Baron's Son with -9,999,999 Reputation Point-Chapter 132: The Question He Couldn’t Answer

Far from the sharp gazes directed at Mae.

The clear clink of silverware striking porcelain plates echoed through the spacious dining hall, becoming the only sound daring enough to break the silence.

Liona stood upright in the corner of the room, her hands neatly folded in front of her white apron. Her eyes, however, refused to stay still. They kept stealing glances toward the long dining table illuminated by the warm glow of a crystal chandelier. There, three figures sat, spaced so far apart that the distance itself felt uncomfortable.

The dining hall felt too large for only three people. Every sound—cutlery, fabric, breath—lingered longer than it should. The silence wasn’t empty; it pressed down heavily, filled with thoughts no one dared to voice.

Baron Voss sat at the head of the table, cutting into his roast meat with calm, methodical movements. To his right, the Baroness ate gracefully, even though the portion on her plate was barely touched. And across from her sat Lucas.

They sat close enough to see each other clearly, yet emotionally distant. Grief and restraint formed invisible walls between them. No one reached out, no one crossed the gap, and the unspoken tension hurt more than any argument could.

Liona’s heart beat a little faster than usual. She was worried—deeply worried.

She knew Lucas’s "mouth." Ever since the boy had changed—or since a new soul had taken residence in Young Master Lucian’s body—the words that left his lips were often sharp, unfiltered, and aimed straight at the heart. Liona feared Lucas might say something offensive, or worse, wound the already fragile heart of the Baroness. The lady of the house had just lost her biological son, even though his body still sat before her eyes.

Please don’t say anything foolish, Liona pleaded silently. Just eat quietly.

But Lucas said nothing.

He merely stared at his food with an expression that was difficult to read. On his plate lay a cut of veal with red wine sauce, accompanied by mashed potatoes so soft they were nearly cream, and perfectly steamed vegetables.

To others, it was luxury.

To Lucas, it was suffocating awkwardness.

Lucas sliced the meat slowly. The texture was perfect, the flavor rich with expensive spices. Yet his tongue felt numb.

His eyes caught his own reflection in the polished silver spoon.

Too quiet, Lucas thought.

His memories drifted back—far before he awakened in this world. He remembered the small wooden table in his grandfather’s village house. There was no chandelier there, only a flickering neon lamp. No veal—just warm rice, omelets, and stir-fried water spinach that was a little too salty.

But there had been his grandfather’s laughter. The sound of the evening news from an old box television in the corner. A warmth that never needed to be forced.

"Eat plenty, kid. You’ve already learned fertilizer ratios—tomorrow we’ll learn how to make compost, haha..."

His grandfather’s raspy voice echoed in his mind, so vividly it made his chest tighten for a moment.

Grandpa... are you doing okay? he wondered.

He brought the piece of meat to his mouth and chewed without truly tasting it. He kept his posture straight, mimicking the dining etiquette lingering in Lucian’s muscle memory, just so he wouldn’t look improper.

The Baroness occasionally glanced his way. Her gaze was gentle, filled with longing, yet layered with sadness she tried to hide behind a faint smile.

Dinner passed in an orchestra of awkward fork-and-knife clinks—flat, without any crescendo.

The servants, including Liona, moved swiftly once the Baron set down his napkin. They cleared the dirty plates with minimal sound, brushed away crumbs, and served the closing tea.

Once the table was clean, the Baroness raised her hand slightly in a subtle gesture.

"Leave us for a moment," she said softly but firmly.

The servants bowed. Liona cast one last anxious glance at Lucas before retreating and closing the heavy double doors, leaving the three nobles in privacy.

Silence returned to the room—though this time, it felt different.

Lucas set down his teacup, his fingers tapping lightly against the tabletop. He was composing a polite farewell in his head when the Baroness’s voice broke his thoughts.

"You look very stiff, Lucas."

Lucas looked up, slightly startled. Baroness Eleanor gazed at him with a sincere, warm smile.

"Don’t be so tense," she continued in a soothing tone. "I know this situation is strange for you. But remember... you are in my son’s body. That body, at least, is used to sitting in that chair."

