A short while later my grandfather sank heavily into his massive leather chair and took a slow sip of water, trying to compose himself after the interruption.
"Gramps," I asked, leaning back on the sofa, "did you find that cursed katana I asked about?"
He nodded slowly, eyes still sharp despite his age. "Ah, yes. The Shadowreaver Katana. We finally have solid intel."
He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out an old, yellowed parchment. "It's located deep inside Shadowveil Forest."
I nodded. "And the Astral Bloomwood?"
"Exact coordinates for either are still missing," he replied, tapping the parchment, "but I can give you the rough locations for both."
"Don't worry, Grandpa," I said with a confident smile. "When I find the precise spots, I'll record them properly and send the updated data back."
He nodded approvingly and handed two sealed parchments to Reginald. My old butler accepted them with a respectful bow.
I stood. "I'll take my leave then, Grandpa. Thank you."
With that I turned and left the room, Reginald following closely as the heavy wooden door swung shut with a solid thud.
A few minutes later, as we walked down the dimly lit corridor, a maid stepped out from a side passage and stood waiting with perfect poise.
The moment I saw her elegant Japanese-style maid uniform — black and white with subtle crimson accents — I knew she belonged to the First Wife's faction.
She bowed deeply, movements graceful and sincere.
"Young Master," she said softly, "your mother wishes to see you."
I nodded and turned to Reginald.
"How do I look? Good enough?"
He produced a fine silver comb from his coat and began neatly arranging my hair with meticulous care, smoothing every strand until it was flawless.
The maid then presented a folded garment with both hands, holding it like a sacred offering.
"Young Master, this yukata was woven from the silk of a five-hundred-year-old Voidweaver Spider. Your eldest sister personally hunted the spider to create this piece. It is lighter than air yet can withstand attacks from magical beasts up to four hundred and fifty years old."
I ran my fingers lightly over the folded silk. It felt impossibly soft and hummed with subtle ancient power.
Then I said calmly, "Lead the way."
Noticing I made no move to wear the gifted yukata, a brief flicker of disappointment crossed the maid's eyes. She recovered instantly and replied with perfect poise, "Yes, Young Master. Please follow me."
Reginald and I fell into step behind her. Even though my butler possessed a powerful spatial storage ring, he chose to carry the priceless garment with both hands, treating it with utmost respect.
After a few minutes we arrived before the First Wife's private court. The building rose like a grand ancient Japanese manor — elegant wooden architecture, sweeping curved roofs, and an aura of refined authority.
Two elite samurai guards stood motionless at the entrance like living statues. The moment they saw me, both men bowed deeply with genuine deference. I returned the greeting with a simple nod and followed the maid deeper inside. The faint scent of cherry blossoms and incense drifted through the polished halls.
As we walked through the elegant courtyard, a single pink cherry-blossom petal drifted down from the carefully tended trees. I reached out and caught it gently between my fingers. For a fleeting moment, memories of my previous life surfaced — sitting under sakura trees with a warm cup of tea, something I had only ever dreamed about on Earth.
We finally stopped before the grand sliding door.
The maid turned to me with a respectful bow. "Young Master, Madam wishes to speak with you in private. She wants only you inside the room."
I nodded.
The instant he heard "privately," Reginald frowned deeply, clearly about to insist on entering with me. I shook my head and spoke to him in a low, reassuring voice. "Nothing is going to happen to me, Gramps. You can wait right outside."
His stormy grey eyes flickered with reluctance before he bowed slightly. "Yes, Young Master. I will wait right here."
The ornate door slid open silently, and I stepped inside alone.
The moment I crossed the threshold, my eyes fell upon her.
Lady Akari von Arcturus sat with perfect, effortless grace on a luxurious futon, delicately sipping from a porcelain teacup.
At ninety years old she appeared no older than her late forties — the very picture of timeless, traditional beauty. Long, silky jet-black hair styled in a sophisticated updo framed her flawless porcelain skin. Gentle yet strikingly refined features, a serene and dignified presence that commanded quiet respect. Her deep, dark eyes — so different from her mother Lady Isolde's striking silver-grey — glowed with profound wisdom and quiet intelligence, as though she had already seen through every scheme this world had to offer.
Even fully enveloped in an exquisite traditional Japanese robe of deep indigo silk, her posture remained utterly flawless.
When our eyes met, she gracefully lowered her teacup and spoke in a soft, warm voice that carried genuine maternal concern.
"Did you eat your morning breakfast, son?"
Almost immediately my stomach let out a loud, traitorous rumble that shattered the elegant silence like a thunderclap.
An awkward tension instantly filled the room.
She cleared her throat softly and offered a gentle, maternal smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh my, it seems you're quite hungry. I was just about to have my own breakfast. Would you care to join me, dear?"
My expression stayed perfectly flat, almost bored. I let out a soft yawn and replied coolly, "No thanks, First Wife. Lady Seraphina — the fourth wife of the house — told me yesterday that she would personally cook for me. I was just on my way to her court when you summoned me here."
I shrugged casually. "So… tell me the real reason you called me."
Lady Akari raised one elegant eyebrow, her voice still soft yet carrying a razor edge. "You do realize the fourth wife doesn't know how to cook at all, don't you?"
I answered with a simple, knowing smile.
Her fingers tightened around the delicate teacup just a fraction too hard. The fine porcelain gave the faintest, dangerous creak under the pressure.