Chapter 1 — The Silence Before Judgment

The ground was hard.

It had rained the night before, but the mud hadn’t softened Lumius soil in the slightest.

Ren Sinclair drove the hoe into the earth with all his strength—again and again—until his arms trembled. Sweat rolled down his back, mixing with the dust of the field.

No one would’ve guessed he was a noble.
Not from his patched clothes.
Not from his calloused hands.

But he was. Technically.

Third son of House Sinclair. Heir to nothing.
Born to obey in silence, to live at the edge of nobility and sink into the soil.

That’s better this way.

Takao Ryonosuke had died fifteen years ago.

Now, he was just a boy who worked without bothering anyone.
No one asked for more.
No one expected anything.

And yet, every swing of the hoe meant more than labor.

To him, it was training.

Every strained muscle, every fresh blister—it was part of a routine his body remembered, even if the world had forgotten.

The field was his disguise.

Ren paused for a moment. He leaned on the tool and looked at his hands.

They weren’t Takao’s anymore.
They were younger.
But deep down, they weren’t empty.

Just… waiting.

“Ren-nii-san!”

A girl with straight chestnut hair came running barefoot, her feet caked in dirt.

“Hey, Rin! Slow down!” he called out with a tired smile. “If you fall again, Mom’s gonna scold me.”

Rin skidded to a stop, brushing the dust off her dress with both hands.

“Papa said the tax collector’s coming soon. We have to get everything ready.”

Ren’s smile faded.

Lumius had nothing left to give.
The soil had turned to stone, and each harvest was worse than the last.

But the taxes… those never stopped rising.

“I’ll be right there,” he murmured, bowing his head.

That same day, the four Sinclair siblings sat around the large dining table.

The house, once a symbol of heritage and honor, was now crumbling with the seasons.

The roof leaked.
The walls were scarred with cracks older than any of them.
The furniture stood more out of habit than structure.

There was no money to repair it.
Not even enough to pretend everything was still in order.

“Don’t mess this up. Got it?” said Rei, the eldest, his voice dry and judgmental.

“Yes, brother,” replied Rem, his tone carefully even, almost polite.

His hands, folded on his lap, trembled just slightly—as if holding onto something he couldn’t afford to drop.

Then, the hall doors creaked open.

The tax collector entered, flanked by four brutish guards clad in armor that, unlike the house, still gleamed.

Every step on the creaky floorboards echoed like a sentence.
A reminder of how fragile dignity could be.

Ren’s father rose at once. He bowed and guided the guest to the best chair at the table—the only one with a full backrest.

“I see the floorboards are still loose, Sinclair,” the man remarked with a mocking grin.

“I’m sorry, Sir Lucian. This year’s harvest was poor,” the patriarch replied in a muted voice.

“I understand. But you know… orders from the king.”

Then his eyes swept the room like a butcher weighing cuts of meat—until they stopped on the youngest.

“Well… we could always come to an arrangement that benefits both sides.”

“I mean… your youngest daughter could be betrothed to my eldest son.”

“I appreciate the offer,” the mother replied, wearing a polite smile that barely hid her discomfort, “but Rin is not yet of age to be engaged.”

“I understand,” Lucian nodded. “All I’m saying is… my son’s been quite taken with her ever since he first saw her. And they’re about the same age, more or less.”

“Perhaps… if our families were to unite, your hardships would ease up.”

Ren’s father said nothing.
He simply lowered his gaze, lips pressed into a line.

“Well, you can always think it over,” the collector added, placing two scrolls on the table with feigned courtesy.

One bore a red seal shaped like a flower—marriage documents, already filled out except for Rin’s details.

The other was a folded sheet with golden numbers along the edge.

This month’s bill.

“A hundred gold coins?!” the Sinclair siblings exclaimed nearly in unison.

“Last month… it was fifty.”

Lucian raised his hands in mock helplessness.
His round face twisted into a theatrical grimace.

“There’ve been tax hikes due to demon sightings near the border. Rumor is… there’s a new Demon King. The kingdom needs to fund the military, you see.”

Ren said nothing. But inside, something didn’t add up.

Fifteen years.
That’s not enough time for another Demon King to rise… not with real power.

This isn’t war. It’s a decree disguised as an excuse.

His father took a deep breath. Then turned toward him, eyes still downcast.

“…We’ll have to use your education fund, Ren.”

He lowered his gaze.

The little that was mine… to feed a lie.

“Of course, Father. Don’t worry,” he replied with a calm smile. “I was planning to enroll at the academy, but… I’ll figure something out.”

Rei, the eldest, shot him a sideways glance—not of gratitude, not of pity…

…but of contempt.

“Tch.”

“So, Plan A didn’t work out,” Lucian muttered under his breath, his smirk fading as quickly as it appeared.

“Thank you, son. We’ll make it up to you somehow,” said his mother.

To her, nobility was everything.
She didn’t care about ruin.
She didn’t care about poverty.

The only thing keeping her standing was that title—one she had dreamed of ever since she was just a peasant girl, hungry for more.

“Here it is… one hundred gold coins,” Damian Sinclair said, placing the pouch on the table.

Lucian began counting the coins one by one, savoring every second.

“Well then… it’s been a pleasure,” he said at last, shaking Damian’s hand with exaggerated politeness.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to take a walk around the property—check the condition of the land.”

“Of course, sir. Allow me to show you.”

“Children, go play,” Emilia ordered, without even turning around.

The siblings left the room in silence.

Lucian glanced back one last time before stepping through the doorway.
His expression was analytical—like he was sorting them by value… or by use.

Then he leaned toward one of the guards and discreetly handed him the pouch of coins.

“Tell the ‘driver’ to take care of what I asked for,” he whispered, barely smiling.

The guard nodded and left without drawing attention.

“Is something wrong?” Damian Sinclair asked, noticing the subtle exchange.

“Not at all,” Lucian replied loudly, flashing another fake smile. “Just making sure the money makes it safely to the cart. It’d be such a shame to lose it… wouldn’t you agree?”

Mr. Sinclair merely nodded.

“Well then… shall we take that walk?”

Ren’s parents nodded—more out of duty than desire—and followed the man whose eyes made it clear: he didn’t take “no” for an answer.

From a side door left ajar, Ren watched in silence.

He had seen enough.

Lucian hadn’t come just to collect taxes.
He had come to take something else.

And worst of all…

No one in the house wanted to see it.

Ren understood far too well how nobles operated.

Something bad was coming.
And he wasn’t going to wait for it.