Lucas fell silent for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"Ah... yes. You’re right."

At the head of the table, Baron Voss let out a short chuckle. It was brief and low, but enough to loosen the tension in Lucas’s neck.

"He may have lost his talent for theatrics," the Baron said casually, as if the heavy discussion in his study earlier had never happened. "I never expected him to perform quite like Lucian."

Lucas snorted softly—half amused, half resigned.

"I’m just trying to be serious, Baron."

The Baroness laughed lightly at the exchange. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied Lucas with an intensity that made him fidget.

"Lucas," she called again.

"Yes?"

"How does it feel?" she asked. "Living here. In this house. Living as part of the Voss family... how does it feel to you?"

"Comfortable," Lucas answered honestly, his voice calm.

The Baroness’s smile widened slightly, relief visible on her face. Then her expression shifted, hesitation creeping in. She clasped her fingers atop the table, her gaze suddenly fragile.

"And then..." The Baroness swallowed, her voice trembling.

"In your opinion... how am I as a mother?"

Thud.

Lucas froze.

A mother?

Lucas’s mind—normally capable of processing business strategies, market analysis, and tough negotiations in seconds—went blank.

Empty.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

The silence stretched, growing awkward and painful. The Baroness watched him, hope slowly fading into worry as Lucas failed to respond.

"Ahem."

A heavy throat-clearing sound broke the tension.

The Baron set his cup down with deliberate weight. He looked at his wife, then at Lucas, his eyes filled with understanding.

"My dear," the Baron said gently to his wife. "Perhaps we should let him rest for now. He’s had a long day, and tomorrow he has big plans for those... tomatoes of his."

The Baroness flinched, as if realizing she had gone too far. She looked at Lucas, who still seemed stunned, and nodded quickly.

"Ah... r-right. Forgive me, Lucas. I... I got carried away."

Lucas let out a long breath, silently grateful to the middle-aged man at the end of the table.

This uncle is seriously chill, he thought in relief.

Lucas stood up immediately and bowed slightly in respect. His movements were smoother this time, driven by a strong desire to escape the emotional situation.

"It’s alright, Baroness. Thank you for dinner. The food was... very delicious."

"Get some rest," the Baron said briefly.

"Good night," Lucas replied, then turned and left the room.

The door closed behind him, leaving the Baron and Baroness alone in the vast dining hall.

Silence followed.

The Baroness lowered her head, staring at her tightly clasped hands in her lap.

"Was I wrong?" she whispered, her voice hoarse with restrained tears.

"I just wanted him to feel accepted. I just wanted him to know that... even if he isn’t Lucian, I want to take care of him. Was my question too much?"

The Baron sighed and stood up. He walked around the table, approached his wife, and placed his large, rough hand on her shoulder.

"No. Your intentions weren’t wrong," he said gently.

He glanced toward the door where Lucas had disappeared. His memory returned to the conversation in his study—when he had asked about Lucas’s parents, and how the young man’s expression had turned dark and tightly closed.

"It’s just that..." the Baron continued quietly.

"When I asked about his parents, the boy seemed... troubled."

The Baroness blinked.

"Perhaps," the Baron said, gently rubbing her shoulder,

"he has wounds we should not touch."

The Baroness fell silent, absorbing his words. Guilt and sympathy mingled in her chest.

"Poor child..." she murmured softly.

Elsewhere in Voss territory, the night grew deeper. A cold wind blew gently, swaying the trees around a small clinic on the edge of the settlement.

While the manor remained wrapped in restrained silence, the night elsewhere moved quietly on—toward a small clinic, where unseen eyes and secrets waited to be uncovered.

Mae stared at her reflection on the surface of the water inside a cube.

A faint glow appeared on her right wrist. The light condensed, forming a transparent metal gauntlet that enveloped her arm up to the elbow.

Mae stared at the gauntlet—her carefully guarded secret.

She clenched and unclenched her hand, feeling the familiar flow of energy coursing through her veins.

"How did that man know my true identity?" Mae murmured softly, more to herself than anyone else.

She let out a slow breath.