glared at the baron, his resemblance to Alfred unmistakable in that moment.
"Where do you intend to take him, my lord? Michael's home is here. He has work to do today and nowhere else to be."
Ignoring Henry's indignation, the baron called out toward the house. "Michael! Come out. We need to talk."
Henry stepped forward, his voice firm. "If you have something to say, you'll say it to me. I am Michael's guardian."
"I am his father," the baron countered, his tone sharp. "I have every right—"
"You gave up that right long ago. Twice over, in fact. You have no claim here!" Henry snapped, his anger burning bright.
From behind him, a cutting voice chimed in. "That's enough."
Clara stepped forward, her tone cold as steel.
The baron removed his hat and offered her a polite nod, unruffled. For nobles, shamelessness was a necessary skill.
"Clara, it's been a while. I trust you've been well?" He paused, then continued smoothly, "As you may have heard, my eldest son has passed. Michael now has the right to inherit as the family's heir."
Clara faltered. She despised the baron's calculating use of Lincoln's death as leverage, but the truth of his words was undeniable.
Her thoughts turned to Michael. Though she had poured all her love into him, there was always a shadow of longing in his eyes—a void left by the affection he had been denied. She remembered the night he left for the castle, determined to claim his place as a knight. His parting words, laced with anger and bitterness, still stung. She didn't want to hear them again.
Tears welled up in her eyes, but before they could fall, a warm hand rested on her shoulder.
"It's alright, Aunt Clara. I'll handle this."
Michael's voice cut through the tension as he emerged from the house.
Michael couldn't help but curse his predecessor. The memories of the original Michael were fresh in his mind, and the sheer arrogance and recklessness of that boy made his blood boil. To be raised with care and love by relatives who took him in as a baby, only to hurl insults at them? Unforgivable.
Having grown up in an orphanage himself, Michael knew the pain and struggles of children abandoned by their parents. For Michael, who now held the memories of both lives, it was appalling how the original Michael had treated Clara and Henry, his aunt and uncle. Their warm, nurturing care had been met with nothing but cruelty.
Michael turned to Clara and Henry, both looking at him with worry etched on their faces. He reassured them gently, sending them back into the house. Whatever needed to be done, he would handle it himself.
Michael and the baron walked along a forest trail, tension crackling in the air. Michael knew he needed to show his anger first.
"Why now, Father?" Michael demanded, his voice sharp. "You abandoned me when I was injured, sent me away like I was nothing. And now, suddenly, you need me because Lincoln is dead? When Lincoln tried to kill me, you said nothing."
"Don't let emotions control you," the baron replied coolly. "That's not how a noble behaves."
"Taking responsibility for one's actions is the duty of a noble, isn't it? Owning up to one's mistakes and paying for them—that's what it means to be noble," Michael shot back.
"You certainly have a lot to say," the baron muttered, clearing his throat. He waved Ronald away to give them privacy before turning back to face Michael. His eyes softened for a moment. She really does live on in him.
"I won't waste time on sentiment," the baron continued. "Think of the benefits. You'll inherit everything—lands, soldiers, title, the castle, and all of Crassus' wealth. Isn't that what you wanted?"
Michael's lips curled into a sneer. "I used to want it. Not anymore. I don't care what happens to the barony. Go home. I've decided to live as an executioner."
The baron's composure wavered. "I've prepared growth elixirs, a Pamir Highland warhorse, armor, and a longsword for you. Do you realize how much I've invested? Five thousand gold—half of the barony's annual income!"
Michael's laugh was cold. "Five thousand? Do you think I'm a fool?"
He knew better. With six thousand freemen in the barony, even with taxes and tithes to the Radiant Church, the baron's annual income was far higher than that. And the equipment he offered—a knight's basic gear—was nothing more than an obligation the barony owed its heir. The only true gift was the growth elixir, and even that wasn't enough to sway him.
As Michael's expression grew darker, the baron's anxiety deepened. Finally, the older man relented.
"What do you want?" he asked, his tone almost pleading.
Michael crossed his arms, weighing his options. "Three thousand gold as reparations and one hundred mana stones. Deliver them by tonight."
The baron winced but calculated quickly. Given the barony's size, sourcing one hundred mana stones was feasible, though it would require depleting reserves. Michael's demand was steep but not unreasonable.
"Why mana stones? You're not planning to forge a cursed sword, are you? Your grandfather would never allow it."
A cursed sword? Michael thought, connecting the dots. So that mysterious weapon really was special. But he kept his thoughts to himself. "What I do with them is my business. Will you pay, or shall we end this conversation?"